Part 12

The life of Thomas Becket, and his tragic death, have furnished themes for many noble contributions to English literature. Arthur Penrhyn Stanley, Dean of Westminster, has written of him, in a very impartial and trustworthy manner, in his "Historical Memoirs of Canterbury" from which the above extract is taken. The poet Tennyson, late in life, composed a tragedy entitled "Becket" which portrays in a vivid, poetical manner the most striking scenes in the career of the great archbishop. James Anthony Froude, in "Short Stories on Great Subjects," has written a charming and instructive essay on the "Life and Times of Thomas Becket"; and Professor Freeman has presented us with a similar historical study in his "Saint Thomas of Canterbury." It may also be observed that Chaucer's immortal work, "The Canterbury Tales," depends for its connecting thread upon the once general custom of making pilgrimages to the tomb of Becket.

THE PILGRIMS. (1620.)

Methinks I see one solitary, adventurous vessel, the "Mayflower," of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight of the wished-for shore. I see them now, scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation, in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route,--and now, driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy waves. The awful voice of the storm brawls through the rigging.

The laboring masts seem straining from their base; the dismal sound of the pumps is heard; the ship leaps, as it were, madly, from billow to billow; the ocean breaks, and settles with engulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats with deadening, shivering weight, against the staggering vessel.

I see them escape from these perils, pursuing their all but desperate undertaking, and landed at last, after a five months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth,--weak and weary from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, without shelter, without means, surrounded by hostile tribes.

Shut now the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers? Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes, enumerated within the early limits of New England?

Tell me, politician, how long did a shadow of a colony on which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast? Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures of other times, and find the parallel of this.

Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and children? was it hard labor and spare meals? was it disease? was it the tomahawk? was it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching in its last moments at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond the sea? was it some, or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate?

And is it possible, that neither of these causes, that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope? Is it possible, that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an expansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious?

--_Edward Everett._

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS.

(1620.)

The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the trees against a stormy sky, Their giant branches tossed.

And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame.

Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear; They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea: And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free!

The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam: And the rocking pines of the forest roared,-- This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair, Amidst that pilgrim band; Why had _they_ come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?-- They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Ay! call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod: They have left unstained what there they found, Freedom to worship God.

--_Felicia Hemans._

Patriots have toiled, and in their country's cause Bled nobly; and their deeds, as they deserve Receive proud recompense. We give in charge Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic Muse, Proud of the treasure, marches with it down To latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn, Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass To guard them, and to immortalize her trust.

--_William Cowper._

THE ROBIN.

The robin is perhaps the best known of all our birds. The name is so prominent in children's stories, in folklore, in poetry, and in general literature, that even town children who have never seen the bird know it by name; but to many grown people, even those who have lived all their lives in the country, the robin is not familiar as a winter bird. It is known to come and go, it is true, but is supposed to be merely in transit, and just where the observer happens to be is not its abiding place. This impression is due to lack of observation, for the birds are as well disposed towards your thicket and cedar trees as those of some far-off neighbor.

This crystal-clear, cold January day, with the mercury almost at zero, I found the robins on the south hillside, and seldom have they shown to better advantage. One was perched in a sapling beech to which the leaves still clung. It chirped at times so that its companions could hear it, and was answered by them, as well as by the nuthatches, a tree creeper, some sparrows, and a winter wren.

It was a cozy, warm spot wherein these birds had gathered, which, strangely enough, was filled with music even when every bird was mute. This robin was half concealed among the crisp beech leaves, and these--not the birds about them--were singing. The breeze caused them to tremble violently, and their thin edges were as harp strings, the wiry sound produced being smoothed by the crisp rattling caused by the leaves' rapid contact with each other.

It was much like the click of butterflies' wings, but greatly exaggerated. A simple sound, but a sweet, wholesome one that made me think less of the winter's rigor and recalled the recent warm autumnal days. They were singing leaves, and the robin watched them closely as he stood near by, and chirped at times, as if to encourage them. Altogether it made a pretty picture, one of those that human skill has not yet transferred to a printed page; and our winter sunshine is full of just such beauty.

How incomprehensible it is that any one should speak of the _few_ robins that venture to remain! Flocks of a hundred or more are not uncommon in the depth of winter, and this recalls the fact that at this time of year robins are never alone. It may appear so for a time, but when the bird you are watching is ready to move on, his call will be answered by others that you have not seen, and half a dozen at least will fly off to new scenes.

This is often noticed on a much larger scale when we flush robins in a field. They are generally widely scattered, and, go where you will, there will be one or two hopping before you; but when one takes alarm, the danger cry is heard by all, and a great flock will gather in the air in an incredibly short time.

Robins are not lovers of frozen ground; they know where the earth resists frost, down in the marshy meadows, and there they congregate in the dreary midwinter afternoons, after spending the morning feeding upon berries. I have seen them picking those of the cedar, poison ivy, green brier, and even the seedy, withered fruit of the poke; but at times this question of food supply must be a difficult problem to solve, and then they leave us for a while, until pleasanter weather prevails, when they venture back.

