selection, he was lieutenant-governor of the province, and as chief justice, had issued the so-called Writs of Assistance, which brought upon him the anger of the colonists. Under these Writs it was possible for a constable, or other public officer, to enter any building and take therefrom goods upon which the duty had not been paid. In the hands of tyrannical officers, these Writs would entirely destroy the privacy of any family. When the Stamp Act was passed, Hutchinson accepted it as legal, though he had opposed it on principle. By this action he brought upon himself the intense animosity of the colonists.] Oliver, [Footnote: Andrew Oliver was, on the passage of the Stamp Act, appointed distributer for Massachusetts. This displeased the people, and less than two weeks before the mob attacked the Hutchinson house, Oliver was hanged in effigy, and a new building, supposed to be intended for his office, was burned to the ground. This did not allay the excitement of the colonists, who followed Oliver and threatened him so savagely that he finally promised not to receive the stamps. Later the mob, hearing that he still intended to serve, took him to the “Liberty Tree,” and under threats of hanging, forced him to swear that he had never intended to distribute the stamps. When Hutchinson became governor in 1770, Oliver was given the lieutenant-governorship, in which position he wrote letters that brought him again into antagonism with the colonists, and the British government was asked to remove him from office.] Storey, Hallowell, and other men whom King George delighted to honor were reviled as traitors to the country. Now and then, perhaps, an officer of the Crown passed along the street, wearing the gold-laced hat, white wig, and embroidered waistcoat which were the fashion of the day.
But when the people beheld him they set up a wild and angry howl, and their faces had an evil aspect, which was made more terrible by the flickering blaze of the bonfire.
“I should like to throw the traitor right into that blaze!” perhaps one fierce rioter would say.
“Yes, and all his brethren, too!” another might reply; “and the governor and old Tommy Hutchinson into the hottest of it!”
“And the Earl of Bute [Footnote: The Earl of Bute was a British statesman who, as secretary of state, became most unpopular not only in the colonies, but in England itself. He was an ancient supporter of royal authority, and exacted the most unquestioning obedience from his inferiors.] along with them!” muttered a third, “and burn the whole pack of them under King George’s nose! No matter if it singed him!”
Some such expressions as these, either shouted aloud or muttered under the breath, were doubtless heard in King Street. The mob, meanwhile, were growing fiercer and fiercer, and seemed ready even to set the town on fire for the sake of burning the king’s friends out of house and home. And yet, angry as they were, they sometimes broke into a loud roar of laughter, as if mischief and destruction were their sport.
But we must now leave the rioters for a time, and take a peep into the lieutenant-governor’s splendid mansion. It was a large brick house decorated with Ionic pilasters, and stood in Garden Court Street near the North Square.
While the angry mob in King Street were shouting his name, Lieutenant- Governor Hutchinson sat quietly in Grandfather’s chair, unsuspicious of the evil that was about to fall upon his head. His beloved family were in the room with him. He had thrown off his embroidered coat and powdered wig, and had on a loose flowing gown and purple velvet cap. He had likewise laid aside the cares of state and all the thoughts that had wearied and perplexed him throughout the day.
Perhaps in the enjoyment of his home he had forgotten all about the Stamp Act, and scarcely remembered that there was a king across the ocean who had resolved to make tributaries of the New Englanders. Possibly, too, he had forgotten his own ambition, and would not have exchanged his situation at that moment to be governor or even a lord.
[Illustration: “FATHER, DO YOU NOT HEAR?”]
The wax candles were now lighted, and showed a handsome room well provided with rich furniture. On the walls hung the pictures of Hutchinson’s ancestors, who had been eminent men in their day and were honorably remembered in the history of the country. Every object served to mark the residence of a rich, aristocratic gentleman who held himself high above the common people and could have nothing to fear from them. In the corner of a room, thrown carelessly upon a chair, were the scarlet robes of the chief justice. This high office, as well as those of lieutenant-governor, councilor, and judge of the probate, was filled by Hutchinson.
Who or what could disturb the domestic quiet of such a great and powerful personage as now sat in Grandfather’s chair?
The lieutenant-governor’s favorite daughter sat by his side. She leaned on the arm of our great chair and looked up affectionately into her father’s face, rejoicing to perceive that a quiet smile was on his lips. But suddenly a shade came across her countenance. She seemed to listen attentively, as if to catch a distant sound.
“What is the matter, my child?” inquired Hutchinson.
“Father, do you not hear a tumult in the streets?” said she.
The lieutenant-governor listened. But his ears were duller than those of his daughter: he could hear nothing more terrible than the sound of a summer breeze sighing among the tops of the elm trees.
