Chapter X: Front Matter (10)

The total British loss in the battle of Trafalgar amounted to 1,587. Twenty of the enemy struck,--unhappily the fleet did not anchor, as Nelson, almost with his dying breath, had enjoined,--a gale came on from the southwest; some of the prizes went down, some went on shore; one effected its escape into Cadiz; others were destroyed; four only were saved, and those by the greatest exertions. The wounded Spaniards were sent ashore, an assurance being given that they should not serve till regularly exchanged; and the Spaniards, with a generous feeling, which would not, perhaps, have been found in any other people, offered the use of their hospitals for our wounded, pledging the honour of Spain that they should be carefully attended there. When the storm after the action drove some of the prizes upon the coast, they declared that the English, who were thus thrown into their hands, should not be considered as prisoners of war; and the Spanish soldiers gave up their own beds to their shipwrecked enemies.

It is almost superfluous to add that all the honors which a grateful country could bestow were heaped upon the memory of Nelson. A public funeral was decreed, and a public monument. Statues and monuments also were voted by most of our principal cities. The leaden coffin, in which he was brought home, was cut in pieces, which were distributed as relics of Saint Nelson,--so the gunner of the _Victory_ called them,--and when, at his interment, his flag was about to be lowered into the grave, the sailors who had assisted at the ceremony, with one accord rent it in pieces, that each might preserve a fragment while he lived.

The death of Nelson was felt in England as something more than a public calamity: men started at the intelligence, and turned pale, as if they had heard of the loss of a dear friend. An object of our admiration and affection, of our pride and of our hopes, was suddenly taken from us; and it seemed as if we had never, till then, known how deeply we loved and reverenced him. What the country had lost in its great naval hero--the greatest of our own, and of all former times--was scarcely taken into the account of grief. So perfectly, indeed, had he performed his part, that the maritime war, after the Battle of Trafalgar, was considered at an end; the fleets of the enemy were not merely defeated, but destroyed; new navies must be built, and a new race of seamen reared for them, before the possibility of their invading our shores could again be contemplated.

CASABIANCA

_By_ FELICIA HEMANS

NOTE.--Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son of the
Admiral of the _Orient_, remained at his post (in the Battle of the
Nile) after the ship had taken fire and all the guns had been
abandoned, and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the
flames had reached the powder.

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood.
A proud though childlike form.

The flames rolled on; he would not go
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud, "Say, father, say,
If yet my task be done?"
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!"
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death
In still yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud,
"My father! must I stay?"
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud
The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound;
The boy,--Oh! where was _he_?
Ask of the winds, that far around
With fragments strewed the sea,--

With shroud and mast and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part,--
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young, faithful heart.

THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST

_By_ ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

Little Ellie sits alone
'Mid the beeches of a meadow,
By a stream-side on the grass,
And the trees are showering down
Doubles of their leaves in shadow,
On her shining hair and face.

She has thrown her bonnet by,
And her feet she has been dipping
In the shallow water's flow;
Now she holds them nakedly
In her hands, all sleek and dripping,
While she rocketh to and fro.

Little Ellie sits alone,
And the smile she softly uses
Fills the silence like a speech,
While she thinks what shall be done,
And the sweetest pleasure chooses
For her future within reach.

Little Ellie in her smile
Chooses, "I will have a lover,
Riding on a steed of steeds:
He shall love me without guile,
And to _him_ I will discover
The swan's nest among the reeds.

"And the steed shall be red roan,
And the lover shall be noble,
With an eye that takes the breath.
And the lute[316-1] he plays upon
Shall strike ladies into trouble,
As his sword strikes men to death.

"And the steed it shall be shod
All in silver, housed in azure;[316-2]
And the mane shall swim the wind;
And the hoofs along the sod
Shall flash onward, and keep measure,
Till the shepherds look behind.

"But my lover will not prize
All the glory that he rides in,
When he gazes in my face.
He will say, 'O Love, thine eyes
Build the shrine my soul abides in,
And I kneel here for thy grace!'

"Then, aye, then shall he kneel low,
With the red-roan steed anear him,
Which shall seem to understand,
Till I answer, 'Rise and go!
For the world must love and fear him
Whom I gift with heart and hand.'

"Then he will arise so pale,
I shall feel my own lips tremble
With a _yes_ I must not say:
Nathless[317-3] maiden-brave, 'Farewell,'
I will utter, and dissemble--
'Light to-morrow with to-day!'

"Then he'll ride among the hills
To the wide world past the river,
There to put away all wrong,
To make straight distorted wills,
And to empty the broad quiver
Which the wicked bear along.

"Three times shall a young foot page
Swim the stream, and climb the mountain,
And kneel down beside my feet:
'Lo! my master sends this gage,[317-4]
Lady, for thy pity's counting.
What wilt thou exchange for it?'

