Chapter 15

"It was in fact a painful sight. The soldiers succeeded in carrying off nearly five hundred children. About three feet from the entrance to the ant-hill the plundered black parents ceased to follow the red robbers, and resigned themselves to the loss of their young. The whole raid did not occupy more than ten minutes.

"The parties were, as we have seen, very unequal in strength, and the attack was clearly an outrage--an outrage no doubt often repeated. The big red ants, knowing their power, played the part of tyrants; and, whenever they wanted more slaves, despoiled the small weak blacks of their greatest treasures--their children."

MICHELET

LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT

Lead, kindly Light, amid th' encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on; The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead Thou me on. Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see The distant scene; one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou Shouldst lead me on; I loved to choose and see my path; but now Lead Thou me on. I loved the garish day; and, spite of fears, Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still Will lead me on O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till The night is gone, And with the morn those angel faces smile, Which I have loved long since, and lost a while.

NEWMAN

THE JOLLY SANDBOYS

The Jolly Sandboys was a small road-side inn with a sign, representing three Sandboys, creaking and swinging on its post on the opposite side of the road. As the travellers had observed many indications of their drawing nearer to the race town, such as gypsy camps, showmen of various kinds, and beggars and trampers of every degree, Mr. Codlin was fearful of finding the accommodation forestalled; but had the gratification of finding that his fears were without foundation, for the landlord was leaning against the door-post, looking lazily at the rain which had begun to descend heavily.

"Make haste in out of the wet, Tom," said the landlord; "when it came on to rain I told 'em to make the fire up, and there's a glorious blaze in the kitchen, I can tell you."

Mr. Codlin followed with a willing mind. A mighty fire was blazing on the hearth and roaring up the wide chimney with a cheerful sound, which a large iron cauldron, bubbling and simmering in the heat, lent its pleasant aid to swell. There was a deep red ruddy blush upon the room, and when the landlord stirred the fire, sending the flame skipping and leaping up--when he took off the lid of the iron pot and there rushed out a savoury smell, while the bubbling sound grew deeper and more rich, and an unctuous steam came floating out, hanging in a delicious mist above their heads--when he did this, Mr. Codlin's heart was touched.

He sat down in the chimney-corner and smiled.

Mr. Codlin sat smiling in the chimney-corner, eyeing the landlord as with a roguish look he held the cover in his hand, and feigning that his doing so was needful to the welfare of the cookery, suffered the delightful steam to tickle the nostrils of his guest. The glow of the fire was upon the landlord's bald head, and upon his twinkling eye, and upon his watering mouth, and upon his pimpled face, and upon his round fat figure. Mr. Codlin drew his sleeve across his lips, and said in a murmuring voice: "What is it?"

"It's a stew of tripe," said the landlord, smacking his lips, "and cow-heel," smacking them again, "and bacon," smacking them once more, "and steak," smacking them for the fourth time, "and peas, cauliflowers, new potatoes, and sparrow-grass, all working up together in one delicious gravy." Having come to the climax, he smacked his lips a great many times, and taking a long, hearty sniff of the fragrance that was hovering about, put on the cover again with the air of one whose toils on earth were over.

"At what time will it be ready?" asked Mr. Codlin, faintly.

"It'll be done to a turn," said the landlord looking up to the clock--and the very clock had a colour in its fat white face, and looked a clock for Jolly Sandboys to consult--"it'll be done to a turn at twenty-two minutes before eleven."

Mr. Codlin now bethought him of his companions, and acquainted mine host of the Sandboys that his partner Short, Nell and her grandfather might shortly be looked for. At length they arrived drenched with rain and presenting a most miserable appearance. But their steps were no sooner heard upon the road than the landlord, who had been at the outer door anxiously watching for their coming, rushed into the kitchen and took the cover off. The effect was electrical. They all came in with smiling faces though the wet was dripping from their clothes upon the floor, and Short's first remark was: "What a delicious smell!"

It is not very difficult to forget rain and mud by the side of a cheerful fire, and in a bright room. They were furnished with slippers and such dry garments as the house or their own bundles afforded, and seating themselves, as Mr. Codlin had already done, in the warm chimney-corner, soon forgot their late troubles or only remembered them as enhancing the delights of the present time.