“No, foolish child!” he replied, playfully patting her cheek. “There is no tumult. Our Boston mobs are satisfied with what mischief they have already done. The king’s friends need not tremble.”
So Hutchinson resumed his pleasant and peaceful meditations, and again forgot that there were any troubles in the world. But his family were alarmed, and could not help straining their ears to catch the slightest sound. More and more distinctly they heard shouts, and then the trampling of many feet. While they were listening one of the neighbors rushed breathless into the room.
“A mob! a terrible mob!” cried he. “They have broken into Mr. Storey’s house and into Mr. Hallowell’s, and have made themselves drunk with the liquors in his cellar, and now they are coming hither, as wild as so many tigers. Flee, lieutenant-governor, for your life! for your life!”
“Father, dear father, make haste!” shrieked his children.
But Hutchinson would not hearken to them. He was an old lawyer, and he could not realize that the people would do anything so utterly lawless as to assault him in his peaceful home. He was one of King George’s chief officers, and it would be an insult and outrage upon the king himself if the lieutenant-governor should suffer any wrong.
“Have no fears on my account,” said he. “I am perfectly safe. The king’s name shall be my protection.”
Yet he bade his family retire into one of the neighboring houses. His daughter would have remained, but he forced her away.
The huzzas and riotous uproar of the mob were now heard close at hand. The sound was terrible, and struck Hutchinson with the same sort of dread as if an enraged wild beast had broken loose and were roaring for its prey. He crept softly to the window. There he beheld an immense concourse of people filling all the street and rolling onward to his house. It was like a tempestuous flood that had swelled beyond its bounds and would sweep everything before it. Hutchinson trembled; he felt at that moment that the wrath of the people was a thousandfold more terrible than the wrath of a king. That was a moment when a loyalist and an aristocrat like Hutchinson might have learned how powerless are kings, nobles, and great men when the low and humble range themselves against them. King George could do nothing for his servant now. Had King George been there he could have done nothing for himself. If Hutchinson had understood this lesson and remembered it, he need not in after years have been an exile from his native country, nor finally have laid his bones in a distant land.
[Footnote: THE RIOTERS BROKE INTO THE HOUSE]
There was now a rush against the doors of the house. The people sent up a hoarse cry. At this instant the lieutenant-governor’s daughter, whom he had supposed to be in a place of safety, ran into the room and threw her arms around him. She had returned by a private entrance.
“Father, are you mad?” cried she. “Will the king’s name protect you now? Come with me or they will have your life.”
“True,” muttered Hutchinson to himself; “what care these roarers for the name of king? I must flee, or they will trample me down on the floor of my own dwelling.”
Hurrying away, he and his daughter made their escape by the private passage at the moment when the rioters broke into the house. The foremost of them rushed up the staircase and entered the room which Hutchinson had just quitted. There they beheld our good old chair facing them with quiet dignity, while the lion’s head seemed to move its jaws in the unsteady light of their torches. Perhaps the stately aspect of our venerable friend, which had stood firm through a century and a half of trouble, arrested them for an instant. But they were thrust forward by those behind, and the chair lay overthrown.
Then began the work of destruction. The carved and polished mahogany tables were shattered with heavy clubs and hewn to splinters with axes. The marble hearths and mantelpieces were broken. The volumes of Hutchinson’s library, so precious to a studious man, were torn out of their covers and the leaves sent flying out of the windows. Manuscripts containing secrets of our country’s history which are now lost forever were scattered to the winds. The old ancestral portraits whose fixed countenances looked down on the wild scene were rent from the walls. The mob triumphed in their downfall and destruction, as if these pictures of Hutchinson’s forefathers had committed the same offenses as their descendants. A tall looking-glass which had hitherto presented a reflection of the enraged and drunken multitude was now smashed into a thousand fragments. We gladly dismiss the scene from the mirror of our fancy.
Before morning dawned the walls of the house were all that remained. The interior was a dismal scene of ruin. A shower pattered in at the broken windows, and when Hutchinson and his family returned they stood shivering in the same room where the last evening had seen them so peaceful and happy.
[Illustration: North Church Tower, Boston]
THE BOSTON MASSACRE
[Footnote: From _Grandfather’s Chair_.]
_By_ NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
It was now the 3d of March, 1770. The sunset music of the British regiments was heard as usual throughout the town. The shrill fife and rattling drum awoke the echoes in King Street while the last ray of sunshine was lingering on the cupola of the Town-house. And now all the sentinels were posted. One of them marched up and down before the custom-house, treading a short path through the snow and longing for the time when they would be dismissed to the warm fireside of the guard-room. Meanwhile, Captain Preston was perhaps sitting in our great chair before the hearth of the British Coffee-house. In the course of the evening there were two or three slight commotions which seemed to indicate that trouble was at hand. Small parties of young men stood at the corners of the streets or walked along the narrow pavements. Squads of soldiers who were dismissed from duty passed by them, shoulder to shoulder, with the regular step which they had learned at the drill. Whenever these encounters took place it appeared to be the object of the young men to treat the soldiers with as much incivility as possible.