"And the first time I will send
A white rosebud for a guerdon--[317-5]
And the second time, a glove;
But the third time--I may bend
From my pride, and answer--'Pardon,
If he comes to take my love.'

"Then the young foot page will run--
Then my lover will ride faster,
Till he kneeleth at my knee:
'I am a duke's eldest son!
Thousand serfs do call me master,--
But, O Love, I love but _thee_!'"...

Little Ellie, with her smile
Not yet ended, rose up gayly,
Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe,
And went homeward, round a mile,
Just to see, as she did daily,
What more eggs were with the two.

Pushing through the elm-tree copse,
Winding up the stream, light-hearted,
Where the osier pathway leads,
Past the boughs she stoops, and stops.
Lo! the wild swan had deserted,
And a rat had gnawed the reeds!

Ellie went home sad and slow.
If she found the lover ever,
With his red-roan steed of steeds,
Sooth I know not; but I know
She could never show him--never,
That swan's nest among the reeds.

Mrs. Browning tells us very little of Ellie directly, yet she
leaves us with a charming picture of an innocent, imaginative,
romantic child. Ellie has been reading or listening to tales of
knight-errantry, and her mind is full of them, so that the
"sweetest pleasure ... for her future" is a lover riding straight
out of one of the romances. That she is only a child, with a
child's ideas, we may see from the fact that she can think, in her
simplicity, of no greater reward for her noble lover than a sight
of the swan's nest among the reeds, of which she alone knows.

Mrs. Browning's purpose in writing this little story in verse was
to show us how suddenly and how rudely unpleasant facts can break
in upon our dreams. Ellie could never show her lover the swan's
nest, as she had planned; and we are left with the feeling that she
never found the lover of whom she dreamed--that all of her dream
proved as false as the beautiful thought about the swan's nest.

FOOTNOTES:

[316-1] It would seem strange to us now if a soldier rode about playing upon a lute; but in the old days of chivalry about which little Ellie had been reading, it was looked upon as almost necessary for a knight to be able to play and sing sweet songs to his lady.

[316-2] The saddle-cloth or housing of the medieval knights was sometimes very large and gorgeous.

[317-3] _Nathless_ is an old word meaning _nevertheless_. Mrs. Browning uses an occasional old word, in order to give the atmosphere of the tales of chivalry.

[317-4] The _gage_ was a cap or glove, or some other symbol to show that he had performed the deeds which Ellie had demanded of him.

[317-5] _Guerdon_ means _reward_.

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT

_By_ ROBERT BURNS

NOTE.--There are many homes we like to visit in imagination, even
if we cannot really go into them. It does not matter so much if
they are not the homes of people in our own country who live as we
do. For instance, Robert Burns described so well for us once the
simple little home of a poor Scotch farmer that we read his words
again and again with pleasure. It is such a poor little place,
low-walled, thatched-roofed, part stable, that it would be
unpleasant to us if we did not see it full of the spirit that makes
true homes everywhere. The hard-working old farmer, his faithful
wife, their industrious children, the oldest girl Jenny and her
lover, all seem to us like very real people, whose joys and griefs
are ours as much as theirs. We should like to sit with them at
their humble table, to join in the good old hymns, and finally to
kneel among them while the gentle old man said the evening prayer.
We would not notice their homely clothes, coarse hands and simple,
unscholarly language, for their real manliness and womanliness
would win our esteem and love.

On the pages that follow we have printed the poem as Burns wrote
it, except for some few stanzas it has seemed best to omit. The
first nine stanzas contain many Scottish words and expressions, but
after the ninth stanza, Burns uses plain English. It was a habit he
had of writing sometimes in Scotch dialect and sometimes in fine
English. People who have studied his work say that when he speaks
right from his heart and because he really cannot help writing, he
uses the dialect, but when he tries to teach a lesson, to advise
any one, or to moralize, he always uses the English phraseology.

I

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;[320-1]
The short'ning winter day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae[320-2] the pleugh;[320-3]
The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose:
The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes,
This night his weekly moil[320-4] is at an end,
Collects his spades, his mattocks,[320-5] and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

II

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree:
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin' stacher[320-6] thro'
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin'[320-7] noise an' glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily,
His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary carking[320-8] cares beguile,
An' makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.

III

Belyve,[321-9] the elder bairns come drappin' in.
At service out, amang the farmers roun';
Some ca'[321-10] the pleugh, some herd, some tentie[321-11] rin
A cannie[321-12] errand to a neebor town:
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,
In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin in her e'e,
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw[321-13] new gown,
Or deposit her sair-won[322-14] penny fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

IV

Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet,
And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers:[322-15]
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet;
Each tells the uncos[322-16] that he sees or hears;
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view;
The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears,
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;[322-17]
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

V

Their master's an' their mistress's command,
The younkers[322-18] a' are warned to obey:
"An' mind their labours wi' an eydent[322-19] hand,
An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk[322-20] or play:
An' O! be sure to fear the Lord alway!
An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night!
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,
Implore his counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain, that sought the Lord aright!"