In April, when the chill of winter is no longer in its bones, the robin becomes prominent, and the more so because of the noise it makes. It sings fairly well, and early in the morning there is a world of suggestiveness in the ringing notes. The song is loud, declamatory, and acceptable more for the pleasant thoughts it occasions than for the actual melody. We are always glad to hear the robins, but never for the same reason that we listen to a wood thrush. Of course there are exceptions.

With the close of the nesting season--and this extends well into the summer--much of the attractiveness of the bird disappears. As individual members of great loose flocks that fret the upper air with an incessant chirping, they offer little to entertain us even when the less hardy minstrels of the summer have sought their southern homes.

It is true that they add something to the picture of a dreamy October afternoon when the mellow sunlight tips the wilted grasses with dull gold. They restore for the time the summertide activity of the meadows when with golden-winged woodpeckers they chase the crickets in the close-cropped pastures, but they are soon forgotten if a song sparrow sings or a wary hawk screams among the clouds. Robins are always welcome, but never more so than when they chatter, on an April morning, of the near future with its buds and blossoms.

--_From "Bird-Land Echoes," by Charles Conrad Abbott._

THE MOTIONS OF BIRDS.

A good ornithologist should be able to distinguish birds by their air as well as by their colors and shape, on the wing as well as on the ground; and in the bush as well as in the hand. For though it must not be said that every species of bird has a manner peculiar to itself, yet there is somewhat in most _genera_, at least, that at first sight discriminates them, and enables a judicious observer to pronounce upon them with some certainty.

Thus kites and buzzards sail round in circles with wings expanded and motionless; and it is from their gliding manner that the former are still called in the north of England gleads, from the Saxon verb _glidan_, to glide. Hen harriers fly low over the meadows or fields of corn, and beat the ground regularly like a pointer or setting dog. Owls move in a buoyant manner, as if lighter than the air; they seem to want ballast.

There is a peculiarity belonging to ravens that must draw the attention even of the most incurious--they spend all their leisure time in striking and cuffing each other on the wing in a kind of playful skirmish; and, when they move from one place to another, frequently turn on their backs with a loud croak, and seem to be falling to the ground. When this odd gesture betides them, they are scratching themselves with one foot, and thus lose the center of gravity. Rooks sometimes dive and tumble in a frolicsome manner; crows and daws swagger in their walk; woodpeckers fly with a wavy motion, opening and closing their wings at every stroke, and so are always rising or falling in curves. All of this genus use their tails, which incline downward, as a support while they run up trees. Parrots, like all other hooked-clawed birds, walk awkwardly, and make use of their bill as a third foot, climbing and descending with ridiculous caution.

All the gallinæ parade and walk gracefully, and run nimbly, but fly with difficulty, with an impetuous whirring, and in a straight line. Magpies and jays flutter with powerless wings, and make no dispatch; herons seem encumbered with too much sail for their light bodies, but these vast hollow wings are necessary in carrying burdens, such as large fishes, and the like; pigeons, and particularly the sort called smiters, have a way of clashing their wings, the one against the other, over their backs with a loud snap; another variety, called tumblers, turn themselves over in the air.

The kingfisher darts along like an arrow; fern owls, or goatsuckers, glance in the dusk over the tops of trees like a meteor; swallows sweep over the surface of the ground and water, and distinguish themselves by rapid turns and quick evolutions; swifts dash round in circles; and the bank martin moves with frequent vacillations like a butterfly.

Most small birds hop; but wagtails and larks walk, moving their legs alternately. All the duck kind waddle; divers and auks walk as if fettered, and stand erect, on their tails. Geese and cranes, and most wild fowls, move in figured flights, often changing their position.

--_From "The Natural History of Selbourne," by Gilbert White._

THE ORIGIN OF RIVERS.

Let us trace a river to its source. Beginning where it empties itself into the sea, and following it backwards, we find it from time to time joined by tributaries which swell its waters. The river of course becomes smaller as these tributaries are passed. It shrinks first to a brook, then to a stream; this again divides itself into a number of smaller streamlets, ending in mere threads of water. These constitute the source of the river, and are usually found among hills.

Thus, the Severn has its source in the Welsh mountains; the Thames in the Cotswold Hills; the Missouri in the Rocky Mountains; and the Amazon in the Andes of Peru.

But it is quite plain that we have not yet reached the real beginning of the rivers. Whence do the earliest streams derive their water? A brief residence among the mountains would prove to you that they are fed by rains. In dry weather you would find the streams feeble, sometimes, indeed, quite dried up. In wet weather you would see them foaming torrents. In general these streams lose themselves as little threads of water upon the hillsides; but sometimes you may trace a river to a definite spring. But you very soon assure yourself that such springs are also fed by rain, which has percolated through the rocks or soil, and which, through some orifice that it has found or formed, comes to the light of day.