“Turn out, you lobster-backs!” one would say.
“Crowd them off the sidewalks!” another would cry. “A red-coat has no right in Boston streets!”
“Oh, you rebel rascals!” perhaps the soldiers would reply, glaring fiercely at the young men. “Some day or other we’ll make our way through Boston streets at the point of the bayonet!”
One or twice such disputes as these brought on a scuffle, which passed off, however, without attracting much notice. About eight o’clock, for some unknown cause, an alarm bell rang loudly and hurriedly.
At the sound many people ran out of their houses, supposing it to be an alarm of fire. But there were no flames to be seen, nor was there any smell of smoke in the clear, frosty air, so that most of the townsmen went back to their own firesides and sat talking with their wives and children about the calamities of the times. Others who were younger and less prudent remained in the streets, for there seems to have been a presentiment that some strange event was on the eve of taking place.
Later in the evening, not far from nine o’clock several young men passed by the Town-house and walked down King Street. The sentinel was still on his post in front of the custom-house, pacing to and fro, while as he turned a gleam of light from some neighboring window glittered on the barrel of his musket.
At no great distance were the barracks and the guard-house, where his comrades were probably telling stories of battle and bloodshed.
Down toward the custom-house, as I told you, came a party of wild young men. When they drew near the sentinel he halted on his post and took his musket from his shoulder, ready to present the bayonet at their breasts.
[Illustration: NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 1804-1864]
“Who goes there?” he cried, in the gruff, peremptory tones of a soldier’s challenge.
The young men, being Boston boys, felt as if they had a right to walk their own streets without being accountable to a British red-coat, even though he challenged them in King George’s name. They made some rude answer to the sentinel. There was a dispute, or perhaps a scuffle. Other soldiers heard the noise, and ran hastily from the barracks to assist their comrades. At the same time many of the townspeople rushed into King Street by various avenues and gathered in a crowd round about the custom-house. It seemed wonderful how such a multitude had smarted up all of a sudden.
The wrongs and insults which the people had been suffering for many months now kindled them into a rage. They threw snowballs and lumps of ice at the soldiers. As the tumult grew louder it reached the ears of Captain Preston, the officer of the day. He immediately ordered eight soldiers of the main guard to take their muskets and follow him. They marched across the street, forcing their way roughly through the crowd and pricking the townspeople with their bayonets.
A gentleman (it was Henry Knox, afterward general of the American artillery) caught Captain Preston’s arm.
“For Heaven’s sake, sir,” exclaimed he, “take heed what you do or there will be bloodshed!”
“Stand aside!” answered Captain Preston haughtily. “Do not interfere, sir. Leave me to manage the affair.”
Arriving at the sentinel’s post, Captain Preston drew up his men in a semicircle with their faces to the crowd and their rear to the custom- house. When the people saw the officer and beheld the threatening attitude with which the soldiers fronted them their rage became almost uncontrollable.
“Fire, you lobster-backs!” bellowed some.
“You dare not fire, you cowardly red-coats!” cried others.
“Rush upon them!” shouted many voices. “Drive the rascals to their barracks! Down with them! Down with them! Let them fire if they dare!”
Amid the uproar the soldiers stood glaring at the people with the fierceness of men whose trade was to shed blood.
Oh, what a crisis had now arrived! Up to this very moment the angry feelings between England and America might have been pacified. England had but to stretch out the hand of reconciliation and acknowledge that she had hitherto mistaken her rights, but would do so no more. Then the ancient bond of brotherhood would again have been knit together as firmly as in old times. The habit of loyalty which had grown as strong as instinct was not utterly overcome. The perils shared, the victories won in the Old French War, when the soldiers of the colonies fought side by side with their comrades from beyond the sea, were unforgotten yet. England was still that beloved country which the colonists called their home. King George, though he had frowned upon America, was still reverenced as a father.
But should the king’s soldiers shed one drop of American blood, then it was a quarrel to the death. Never, never would America rest satisfied until she had torn down the royal authority and trampled it in the dust.
“Fire if you dare, villains!” hoarsely shouted the people while the muzzles of the muskets were turned upon them. “You dare not fire!”