Strange footsteps were now heard without, and fresh company entered. These were no other than four very dismal dogs, who came pattering in one after the other, headed by an old bandy dog of particularly mournful aspect, who, stopping when the last of his followers had got as far as the door, erected himself upon his hind legs and looked round at his companions, who immediately stood upon their hind legs, in a grave and melancholy row. Nor was this the only remarkable circumstance about these dogs, for each of them wore a kind of little coat of some gaudy colour trimmed with tarnished spangles, and one of them had a cap upon his head, tied very carefully under his chin, which had fallen down upon his nose and completely obscured one eye; add to this, that the gaudy coats were all wet through and discoloured with rain, and that the wearers were splashed and dirty, and some idea may be formed of the unusual appearance of these new visitors to the Jolly Sandboys.

Neither Short nor the landlord nor Thomas Codlin, however, was in the least surprised, merely remarking that these were Jerry's dogs, and that Jerry could not be far behind. So there the dogs stood, patiently winking and gaping and looking extremely hard at the boiling pot, until Jerry himself appeared, when they all dropped down at once, and walked about the room in their natural manner. This posture, it must be confessed, did not much improve their appearance, as their own personal tails and their coat tails--both capital things in their way--did not agree together.

Jerry, the manager of these dancing dogs, was a tall black-whiskered man in a velveteen coat, who seemed well known to the landlord and his guests and accosted them with great cordiality. Disencumbering himself of a barrel organ which he placed upon a chair, and retaining in his hand a small whip wherewith to awe his company of comedians, he came up to the fire to dry himself, and entered into conversation.

"Your people don't usually travel in character, do they?" said Short, pointing to the dresses of the dogs. "It must come expensive, if they do."

"No," replied Jerry, "no, it's not the custom with us. But we've been playing a little on the road to-day, and we come out with a new wardrobe at the races, so I didn't think it worth while to stop to undress. Down, Pedro!"

This was addressed to the dog with the cap on, who, being a new member of the company, and not quite certain of his duty, kept his unobscured eye anxiously on his master, and was perpetually starting up on his hind legs when there was no occasion, and falling down again.

The landlord now busied himself in laying the cloth, in which process Mr. Codlin obligingly assisted by setting forth his own knife and fork in the most convenient place and establishing himself behind them. When everything was ready, the landlord took off the cover for the last time, and then, indeed, there burst forth such a goodly promise of supper, that if he had offered to put it on again or had hinted at postponement, he would certainly have been sacrificed on his own hearth.

However, he did nothing of the kind, but instead assisted a stout servant girl in turning the contents of the cauldron into a large tureen; a proceeding which the dogs, proof against various hot splashes which fell upon their noses, watched with terrible eagerness. At length the dish was lifted on the table, and mugs of ale having been previously set round, little Nell ventured to say grace, and supper began.

At this juncture the poor dogs were standing on their hind legs quite surprisingly; the child, having pity on them, was about to cast some morsels of food to them before she tasted it herself, hungry though she was, when their master interposed.

"No, my dear, no, not an atom from anybody's hand but mine if you please. That dog," said Jerry, pointing out the old leader of the troop, and speaking in a terrible voice, "lost a halfpenny to-day. _He_ goes without his supper."

The unfortunate creature dropped upon his forelegs directly, wagged his tail, and looked imploringly at his master.

"You must be more careful, sir," said Jerry, walking coolly to the chair where he had placed the organ, and setting the stop. "Come here. Now, sir, you play away at that, while we have supper, and leave off if you dare."

The dog immediately began to grind most mournful music. His master, having shown him the whip, resumed his seat and called up the others, who, at his directions, formed in a row, standing upright as a file of soldiers.

"Now, gentlemen," said Jerry, looking at them attentively: "The dog whose name's called, eats. The dogs whose names an't called, keep quiet. Carlo."

The lucky individual whose name was called, snapped up the morsel thrown towards him, but none of the others moved a muscle. In this manner they were fed at the discretion of their master. Meanwhile the dog in disgrace ground hard at the organ, sometimes in quick time, sometimes in slow, but never leaving off for an instant. When the knives and forks rattled very much, or any of his fellows got an unusually large piece of fat, he accompanied the music with a short howl, but he immediately checked it on his master looking round, and applied himself with increased diligence to the Old Hundredth.

DICKENS: "Old Curiosity Shop."

So, when a great man dies, For years beyond our ken, The light he leaves behind him lies Upon the paths of men.

LONGFELLOW

THE GLADNESS OF NATURE

Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, When our mother Nature laughs around; When even the deep blue heavens look glad, And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?

There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den, And the wilding bee hums merrily by.

The clouds are at play in the azure space, And their shadows at play on the bright green vale, And here they stretch to the frolic chase, And there they roll on the easy gale.

There's a dance of leaves on that aspen bower, There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, On the leaping waters and gay young isles; Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.