VI

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,
Tells how a neebor lad cam' o'er the moor,
To do some errands and convoy her hame.[323-21]
The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e,[323-22] and flush her cheek;
With heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins[323-23] is afraid to speak;
Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae[323-24] wild, worthless rake.

VII

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben:[323-25]
A strappin' youth; he takes the mother's eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en;[323-26]
The father cracks[323-27] of horses, pleughs, and kye.[323-28]
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,
But blate[323-29] and laithfu',[323-30] scarce can weel behave;
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae[323-31] bashfu' an' sae grave;
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.[323-32]

VIII

But now the supper crowns their simple board,
The halesome parritch,[324-33] chief o' Scotia's food:
The sowpe[324-34] their only Hawkie[324-35] does afford,
That 'yont the hallan[324-36] snugly chows her cood;[324-37]
The dame brings forth in complimental mood
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd[324-38] kebbuck[324-39] fell--
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid;[324-40]
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,
How 'twas a towmond[324-41] auld, sin' lint was i' the bell;[324-42]

IX

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,
The big ha'-Bible,[324-43] ance[324-44] his father's pride:
His bonnet[324-45] rev'rently is laid aside,
His lyart[324-46] haffets[324-47] wearing thin an' bare:
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales[325-48] a portion with judicious care;
And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air.

X

They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim:
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name,
Or noble Elgin beats the heav'nward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays.
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

XI

The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heav'n's avenging ire;
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

XII

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head;
How his first followers and servants sped;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
How _he_, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command.

XIII

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope "springs exultant on triumphant wing:"
That thus they all shall meet in future days
There ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.

XIV

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method and of art,
When men display to congregations wide,
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart!
The Pow'r, incensed, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
But, haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul;
And in the book of life the inmates poor enroll.

XV

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest:
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
That He, who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide;
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

FOOTNOTES:

[320-1] _Sugh_ means a hollow, roaring sound. It is our word _sough_.

[320-2] _Frae_ is the Scotch word meaning from.

[320-3] _Pleugh_ means _plow_.

[320-4] _Moil_ is a Scotch word meaning _drudgery_.

[320-5] A mattock is a two-bladed instrument for digging.

[320-6] _Stacher_ is the Scotch form of _stagger_.

[320-7] _Flichtering_ means _fluttering_.

[320-8] _Carking_ is _trying_.

[321-9] _Belyve_ means _soon_.

[321-10] _Ca'_ means _drive_.

[321-11] _Tentie_ means _carefully_.

[321-12] _Cannie_ means here _prudent_, or _trusty_.

[321-13] _Braw_ is _fine, gay_.

[322-14] _Sair-won_ is _hard-earned_.

[322-15] _Spiérs_ means enquires.

[322-16] The _uncos_ is the _news_.

[322-17] This line means _Makes old clothes look almost as new ones_.

[322-18] The _younkers_ are the _youngsters_.

[322-19] _Eydent_ is _diligent_.

[322-20] To _jauk_ is to _trifle_.

[323-21] _Hame_ is the Scotch form of our word _home_.

[323-22] _E'e_ is a contraction for _eye_.

[323-23] _Hafflins_ means _partly_.

[323-24] _Nae_ means _no_.

[323-25] _Ben_ means _into the room_.

[323-26] That is, _the visit is not unwelcome_.

[323-27] _Cracks_ is a Scotch word meaning _chats_.

[323-28] _Kye_ are _cattle_.

[323-29] _Blate_ means _modest_.

[323-30] _Laithfu'_ is _bashful_.

[323-31] _Sae_ is the Scotch form of _so_.

[323-32] _The lave_ is _the others_: that is, the neighbors' girls.

[324-33] The _halesome parritch_ is the _wholesome porridge_ of oatmeal.

[324-34] _Sowpe_ here means a little quantity of milk.

[324-35] _Hawkie_ is a _white-faced cow_.

[324-36] That is, _beyond the partition_.

[324-37] _Chows her cood_ means _chews her cud_.

[324-38] _Weel-hain'd_ means _carefully preserved_.

[324-39] _Kebbuck_ is _cheese_.

[324-40] This line, in English, would read _And often he is urged_ (to take more) _and often he calls it good_.

[324-41] A _towmond_ is a _twelvemonth_, a _year_.

[324-42] _Since flax was in blossom_.

[324-43] The _ha'-Bible_ is the family Bible, which is kept in the _hall_, or the best room.

[324-44] _Ance_ is the Scotch form of _once_.

[324-45] That is, his hat.

[324-46] _Lyart_ means _gray_.

[324-47] _Haffets_ means _temples_.

[325-48] _Wales_ means _chooses_.

CHARLES AND MARY LAMB

One of the most tragic, and at the same time one of the most heroic, of true stories is that of Charles and Mary Lamb, the brother and sister who are known to millions of young people as the writers of _Tales from Shakespeare_.