[Illustration: THE SOLDIERS FIRED]
They appeared ready to rush upon the leveled bayonets. Captain Preston waved his sword and uttered a command which could not be distinctly heard amid the uproar of shouts that issued from a hundred throats. But his soldiers deemed that he had spoken the fatal mandate, “Fire!” The flash of their muskets lighted up the street, and the report rang loudly between the edifices. It was said, too, that the figure of a man with a cloth hanging down over his face was seen to step into the balcony of the custom-house and discharge a musket at the crowd.
A gush of smoke had overspread the scene. It rose heavily, as if it were loath to reveal the dreadful spectacle beneath it. Eleven of the sons of New England lay stretched upon the street. Some, sorely wounded, were struggling to rise again. Others stirred not nor groaned, for they were past all pain. Blood was streaming upon the snow, and that purple stain in the midst of King Street, though it melted away in the next day’s sun, was never forgotten nor forgiven by the people.
The town drums beat to arms, the alarm bells rang, and an immense multitude rushed into King Street. Many of them had weapons in their hands. The British prepared to defend themselves. A whole regiment was drawn up in the street expecting an attack, for the townsmen appeared ready to throw themselves upon the bayonets.
Governor Hutchinson hurried to the spot and besought the people to have patience, promising that strict justice should be done. A day or two afterward the British troops were withdrawn from town and stationed at Castle William. Captain Preston and the eight soldiers were tried for murder, but none of them were found guilty. The judges told the jury that the insults and violence which had been offered to the soldiers justified them in firing at the mob.
[Illustration: THE STEED SWEPT ON]
SHERIDAN’S RIDE
_By_ THOMAS BUCHANAN READ
Up from the South at break of day,
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain’s door, The terrible grumble and rumble and roar, Telling the battle was on once more,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.
And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon’s bar,
And louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,
Making the blood of the listener cold As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, With Sheridan twenty miles away.
But there is a road from Winchester town, A good, broad highway leading down;
And there through the flash of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night, Was seen to pass as with eagle flight.
As if he knew the terrible need,
He stretched away with the utmost speed; Hills rose and fell,–but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away.
* * * * *
Under his spurning feet the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape sped away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind; And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, Swept on with his wuld eyes full of fire; But, lo! he is nearing his heart’s desire, He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away.
The first that the General saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; What was done,–what to do,–a glance told him both, And, striking his spurs with a terrible oath, He dashed down the line mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray, By the flash of his eye, and his nostril’s play He seemed to the whole great army to say,
“I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester, down to save the day!”
Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan!
Hurrah, hurrah, for horse and man! And when their statues are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky,–
To the American soldier’s Temple of Fame,– There with the glorious General’s name
Be it said in letters both bold and bright: “Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight, From Winchester,–twenty miles away!”
JOAN OF ARC
[Footnote: The body of this selection has been much condensed, though the introduction is as De Quincey wrote it.]
_By_ THOMAS DE QUINCEY
What is to be thought of _her_? What is to be thought of the poor shepherd girl from the hills and forests of Lorraine, [Footnote: Lorraine lay between France and Germany.] that–like the Hebrew shepherd boy [Footnote: David.] from the hills and forests of Judea– rose suddenly out of the quiet, out of the safety, out of the religious inspiration, rooted in deep pastoral solitudes, to a station in the van of armies, and to the more perilous station at the right hand of kings? The Hebrew boy inaugurated his patriotic mission by an _act_, by a victorious _act_, [Footnote: The killing of Goliath.] such as no man could deny. But so did the girl of Lorraine, if we read her story as it was read by those who saw her nearest. Adverse armies bore witness to the boy as no pretender; but so they did to the gentle girl. Judged by the voices of all who saw them _from a station of good-will_, both were found true and loyal to any promises involved in their first acts. Enemies it was that made the difference between their subsequent fortunes. The boy rose to a splendour and a noonday prosperity, both personal and public, that rang through the records of his people, and became a by-word amongst his posterity for a thousand years, until the sceptre was departing from Judah. [Footnote: See _Genesis_ XLIX: 10.] The poor, forsaken girl, on the contrary, drank not herself from that cup of rest which she had secured for France. She never sang together with the songs that rose in her native Domrémy as echoes to the departing steps of invaders. She mingled not in the festal dances at Vaucouleurs which celebrated in rapture the redemption of France. No! for her voice was then silent; no! for her feet were dust. Pure, innocent, noble-hearted girl! whom, from earliest youth, ever I believed in as full of truth and self-sacrifice, this was amongst the pledges for _thy_ truth, that never once–no, not for a moment of weakness–didst thou revel in the vision of coronets and honour from man. Coronets for thee! Oh no! Honours, if they come when all is over, are for those that share thy blood. Daughter of Domrémy, when the gratitude of thy king shall awaken, thou wilt be sleeping the sleep of the dead. Call her, King of France, but she will not hear thee. Cite her by the apparitors to come and receive a robe of honour, but she will be found _en contumace._ [Footnote: _In contempt_ is the phrase we now apply to a person who fails to appear when summoned to appear in court.] When the thunders of universal France, as even yet may happen, shall proclaim the grandeur of the poor shepherd girl that gave up all for her country, thy ear, young shepherd girl, will have been deaf for five centuries. To suffer and to do, that was thy portion in this life; that was thy destiny; and not for a moment was it hidden from thyself. Life, thou saidst, is short; and the sleep which is in the grave is long; let me use that life, so transitory, for the glory of those heavenly dreams destined to comfort the sleep which is so long! This pure creature–pure from every suspicion of even a visionary self-interest, even as she was pure in senses more obvious–never once did this holy child, as regarded herself, relax from her belief in the darkness that was traveling to meet her. She might not prefigure the very manner of her death; she saw not in vision, perhaps, the aerial altitude of the fiery scaffold, the spectators without end on every road pouring into Rouen as to a coronation, the surging smoke, the volleying flames, the hostile faces all around, the pitying eye that lurked but here and there, until nature and imperishable truth broke loose from artificial restraints;– these might not be apparent through the mists of the hurrying future. But the voice that called her to death, _that_ she heard for ever.