BRYANT

OLD ENGLISH LIFE

When the sun rose on England of olden time, its faint red light stirred every sleeper from the sack of straw, which formed the only bed of the age. Springing from this rustling couch, where he had lain naked, and throwing off the coarse coverlets, usually of sheepskin, the subject of King Alfred donned the day's dress. Gentlemen wore linen or woollen tunics, which reached to the knee; and, over these, long fur-lined cloaks, fastened with a brooch of ivory or gold. Strips of cloth or leather, bandaged crosswise from the ankle to the knee over red and blue stockings; and black, pointed shoes, slit along the instep almost to the toes and fastened with two thongs, completed the costume of an Anglo-Saxon gentleman. The ladies, wrapping a veil of linen or silk upon their delicate curls, laced a loose-flowing gown over a tight-sleeved bodice, and pinned the graceful folds of their mantles with golden butterflies and other tasteful trinkets.

Breakfast consisted probably of bread, meat, and ale, but was a lighter repast than that taken when the hurry of the day lay behind. Often it was eaten in the bower or private apartment.

The central picture in Old English life--the great event of the day--was _Noon-meat_, or dinner in the great hall. A little before three, the chief and all his household, with any stray guests who might have dropped in, met in the hall, which stood in the centre of its encircling bowers--the principal apartment of every Old English house. Clouds of wood smoke, rolling up from a fire which blazed in the middle of the floor, blackened the carved rafters of the arched roof before they found their way out of the hole above which did duty as a chimney.

Tapestries, dyed purple, or glowing with variegated pictures of saints and heroes, hung, and if the day was stormy, flapped upon the chinky walls. In palaces and in earls' mansions coloured tiles, wrought into a mosaic, formed a clean and pretty pavement; but the common flooring of the time was clay, baked dry with the heat of winter evenings and summer noons. The only articles of furniture always in the hall were wooden benches; some of which, especially the _high settle_ or seat of the chieftain, boasted cushions, or at least a rug.

While the hungry crowd, fresh from woodland and furrow, were lounging near the fire or hanging up their weapons on the pegs and hooks that jutted from the wall, a number of slaves, dragging in a long, flat, heavy board, placed it on movable legs, and spread on its upper half a handsome cloth. Then were arranged with other utensils for the meal some flattish dishes, baskets of ash-wood for holding bread, a scanty sprinkling of steel knives shaped like our modern razors, platters of wood, and bowls for the universal broth.

The ceremony of "laying the board," as the Old English phrased it, being completed, the work of demolition began. Great round cakes of bread--huge junks of boiled bacon--vast rolls of broiled eel--cups of milk--horns of ale--wedges of cheese--lumps of salt butter--and smoking piles of cabbages and beans, melted like magic from the board under the united attack of greasy fingers and grinding jaws. Kneeling slaves offered to the lord and his honoured guests long skewers or spits, on which steaks of beef or venison smoked and sputtered, ready for the hacking blade.

Poultry, too, and game of every variety, filled the spaces of the upper board; but the crowd of _loaf-eaters_, as old English domestics were suggestively called, saw little of these daintier kinds of food, except the naked bones. Nor did they much care, if, to their innumerable hunches of bread, they could add enough pig to appease their hunger. Hounds, sitting eager-eyed by their masters, snapped with sudden jaws at scraps of fat flung to them, or retired into private life below the board with some sweet bone that fortune sent them.

The solid part of the banquet ended with the washing of hands, performed for the honoured occupants of the high settle by officious slaves. The board was then dragged out of the hall; the loaf-eaters slunk away to have a nap in the byre, or sat drowsily in corners of the hall; and the drinking began. During the progress of the meal, Welsh ale had flowed freely in horns or vessels of twisted glass. Mead and, in very grand houses, wine now began to circle in goblets of gold and silver, or of wood inlaid with those precious metals. In humbler houses, story-telling and songs, sung to the music of the harp by each guest in turn, formed the principal amusement of the drinking-bout.

Meantime the music and the mead did their work in maddening brains; the revelry grew louder; riddles, which had flown thick around the board at first, gave place to banter, taunts, and fierce boasts of prowess; angry eyes gleamed defiance; and it was well if, in the morning, the household slaves had not to wash blood-stains from the pavement of the hall, or in the still night, when the drunken brawlers lay stupid on the floor, to drag a dead man from the red plash in which he lay.

From the reek and riot of the hall the ladies of the household soon withdrew to the bower, where they reigned supreme. There, in the earlier part of the day, they had arrayed themselves in their bright-coloured robes, plying tweezers and crisping-irons on their yellow hair, and often heightening the blush that Nature gave them with a shade of rouge. There, too, they used to scold their female slaves, and beat them, with a violence which said more for their strength of lung and muscle than for the gentleness of their womanhood.