Charles Lamb was rather a short man, with a spare body and legs so small and thin that Thomas Hood once spoke of them as "immaterial legs." His head, however, was large, and his brow fine; his nose, large and hooked, was in a face which early showed lines of care and trouble; his eyes were large and expressive, twinkling with humor but full of piercing inquiry, and searching with keen interest everything about him; his mouth was large and firm, but around it there flitted a smile that showed the genial, humorous soul of the big-hearted boy.

Lamb's habits were peculiar, there is no denying that, and his habits of dress made him even more noticeable. Almost always he wore a black coat, knickerbockers and black gaiters. The old-fashioned cut of his clothes and their worn appearance showed the narrowness of his means, which, however, never caused him to neglect either clothing or person, for he was remarkably neat in his ways.

Although a poor boy, he was educated in the famous old Christ's Hospital School in London, but when he was ready for college he found himself barred by his stammering, stuttering tongue. Giving up his hope of further schooling, he was glad to take a small clerkship in a government office, where he remained for thirty-three years, a long period with little or no advancement.

It was in 1792, when Charles was about seventeen years of age, that he was given his clerkship, and for nearly four years he lived happily, supporting his parents and his sister in their humble home. Mary was eleven years older than Charles, a quiet gentle creature whom everybody loved, though in some respects she was peculiar. There were things, too, that troubled the family and made them reserved and inclined to be oversensitive. Not only were they very poor, but there had been insanity on the mother's side, and Charles, himself, had at one time been in brief confinement for irrational actions. Mary, too, had occasionally shown signs of madness, but no one anticipated the dreadful event which took place in 1796.

It came upon them like a stroke of lightning out of a clear sky. All were gathered together for their noon meal when Mary leaped to her feet and ran wildly about the room, shrieking in the terrifying tones of the insane. She caught the forks and spoons from the table, threw them about the room, and then, seizing a case knife, plunged it into the heart of her mother. Although one of the flying forks had struck her aged father in the head and wounded him severely, Mary sprang upon him and would certainly have killed the feeble old man then and there had not Charles caught her and in a terrible struggle overpowered her and wrested the knife from her grasp. Friends and neighbors came in, and the poor woman was taken to an asylum, where in a short time she recovered her reason and learned of the awful consequences of her madness. In those days hospitals for the insane were much more poorly managed than they are at present, and Charles could not be contented to think of his sister confined within their walls. Accordingly he went to the authorities, and after much persuasion they released her, under the condition that she should be constantly under care.

Then began the long career of brotherly devotion which can scarcely be matched, and which never fails to excite our sympathy and admiration. We may well think it a terrible penance, for Mary's attacks recurred again and again, and more than once Charles had to take her back to the hospital for a brief time while her violence remained too great for him to control. There were long lucid intervals, however, and after a while both learned to recognize the symptoms which preceded an attack, and the two would wend their way to the asylum, where she could take refuge. They carried a straight-jacket with them for use in case she should suddenly become violent, for never could either escape from the nightmare of that first awful catastrophe.

For forty years this companionship, this sublime devotion continued, even to the time of Charles Lamb's death in 1834. Both made many friends, and when the brother was laid away these friends came forward and took up the burden of Mary's care until she, too, died, nearly thirteen years later. The last years of Lamb's life were full of further trouble, that, combined with his crushing anxiety for Mary, broke his genial spirit and left him sad and melancholy.

One of the greatest blows he suffered in his later life was the death of his life-long friend, Samuel Taylor Coleridge. See how fondly he wrote of this friend:

"Since I feel how great a part he was of me his great and dear spirit haunts me. I cannot think a thought, I cannot make a criticism on men or books without an ineffectual turning and reference to him.... He was my fifty-years-old friend without a dissension. I seem to love the house he died at more passionately than when he lived.... What was his mansion is consecrated to me a chapel."

It is said that when his sister was first stricken Lamb was engaged to be married to Ann Simmons, a sweet woman, whom he loved passionately. So awful was the blow and so heavy the responsibility he assumed that the match was broken off, and the gentle man resigned his hope of home and family. We shall see, however, that he never quite forgot his love.

Sad as their life certainly was, there were many pleasant days for both brother and sister. Between her spells of violence Mary was a charming companion, a helpful adviser and a writer of great ability, as loyal to her brother as he was to her. When Lamb was engaged to write the _Tales from Shakespeare_, she took up the pen with him and wrote the stories of the great poet's comedies while Charles wrote the tragedies.

How strong his affection and respect for her really were we may see from his own words: "I am a fool bereft of her co-operation. I am used to look up at her in the worst and biggest perplexities. To say all that I find her would be more than I think anybody could possibly understand. She is older, wiser, and better than I am, and all my wretched imperfections I cover to myself by resolutely thinking on her goodness. She would share life and death with me."