[Illustration: JOAN OF ARC _Statue by Chapu, Luxembourg, Paris _]
Great was the throne of France even in those days, and great was he that sat upon it; but well Joanna knew that not the throne, nor he that sat upon it, was for _her_; but, on the contrary, that she was for _them_; not she by them, but they by her, should rise from the dust. Gorgeous were the lilies of France, [Footnote: The royal emblem of France was the _fleur-de-lys_ or iris, but in translation the phrase appears _lily-flower_.] and for centuries had the privilege to spread their beauty over land and sea, until, in another century, the wrath of God and man combined to wither them; but well Joanna knew, early at Domrémy she had read that bitter truth, that the lilies of France would decorate no garland for _her_. Flower nor bud, bell nor blossom, would ever bloom for _her_!
* * * * *
Joanna, as we in England should call her, but, according to her own statement, Jeanne (or, as M. Michelet asserts, Jean) D’Arc, was born at Domrémy, a village on the marches of Lorraine and Champagne, and dependent upon the town of Vaucoulcurs. Domrémy stood upon the frontiers, and, like other frontiers, produced a _mixed_ race, representing the _cis_ [Footnote: _This side_.] and the _trans_ [Footnote: _Across_; the other side.]. A river (it is true) formed the boundary-line at this point–the river Meuse; and _that_, in old days, might have divided the populations; but in these days it did not: there were bridges, there were ferries, and weddings crossed from the right bank to the left. Here lay two great roads, not so much for travelers that were few, as for armies that were too many by half. These two roads, one of which was the great highroad between France and Germany, _decussated_ at this very point; which is a learned way of saying that they formed a St. Andrew’s Cross, or letter X. I hope the compositor will choose a good large X; in which case the point of intersection, the _locus_ [Footnote: _Point_ or _place_.] of conflux and intersection for these four diverging arms, will finish the reader’s geographical education, by showing him to a hair’s-breadth where it was that Domrémy stood. That great four-headed road was a perpetual memento to patriotic ardour. To say “This way lies the road to Paris, and that other way to Aix-la-Chapelle; this to Prague, that to Vienna,” nourished the warfare of the heart by daily ministrations of sense. The eye that watched for the gleams of lance or helmet from the hostile frontier, the ear that listened for the groaning of wheels, made the high-road itself, with its relations to centres so remote, into a manual of patriotic duty. The situation, therefore, _locally_, of Joanna was full of profound suggestions to a heart that listened for the stealthy steps of change and fear that too surely were in motion. But, if the place were grand, the time, the burden of the time, was far more so. The air overhead in its upper chambers was _hurtling_ with the obscure sound; was dark with sullen fermenting of storms that had been gathering for a hundred and thirty years. The battle of Agincourt in Joanna’s childhood had reopened the wounds of France. Crécy and Poictiers, those withering overthrows for the chivalry of France, had, before Agincourt occurred, been tranquilized by more than half-a-century; but this resurrection of their trumpet wails made the whole series of battles and endless skirmishes take their stations as parts in one drama. The graves that had closed sixty years ago seemed to fly open in sympathy with a sorrow that echoed their own. The monarchy of France laboured in extremity, rocked and reeled like a ship fighting with the darkness of monsoons. The madness of the poor king (Charles VI) falling in at such a crisis trebled the awfulness of the time. Even the wild story of the incident which had immediately occasioned the explosion of this madness–the case of a man unknown, gloomy, and perhaps maniacal himself, coming out of a forest at noonday, laying his hand upon the bridle of the king’s horse, checking him for a moment to say, “Oh, king, thou art betrayed,” and then vanishing, no man knew whither, as he had appeared for no man knew what–fell in with the universal prostration of mind that laid France on her knees, as before the slow unweaving of some ancient prophetic doom. The famines, the extraordinary diseases, the insurrections of the peasantry up and down Europe–these were chords struck from the same mysterious harp; but these were transitory chords. There had been others of deeper and more ominous sound. The termination of the Crusades, the destruction of the Templars, the Papal interdicts, the tragedies caused or suffered by the house of Anjou, and by the Emperor–these were full of a more permanent significance.