But we can not end here. Whence comes the rain that forms the mountain streams? Observation enables you to answer the question. Rain does not come from a clear sky. It comes from clouds.

But what are clouds? Is there nothing you are acquainted with which they resemble? You discover at once a likeness between them and the condensed steam of a locomotive. At every puff of the engine a cloud is projected into the air.

Watch the cloud sharply. You notice that it first forms at a little distance from the top of the funnel. Give close attention and you will sometimes see a perfectly clear space between the funnel and the cloud. Through that clear space the thing which makes the cloud must pass. What then is this thing which at one moment is transparent and invisible, and at the next moment visible as a dense opaque cloud?

It is the _steam_ or _vapor of water_ from the boiler. Within the boiler this steam is transparent and invisible; but to keep it in this invisible state a heat would be required as great as that within the boiler. When the vapor mingles with the cold air above the hot funnel, it ceases to be vapor. Every bit of steam shrinks, when chilled, to a much more minute particle of water. The liquid particles thus produced form a kind of _water dust_ of exceeding fineness, which floats in the air, and is called a _cloud_.

Watch the cloud banner from the funnel of a running locomotive: you see it growing gradually less dense. It finally melts away altogether, and, if you continue your observations, you will not fail to notice that the speed of its disappearance depends on the character of the day. In moist weather the cloud hangs long and lazily in the air; in dry weather it is rapidly licked up. What has become of it? It has been reconverted into true invisible vapor. The _drier_ the air, and the _hotter_ the air, the greater is the amount of cloud which can be thus dissolved in it.

Make the lid of a kettle air-tight, and permit the steam to issue from the spout; a cloud is formed in all respects similar to that which issues from the funnel of the locomotive. To produce the cloud, in the case of the locomotive and the kettle, _heat_ is necessary. By heating the water we first convert it into steam, and then by chilling the steam we convert it into cloud. Is there any fire in nature which produces the clouds of our atmosphere? There is--the fire of the sun.

By tracing the course of a river, we find that both its beginning and its ending are in the sea. All its water is derived from the sea, and to the sea it returns its floods. But if we seek for its causes, we find that its beginning and its ending are in the sun. For it is the fire of the sun that produces the clouds from which the water of the river is derived, and it is the same fire of the sun that dries up its stream.

--_Adapted from "Forms of Water in Clouds and Rivers," by John Tyndall._

ADDRESS OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN

AT THE DEDICATION OF GETTYSBURG CEMETERY, THE 19TH OF NOVEMBER, 1863.

Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of the war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that their nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us--that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion--that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain--that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom--and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

THE AMERICAN FLAG.

When Freedom, from her mountain height, Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there; She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure, celestial white With streakings of the morning light; Then from his mansion in the sun She called her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land.

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high! When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on (Ere yet the life blood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet), Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn, And as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from thy glance. And when the cannon mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, And gory sabers rise and fall, Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, Then shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall sink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas! on ocean's wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home, By angel hands to valor given, Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet! Where breathes the foe, but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us!

--_Joseph Rodman Drake._

THE LAST FIGHT IN THE COLISEUM, A.D. 404.

The grandest and most renowned of all ancient amphitheaters is the Coliseum at Rome. It was built by Vespasian and his son Titus, the conquerors of Jerusalem, in a valley in the midst of the seven hills of Rome. The captive Jews were forced to labor at it; and the materials--granite outside, and a softer stone within--are so solid, and so admirably put together, that still, at the end of eighteen centuries, it has scarcely even become a ruin, but remains one of the greatest wonders of Rome. Five acres of ground were inclosed within the oval of its outer wall, which outside rises perpendicularly in tiers of arches one above another. Within, the galleries of seats projected forwards, each tier coming out far beyond the one above it; so that between the lowest and the outer wall there was room for a great variety of chambers, passages, and vaults around the central space, called the arena.

Altogether, when full, this huge building held no fewer than 87,000 spectators! It had no roof; but when there was rain, or if the sun was too hot, the sailors in the porticoes unfurled awnings that ran along upon ropes, and formed a covering of silk and gold tissue over the whole. Purple was the favorite color for this veil, because, when the sun shone through it, it cast such beautiful rosy tints on the snowy arena and the white purple-edged togas of the Roman citizens.

When the emperor had seated himself and given the signal, the sports began. Sometimes a rope dancing elephant would begin the entertainment, by mounting even to the summit of the building and descending by a cord. Or a lion came forth with a jeweled crown on his head, a diamond necklace round his neck, his mane plaited with gold, and his claws gilded, and played a hundred pretty gentle antics with a little hare that danced fearlessly within his grasp.

Sometimes water was let into the arena, a ship sailed in, and falling to pieces in the midst, sent a crowd of strange animals swimming in all directions. Sometimes the ground opened, and trees came growing up through it, bearing golden fruit. Or the beautiful old tale of Orpheus was acted: these trees would follow the harp and song of a musician; but--to make the whole part complete--it was no mere play, but in real earnest, that the Orpheus of the piece fell a prey to live bears.