A more lovable character than Lamb's is hard to find. Full of fun he was when with his friends, punning, quibbling and joking in quaint and original ways that made him welcome wherever he went. "The best acid is assiduity" was one of his favorite puns, and "_No_ work is worse than _over_-work" is one of his wise and witty remarks.

The stuttering which in some persons might have seemed an annoyance only served to add a certain spiciness to his good-natured quips. It is said that a certain gushing lady once went into a long description of her children and her own passionate love for them. Suddenly interrupting herself she said to Lamb, "And how do you like babies, Mr. Lamb?" With a sober face, but unable to conceal the humorous twinkle in his sharp eyes, Charles replied, "Bub-bub-boiled, Madam!"

Lamb's friendship for Coleridge was fully returned, as we may see from many things the latter wrote. At one time he said: "Lamb's character is a sacred one with me. No associations that he may form can hurt the purity of his mind.... Nothing ever left a stain on that gentle creature's mind."

In 1825 Lamb's health became so poor that he was compelled to give up his clerkship, and thereafter he lived most of his time at Edmonton. The British government gave him an annual pension of £441, which sufficed for the simple wants of himself and his sister.

The immediate cause of his death was a slight accident that befell him a few months after the burial of Coleridge. Unconsciousness came before he had been long ill and before any of his intimate friends could reach him, yet it was their names that were last on his lips. They buried him in the churchyard at Edmonton, as he wished, where on his tombstone may be read:

"Farewell, dear friend--that smile, that harmless mirth,
No more shall gladden our domestic hearth;
That rising tear, with pain forbid to flow--
Better than words--no more assuage our woe.
That hand outstretch'd from small but well-earned store
Yield succor to the destitute no more.
Yet art thou not all lost. Through many an age,
With sterling sense and humour, shall thy page
Win many an English bosom, pleased to see
That old and happier vein revived in thee.
This for our earth: and if with friends we share
Our joys in heaven we hope to meet thee there."

Besides the _Tales from Shakespeare_, Charles Lamb wrote many beautiful sketches which are known as the _Essays of Elia_. _Elia_ was the name of one of the clerks in the South Sea House, where Lamb worked at one time.

A reader can easily form some idea of a writer's character from his work, but Lamb was always so wholly himself, and he threw himself so freely into his essays, that you can tell just what manner of man he was as you read. A large part of the pleasure of reading him comes from this trait. We seem to be sitting with a charming friend whenever we hold one of his books, and to feel that the friend is pouring out his whole heart for our delight and inspiration. Naturally a person must keep alert when he is reading from Charles Lamb, for no one can predict what course the brilliant mind will take. When once a reader has learned to understand his oddities, delicate sentiment, bright wit and loving faithfulness, every word becomes a living thing, and every reading a new delight, a higher inspiration. In none of his essays is he seen to greater advantage than in _Dream Children_, which follows this brief sketch. The only people young or old who do not love this beautiful essay are those who have not read it or who have read it without really understanding it. You may need to read it once just to see what it is about; again with the aid of the notes and comments we make upon it; a third time to let it cast its spell upon you. If you do that you will not forget it, but will return to it often as years go on and the hard world buffets you with those stern experiences which make you men and women. Every time you read it you will find new graces, more touching sentiment.

Will you read it now for the first time, paying only so much attention to the footnotes as may be necessary for you to understand the language?

DREAM CHILDREN: A REVERY

_By_ CHARLES LAMB

Children love to listen to stories about their elders when _they_ were children; to stretch their imagination to the conception of a traditionary great-uncle, or grandame, whom they never saw.

It was in this spirit that my little ones crept about me the other evening to hear about their great-grandmother Field,[335-1] who lived in a great house in Norfolk (a hundred times bigger than that in which they and papa lived) which had been the scene--so at least it was generally believed in that part of the country--of the tragic incidents which they had lately become familiar with from the ballad of the Children in the Wood.[335-2]

Certain it is that the whole story of the children and their cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in wood upon the chimney-piece of the great hall,[335-3] the whole story down to the Robin Redbreast; till a foolish person pulled it down to set up a marble one of modern invention in its stead, with no story upon it.

Here Alice put out one of her dear mother's looks, too tender to be called upbraiding.

Then I went on to say, how religious and how good their great-grandmother Field was, how beloved and respected by everybody, though she was not indeed the mistress of this great house, but had only the charge of it (and yet in some respects she might be said to be the mistress of it too) committed to her by the owner, who preferred living in a newer and more fashionable mansion which he had purchased somewhere in the adjoining county; but still she lived in it in a manner as if it had been her own, and kept up the dignity of the great house in a sort while she lived. Afterwards it came to decay, and was nearly pulled down, and all its old ornaments stripped and carried away to the owner's other house, where they were set up, and looked as awkward as if someone were to carry away the old tombs they had lately seen at the Abbey,[336-4] and stick them up in Lady C.'s[336-5] tawdry gilt drawing-room. Here John smiled, as much as to say, "that would be foolish indeed."