These were the loftiest peaks of the cloudland in the skies that to the scientific gazer first caught the colours of the new morning in advance. But the whole vast range alike of sweeping glooms overhead dwelt upon all meditative minds, even upon those that could not distinguish the tendencies nor decipher the forms. It was, therefore, not her own age alone as affected by its immediate calamities that lay with such weight upon Joanna’s mind, but her own age as one section in a vast mysterious drama, unweaving through a century back, and drawing nearer continually to some dreadful crisis. Cataracts and rapids were heard roaring ahead; and signs were seen far back, by help of old men’s memories, which answered secretly to signs now coming forward on the eye, even as locks answer to keys. It was not wonderful that in such a haunted solitude, with such a haunted heart, Joanna should see angelic visions, and hear angelic voices. These voices whispered to her for ever the duty, self-imposed, of delivering France. Five years she listened to these monitory voices with internal struggles. At length she could resist no longer. Doubt gave way; and she left her home for ever in order to present herself at the dauphin’s court.
The education of this poor girl was mean according to the present standard: was ineffably grand, according to a purer philosophic standard: and only not good for our age because for us it would be unattainable. She read nothing, for she could not read; but she had heard others read parts of the Roman martyrology. She wept in sympathy with the sad _Misereres_ [Footnote: The penitential psalm which, set to music, is one of the most impressive Roman Catholic chants.] of the Romish Church; she rose to heaven with the glad triumphant _Te Deums_ [Footnote: _Te Deum laudamus_ means “We praise thee, O God” Grand anthems of triumph and thanksgiving are here called “Te Deums” from the first words of an ancient Latin hymn.] of Rome; she drew her comfort and her vital strength from the rites of the same Church. But, next after these spiritual advantages, she owed most to the advantages of her situation. The fountain of Domrémy was on the brink of a boundless forest; and it was haunted to that degree by fairies that the parish priest (_curé_) was obliged to read mass there once a year, in order to keep them in any decent bounds. Fairies are important, even in a statistical view: certain weeds mark poverty in the soil; fairies mark its solitude. As surely as the wolf retires before cities does the fairy sequester herself from the haunts of the licensed victualer. A village is too much for her nervous delicacy: at most, she can tolerate a distant view of a hamlet. We may judge, therefore, by the uneasiness and extra trouble which they gave to the parson, in what strength the fairies mustered at Domrémy, and, by a satisfactory consequence, how thinly sown with men and women must have been that region even in its inhabited spots. But the forests of Domrémy–those were the glories of the land: for in them abode mysterious powers and ancient secrets that towered into tragic strength. “Abbeys there were, and abbey windows,”– “like Moorish temples of the Hindoos,”–that exercised even princely power both in Lorraine and in the German Diets. These had their sweet bells that pierced the forests for many a league at matins or vespers, and each its own dreamy legend. Few enough, and scattered enough, were these abbeys, so as in no degree to disturb the deep solitude of the region; yet many enough to spread a network or awning of Christian sanctity over what else might have seemed a heathen wilderness. This sort of religious talisman being secured, a man the most afraid of ghosts (like myself, suppose, or the reader) becomes armed into courage to wander for days in their sylvan recesses. About six hundred years before Joanna’s childhood, Charlemagne was known to have hunted there. That, of itself, was a grand incident in the traditions of a forest or a chase. In these vast forests, also, were to be found (if anywhere to be found) those mysterious fawns that tempted solitary hunters into visionary and perilous pursuits. Here was seen (if anywhere seen) that ancient stag who was already nine hundred years old, but possibly a hundred or two more, when met by Charlemagne; and the thing was put beyond doubt by the inscription upon his golden collar. I believe Charlemagne knighted the stag; and, if ever he is met again by a king, he ought to be made an earl, or, being upon the marches of France, a marquis. Observe, I don’t absolutely vouch for all these things; my own opinion varies. On a fine breezy forenoon I am audaciously sceptical; but as twilight sets in my credulity grows steadily, till it becomes equal to anything that could be desired.