When their needles were fairly set a-going upon those pieces of delicate embroidery, known and prized over all Europe as "English work," some gentlemen dropped in, perhaps harp in hand, to chat and play for their amusement, or to engage in games of hazard and skill, which seem to have resembled modern dice and chess. When in later days supper came into fashion, the round table of the bower was usually spread for _Evening-food_, as this meal was called. And not long afterwards, those bags of straw, from which they sprang at sunrise, received for another night their human burden, worn out with the labours and the revels of the day.

W. F. COLLIER (Adapted)

PUCK'S SONG

See you the dimpled track that runs, All hollow through the wheat? O that was where they hauled the guns That smote King Philip's fleet.

See you our little mill that clacks, So busy by the brook? She has ground her corn and paid her tax Ever since Domesday Book.

See you our stilly woods of oak, And the dread ditch beside? O that was where the Saxons broke, On the day that Harold died.

See you the windy levels spread About the gates of Rye? O that was where the Northmen fled, When Alfred's ships came by.

See you our pastures wide and lone, Where the red oxen browse? O there was a City thronged and known, Ere London boasted a house.

And see you, after rain, the trace Of mound and ditch and wall? O that was a Legion's camping-place, When Caesar sailed from Gaul.

And see you marks that show and fade, Like shadows on the Downs? O they are the lines the Flint Men made To guard their wondrous towns.

Trackway and Camp and City lost, Salt Marsh where now is corn; Old Wars, old Peace, old Arts that cease, And so was England born!

She is not any common Earth, Water or wood or air, But Merlin's Isle of Gramarye, Where you and I will fare.

KIPLING: "Puck of Pook's Hill."

THE BATTLE OF QUEENSTON HEIGHTS

The thirteenth of October, 1812, is a day ever to be remembered in Canada. All along the Niagara river the greatest excitement had prevailed: many of the inhabitants had removed with their portable property into the back country; small bodies of soldiers, regulars and volunteers, were posted in the towns and villages; Indians were roving in the adjacent woods; and sentinels, posted along the banks of the river, were looking eagerly for the enemy that was to come from the American shore and attempt the subjugation of a free, a happy, and a loyal people.

In the village of Queenston, that nestles at the foot of an eminence overlooking the mighty waters of Niagara, two companies of the Forty-ninth Regiment, or "Green Tigers," as the Americans afterwards termed them, with one hundred Canadian militia, were posted under the command of Captain Dennis.

When tattoo sounded on the night of the twelfth, the little garrison retired to rest. All was silent but the elements, which raged furiously throughout the night. Nothing was to be heard but the howling of the wind and the sound of falling rain mingled with the distant roar of the great cataract. Dripping with rain and shivering with cold, the sentries paced their weary rounds, from time to time casting a glance over the swollen tide of the river towards the American shore. At length, when the gray dawn of morning appeared, a wary sentinel descried a number of boats, filled with armed men, pushing off from the opposite bank below the village of Lewiston. Immediately the alarm was given. The soldiers were roused from their peaceful slumbers, and marched down to the landing-place. Meanwhile, a battery of one gun, posted on the heights, and another about a mile below, began to play on the enemy's boats, sinking some and disabling others.

Finding it impossible to effect a landing in the face of such opposition, the Americans, leaving a few of their number to occupy the attention of the troops on the bank, disembarked some distance up the river, and succeeded in gaining the summit of the height by a difficult and unprotected pathway. With loud cheers they captured the one-gun battery, and rushed down upon Captain Dennis and his command; who, finding themselves far outnumbered by the enemy, retired slowly towards the north end of the village. Here they were met by General Brock, who had set out in advance of reinforcements from the town of Niagara, accompanied only by two officers. Placing himself at the head of the little band, the gallant general cried: "Follow me!" and, amid the cheers of regulars and militia, he led his men back to the height from which they had been forced to retire. At the foot of the hill the general dismounted, under the sharp fire of the enemy's riflemen, who were posted among the trees on its summit, climbed over a high stone wall, and waving his sword, charged up the hill at the head of his soldiers. This intrepid conduct at once attracted the notice of the enemy. One of their sharp-shooters advanced a few paces, took deliberate aim, and shot the general in the breast. It was a mortal wound. Thus fell Sir Isaac Brock, the hero of Upper Canada, whose name will outlive the noble monument which a grateful country has erected to his memory.