And then I told how, when she came to die, her funeral was attended by a concourse of all the poor, and some of the gentry, too, of the neighborhood for many miles around, to show their respect for her memory, because she had been such a good and religious woman; so good indeed that she knew all the Psaltery[336-7] by heart, ay, and a great part of the Testament[336-8] besides.

Here little Alice spread her hands.

Then I told what a tall, upright, gracious person their great-grandmother Field once was; and how in her youth she was esteemed the best dancer,--here Alice's little right foot played an involuntary movement, till, upon my looking grave, it desisted,--the best dancer, I was saying, in the country, till a cruel disease, called a cancer, came, and bowed her down with pain, but it could never bend her good spirits, or make them stoop, but they were still upright, because she was so good and religious.

Then I told how she used to sleep by herself in a lone chamber of the great lone house; and how she believed that an apparition of two infants was to be seen at midnight gliding up and down the great staircase near where she slept, but she said "those innocents would do her no harm;" and how frightened I used to be, though in those days I had my maid to sleep with me, because I was never half so good or religious as she,--and yet I never saw the infants.

Here John expanded all his eyebrows and tried to look courageous.

Then I told how good she was to all her grandchildren, having us to the great house in the holidays, where I in particular used to spend many hours by myself, in gazing upon the old busts of the twelve Caesars, that had been Emperors of Rome, till the old marble heads would seem to live again, or I to be turned into marble with them; how I never could be tired with roaming about that huge mansion, with its vast empty rooms, with their worn-out hangings, fluttering tapestry, and carved oaken panels, with the gilding almost rubbed out,--sometimes in the spacious old-fashioned gardens, which I had almost to myself, unless when now and then a solitary gardening man would cross me,--and how the nectarines and peaches hung upon the walls,[338-9] without my ever offering to pluck them, because they were forbidden fruit, unless now and then,--and because I had more pleasure in strolling about among the old melancholy-looking yew-trees,[338-10] or the firs, and picking up the red berries, and the fir apples, which were good for nothing but to look at,--or in lying about upon the fresh grass with all the fine garden smells around me,--or basking in the orangery,[338-11] till I could almost fancy myself ripening too along with the oranges and the limes in that grateful warmth,--or in watching the dace[338-12] that darted to and fro in the fish-pond, at the bottom of the garden, with here and there a great sulky pike hanging midway down the water in silent state, as if it mocked at their impertinent friskings,--I had more pleasure in these busy-idle diversions than in all the sweet flavors of peaches, nectarines, oranges, and such-like common baits of children.

Here John slyly deposited back upon the plate a bunch of grapes, which, not unobserved by Alice he had meditated dividing with her, and both seemed willing to relinquish them for the present as irrelevant.

Then, in somewhat a more heightened tone, I told how, though their great-grandmother Field loved all her grandchildren, yet in an especial manner she might be said to love their uncle, John L----,[340-13] because he was so handsome and spirited a youth, and a king to the rest of us; and, instead of moping about in solitary corners, like some of us, he would mount the most mettlesome horse he could get, when but an imp no bigger than themselves, and make it carry him half over the county in a morning, and join the hunters when there were any out,--and yet he loved the old great house and gardens too, but had too much spirit to be always pent up within their boundaries;--and how their uncle grew up to man's estate as brave as he was handsome, to the admiration of everybody, but of their great-grandmother Field most especially; and how he used to carry me upon his back when I was a lame-footed[340-14] boy--for he was a good bit older than I--many a mile when I could not walk for pain; and how in after life he became lame-footed too, and I did not always (I fear) make allowances enough for him when he was impatient and in pain, nor remember sufficiently how considerate he had been to me when I was lame-footed;--and how when he died,[340-15] though he had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he had died a great while ago, such a distance there is betwixt life and death; and how I bore his death as I thought pretty well at first, but afterwards it haunted and haunted me; and though I did not cry or take it to heart as some do, and as I think he would have done if I had died, yet I missed him all day long, and knew not till then how much I had loved him. I missed his kindness, and I missed his crossness, and wished him to be alive again, to be quarreling with him (for we quarreled sometimes), rather than not to have him again, and was as uneasy without him, as he their poor uncle must have been when the doctor took off his limb.

Here the children fell a-crying, and asked if their little mourning which they had on was not for Uncle John, and they looked up, and prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them some stories about their pretty dead mother.

Then I told how, for seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes in despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice W----n;[342-16] and, as much as children could understand, I explained to them what coyness, and difficulty, and denial meant in maidens.

When suddenly turning to Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes with such a reality of representment, that I became in doubt which of them stood before me, or whose that bright hair was; and while I stood gazing, both the children gradually grew fainter to my view, receding, and still receding, till nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in the uttermost distance, which, without speech, strangely impressed upon me the effects of speech:

"We are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor are we children at all. The children of Alice call Bartram father. We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe[342-17] millions of ages before we have existence, and a name."