Such traditions, or any others that (like the stag) connect distant generations with each other, are, for that cause, sublime; and the sense of the shadowy, connected with such appearances that reveal themselves or not according to circumstances, leaves a colouring of sanctity over ancient forests, even in those minds that utterly reject the legend as a fact.
But, apart from all distinct stories of that order, in any solitary frontier between two great empires–as here, for instance, or in the desert between Syria and the Euphrates–there is an inevitable tendency, in minds of any deep sensibility, to people the solitudes with phantom images of powers that were of old so vast. Joanna, therefore, in her quiet occupation of a shepherdess, would be led continually to brood over the political condition of her country by the traditions of the past no less than by the mementos of the local present.
It is not requisite for the honour of Joanna, nor is there in this place room, to pursue her brief career of _action_. That, though wonderful, forms the earthly part of her story; the spiritual part is the saintly passion of her imprisonment, trial, and execution. It is sufficient, as concerns the former section of Joanna’s life, to say that she fulfilled, to the height of her promises, the restoration of the prostrate throne. France had become–a province of England, and for the ruin of both, if such a yoke could be maintained. Dreadful pecuniary exhaustion caused the English energy to droop; and that critical opening _La Pucelle_ used with a corresponding felicity of audacity and suddenness (that were in themselves portentous) for introducing the wedge of French native resources, for rekindling the national pride, and for planting the dauphin once more upon his feet. When Joanna appeared, he had been on the point of giving up the struggle with the English, distressed as they were, and of flying to the south of France. She taught him to blush for such abject counsels. She liberated Orleans, that great city, so decisive by its fate for the issue of the war, and then beleaguered by the English with an elaborate application of engineering skill unprecedented in Europe. Entering the city after sunset on the 29th of April, she sang mass on Sunday, May 8, for the entire disappearance of the besieging force. On the 29th of June she fought and gained over the English the decisive battle of Patay; on the 9th of July she took Troyes by a coup-de-main [Footnote: An unexpected and powerful attack] from a mixed garrison of English and Burgundians; on the 15th of that month she carried the dauphin into Rheims; on Sunday the 17th she crowned him; and there she rested from her labour of triumph. All that was to be _done_ she had now accomplished: what remained was–to _suffer_.
But she, the child that, at nineteen, had wrought wonders so great for France, was she not elated? Did she not lose, as men so often _have_ lost, all sobriety of mind when standing upon the pinnacle of success so giddy? Let her enemies declare. During the progress of her movement, and in the centre of ferocious struggles, she had manifested the temper of her feelings by the pity which she had everywhere expressed for the suffering enemy. She forwarded to the English leaders a touching invitation to unite with the French as brothers, in a common crusade against infidels–thus opening the road for a soldierly retreat. She interposed to protect the captive or the wounded; she mourned over the excesses of her countrymen; she threw herself off her horse to kneel by the dying English soldier, and to comfort him with such ministrations, physical or spiritual, as his situation allowed. “_Nolebat_,” says the evidence, “_uti ense suo, aut quemquam interficere_.” [Footnote: She wished not to kill anyone with her sword] She sheltered the English that invoked her aid in her own quarters. She wept as she beheld, stretched on the field of battle, so many brave enemies that had died without confession. And, as regarded herself, her elation expressed itself thus:–On the day when, she had finished her work, she wept; for she knew that, when her _triumphal_ task was done, her end must be approaching. Her aspirations pointed only to a place which seemed to her more than usually full of natural piety, as one in which it would give her pleasure to die. And she uttered, between smiles and tears, as a wish that inexpressibly fascinated her heart, and yet was half-fantastic, a broken prayer that God would return her to the solitudes from which he had drawn her, and suffer her to become a shepherdess once more. It was a natural prayer, because nature has laid a necessity upon every human heart to seek for rest and to shrink from torment. Yet, again, it was a half-fantastic prayer, because, from childhood upwards, visions that she had no power to mistrust, and the voices which sounded in her ear for ever, had long since persuaded her mind that for _her_ no such prayer could be granted. Too well she felt that her mission must be worked out to the end, and that the end was now at hand. All went wrong from this time. She herself had created the _funds_ out of which the French restoration should grow: but she was not suffered to witness their development, or their prosperous application. More than one military plan was entered upon which she did not approve. But she still continued to expose her person as before. Severe wounds had not taught her caution. And at length, in a sortie from Compiègne (whether through treacherous collusion on the part of her own friends is doubtful to this day), she was made prisoner by the Burgundians; and finally surrendered to the English.
Now came her trial. This trial, moving of course under English influence, was conducted in chief by the Bishop of Beauvais. He was a Frenchman, sold to English interests, and hoping, by favour of the English leaders, to reach the highest preferment.