And immediately awaking, I found myself quietly seated in my bachelor armchair, where I had fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget[342-18] unchanged by my side,--but John L. (or James Elia) was gone forever.

You know Lamb's pathetic history, and you can see how _Dream
Children_ came right out of his own sad heart, and how it teems
with affectionate recollection. The children, too,--do they not
seem like living beings? Can you believe that Alice and John never
lived? Let us go back to the essay and see how little it is that he
really says about them. Here it is:

ALICE

JOHN

1. _Here Alice put out one of her dear mother's looks, too tender
to be upbraiding._

She thought it very sad that any one should pull down the beautiful
mantelpiece in the great hall, but she would not find fault with
him--she was too gentle, too tender for that!

1. _Here John smiled as much as to say, "that would be foolish
indeed."_

John is quite the boy--wise enough to see how ridiculous it was
to put a fine, rich old carved chimney among a lot of gilt
gimcracks--and rather anxious to show his wisdom.

2. _Here little Alice spread her hands._

Don't you think she knew her Psaltery by heart, and a great part of
the Testament besides? "Of course it is very _wonderful_ that
grandma knew so much--but then, I know it too."

2. _Here John expanded all his eyebrows and tried to look
courageous._

The tale of the ghostly infants has frightened John a little, but
he does not like to admit any timidity there with his father and
sister, so he straightens up, expands his eyebrows and looks very
brave and manly.

3. _Here Alice's little right foot played an involuntary movement,
till, upon my looking grave, it desisted._

The mere suggestion of a dance sets the little foot in motion, and
you and I know that Alice is a lively girl who would be as proud of
being the best dancer in the country as she was of knowing as much
Scripture as her grandmother knew. But how quickly she stops when
her father looks grave! We do not think that he objects to Alice
dancing, but he knows that he is going to tell her the sad part of
the story, and that the dancing accompaniment of Alice's little
right foot would be very much out of place.

Later, Alice joined with John in wishing for the grapes, but she
was equally willing to give them up when it seemed childish to take
them.

3. _Here John slyly deposited back upon the plate a bunch of
grapes which, not unobserved by Alice, he had meditated
dividing with her; and both seemed willing to relinquish them
for the present as irrelevant._

While the father has been telling of his glorious childhood
among the rich fruit on the great estate, John has quietly
picked up a bunch of grapes, and his quick-witted father,
seeing the act, sneers a little at _such-like common baits of
children_. John, wishing to be manly, puts the grapes back
without a word, though evidently he will be glad enough to
return to them at the proper time.

Not a selfish child at all was John, for he meditated dividing
the grapes with Alice, and they would have been so sweet and
cooling while the children stood there listening to the story.

4. _Here the children fell a-crying and asked if their little
mourning which they had on was not for Uncle John, and they looked
up and prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them
some stories about their pretty dead mother._

How tender-hearted they both are, and yet until now they had hardly
realized that it was for Uncle John that they were wearing their
fresh mourning. This was a new grief too sad to them, but it turned
their gentle sympathies to their pretty dead mother, of whom they
were always glad to hear. The father has scarcely begun to speak
when he sees in Alice so much resemblance to his dead wife that he
almost thinks it is the mother who stands beside him. So violent is
his emotion that he gradually comes out of his reverie, and as he
does so the children fade away and recede into the distance,
saying, "_We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams._"

Is it not a wonderful thing that with so few words a writer can put
his heart so much into yours that you believe almost as much as he
does in the reality of the vision?

In the sketch of Lamb we said that his character was very strongly
reflected in his writings, and this essay shows the fact
wonderfully well. Imagine the man, lonely, heartbroken, weary from
the awful task he had set himself, sitting in his bachelor armchair
by the fire, dreaming his evening away. Who are the people that
come to him in his dreams and what are the incidents? First his
grandmother Field, with whom he had spent a great deal of his
childhood; then his sweetheart Alice, now married to another, with
children of her own; then his brother, by no means a pleasing
character, but a lazy and selfish man who, however, in the rich,
loving heart of his brother stands out as handsome, affectionate,
noble and brave. How keenly he feels the bitter loss which comes to
him with tenfold severity when he awakens, and which he makes the
closing thought in the essay! Lastly, the faithful Mary, unchanged,
appears at his side,--his waking companion, his greatest burden and
his greatest joy.

Besides these evidences of his devoted and affectionate
disposition, we find proof of his vivid imagination when as a child
he gazes _upon the old busts of the twelve Cæsars that had been
emperors of Rome, till the old marble heads would seem to live
again, or I to be turned into marble with them_. In his _busy-idle_
amusements at the great house he shows the innocence and simplicity
of his pleasures, and in the delicate way in which he reproves
Alice and John, his genial, sympathetic disposition as well as his
abundant good humor. How much finer it was to say, "_and such-like
common baits of children_" than to have said, "John, put the grapes
back on the plate."

FOOTNOTES:

[335-1] Lamb's grandmother, Mary Field, was for a long time housekeeper in one of the great English country houses, but not in the county alluded to in the text.

[335-2] This means that the incidents had but lately become familiar to the children. The story is the old one of the _Babes in the Wood_, as it is sometimes called.

[335-3] One of Lamb's fancies; the chimney-carving in the real house represented stag and boar hunts.

[336-4] Westminster Abbey.

[336-5] An imaginary person with a cheap, showy drawing-room.

[336-7] The Book of Psalms, or such a portion of it as is used in the services of the English Church.

[336-8] New Testament.

[338-9] The trees were planted on the south side of the walls, which protected them from the north wind and ripened them by reflected warmth.

[338-10] The foliage of the yews is very dark, and because these trees are so often planted about cemeteries they give a hint of sadness to every one.

[338-11] The glass house which protected the trees in the winter and hastened the ripening of the fruit in summer.

[338-12] A small fish resembling our chub--usually seen in schools in still waters.

[340-13] Lamb's brother John--twelve years his senior. John was rather a lazy, selfish fellow--at least he never gave up his own pleasures and comforts to assist his family, even in their greatest need.

[340-14] This probably alludes to some temporary affliction, for Charles Lamb was not lame.

[340-15] John Lamb died just before this essay was written.

[342-16] It is not known positively whether Alice Warren was a real or an imaginary character.

[342-17] _Lethe_ was among the ancient Greeks the name given to the river of oblivion, of whose waters spirits drank to gain forgetfulness.

[342-18] Bridget Elia is his sister, Mary Lamb.

READING SHAKESPEARE

The greatest author the world has known is William Shakespeare, and his writings will afford more pleasure, instruction and information than those of any other author. They may be read again and again, for so charged are they with living knowledge and so full of literary charm, that no one can exhaust them in a single reading. Not every reader of Shakespeare loves him, but that is because not every reader appreciates him. He wrote in the English of his times, and used many words and expressions that have since dropped out of the language, changed their meaning, or become unfamiliar in common speech. Then again, his knowledge of life is so profound and his insight into human nature so keen and penetrating, that the casual reader is liable not to follow his thought. In other words, Shakespeare must be studied to be appreciated; but if he is studied and appreciated, he gives a pleasure and exerts an influence that cannot be equaled.

Young people are liable to think that study is laborious and uninteresting, a nuisance and a bore. Nothing of that sort is true of the study of Shakespeare, because for every effort there is a present reward, there is no waiting to see results. Of course there are right ways and wrong ways to study, just as there are right ways and wrong ways of doing anything. Sometimes teachers fail entirely to interest their classes in Shakespeare, and parents say they cannot make their children like Shakespeare. None of this is the fault of the poet or of the children; the fault lies in the methods used to create an interest. If a person begins properly and proceeds as he should, there will never be a lack of interest. Teachers are not needed, and parents may leave their children to learn to be happy in reading by themselves, if the books are prepared properly for them.

In the first place, one of the wonders of Shakespeare is the great variety of his plays. In fact, they cover the whole range of human activities, and introduce characters from almost every walk in life. The stories they tell run from the light and gay to those of more somber hue, from comedy to deepest tragedy. Wit and humor, pathos and sublimity may sometimes be found in the same play, and smiles and tears may be drawn from the same page. What play to select for a beginner becomes then a question of some moment. _The Tempest_ is one of the best, for it is not difficult to read, is an interesting story, has amusing characters, and carries good food for thought.

Will you then, our young readers, go hand in hand with us into the reading of Shakespeare? Do as we say this one time, and read as we ask you to, even if it does take some time from your play. If, while you are doing it, you do not enjoy yourselves, or if at the end you do not feel repaid, then take your own course in your reading thereafter. It will be a better course for having studied one great play carefully.

However, before we begin the play, let us read the charming tale written by Charles and Mary Lamb. It will give us briefly the story of _The Tempest_, though a wealth of incidents is omitted.

THE TEMPEST

A TALE FROM SHAKESPEARE BY CHARLES AND MARY LAMB

There was a certain island in the sea, the only inhabitants of which were an old man, whose name was Prospero, and his daughter Miranda, a very beautiful young lady. She came to this island so young, that she had no memory of having seen any other human face than her father's. They lived in a cave or cell, made out of a rock; it was divided into several apartments, one of which Prospero called his study; there he kept his books, which chiefly treated of magic, a study at that time much affected by all learned men; and the knowledge of this art he found very useful to him; for being thrown by a strange chance upon this island, which had been enchanted by a witch called Sycorax, who died there a short time before his arrival, Prospero, by virtue of his art, released many good spirits that Sycorax had imprisoned in the bodies of large trees, because they had refused to execute her wicked commands. These gentle spirits were ever after obedient to the will of Prospero. Of these, Ariel was the chief.