Never from the foundations of the earth was there such a trial as this, if it were laid open in all its beauty of defence, and all its bullishness of attack. Oh, child of France! shepherdess; peasant girl! trodden under foot by all around thee, how I honour thy flashing intellect, quick as God’s lightning, and true as God’s lightning to its mark, that ran before France and laggard Europe by many a century, confounding the malice of the ensnarer, and making dumb the oracles of falsehood!
On Easter Sunday, when the trial had been long proceeding, the poor girl fell so ill as to cause a belief that she had been poisoned. It was not poison. Nobody had any interest in hastening a death so certain. M. Michelet, whose sympathies with all feelings are so quick that one would gladly see them always as justly directed, reads the case most truly. Joanna had a twofold malady. She was visited by a paroxysm of the complaint called _home-sickness_. The cruel nature of her imprisonment, and its length, could not but point her solitary thoughts, in darkness and in chains (for chained she was), to Domrémy. And the season, which was the most heavenly period of the spring, added stings to this yearning. That was one of her maladies–_nostalgia_, as medicine calls it; the other was weariness and exhaustion from daily combats with malice. She saw that everybody hated her, and thirsted for her blood; nay, many kind-hearted creatures that would have pitied her profoundly, as regarded all political charges, had their natural feelings warped by the belief that she had dealings with fiendish powers. She knew she was to die; that was _not_ the misery; the misery was that this consummation could not be reached without so much intermediate strife, as if she were contending for some chance (where chance was none) of happiness, or were dreaming for a moment of escaping the inevitable. Why, then, _did_ she contend? Knowing that she would reap nothing from answering her persecutors, why did she not retire by silence from the superfluous contest? It was because her quick and eager loyalty to truth would not suffer her to see it darkened by frauds which _she_ could expose, but others, even of candid listeners, perhaps, could not; it was through that imperishable grandeur of soul which taught her to submit meekly and without a struggle to her punishment, but taught her _not_ to submit–no, not for a moment–to calumny as to facts, or to misconstruction as to motives. Besides, there were secretaries all around the court taking down her words. That was meant for no good to _her_. But the end does not always correspond to the meaning. And Joanna might say to herself, “These words that will be used against me tomorrow and the next day perhaps in some nobler generation may rise again for my justification.”
On the Wednesday after Trinity Sunday in 1431, being then about nineteen years of age, the Maid of Arc underwent her martyrdom. She was conducted before mid-day, guarded by eight hundred spearmen, to a platform of prodigious height, constructed of wooden billets supported by occasional walls of lath and plaster, and traversed by hollow spaces in every direction for the creation of air-currents. The pile “struck terror,” says M. Michelet, “by its height;” and, as usual, the English purpose in this is viewed as one of pure malignity. But there are two ways of explaining all that. It is probable that the purpose was merciful.
The circumstantial incidents of the execution, unless with more space than I can now command, I should be unwilling to relate. I should fear to injure, by imperfect report, a martyrdom which to myself appears so unspeakably grand. Yet I shall, in parting, allude to one or two traits in Joanna’s demeanour on the scaffold, and to one or two in that of the bystanders. The reader ought to be reminded that Joanna D’Arc was subjected to an unusually unfair trial of opinion. Any of the elder Christian martyrs had not much to fear of _personal_ rancour. The martyr was chiefly regarded as the enemy of Caesar; at times, also, where any knowledge of the Christian faith and morals existed, with the enmity that arises spontaneously in the worldly against the spiritual. But the martyr, though disloyal, was not supposed to be therefore anti-national; and still less was _individually_ hateful. What was hated (if anything) belonged to his class, not to himself separately. Now, Joanna, if hated at all, was hated personally, and in Rouen on national grounds. Hence there would be a certainty of calumny arising against _her_ such as would not affect martyrs in general. That being the case, it would follow of necessity that some people would impute to her a willingness to recant. No innocence could escape _that_. Now, had she really testified this willingness on the scaffold, it would have argued nothing at all but the weakness of a genial nature shrinking from the instant approach of torment. And those will often pity that weakness most who, in their own persons, would yield to it least. Meantime, there never was a calumny uttered that drew less support from the recorded circumstances. It rests upon no _positive_ testimony, and it has a weight of contradicting testimony to stem.
Now, I affirm that she did not recant. I throw the _onus_ [Footnote: Burden.] of the argument not on presumable tendencies of nature, but on the known facts of that morning’s execution, as recorded by multitudes. What else, I demand, than mere weight of metal, absolute nobility of deportment, broke the vast line of battle then arrayed against her? What else but her meek, saintly demeanour won, from the enemies that till now had believed her a witch, tears of rapturous admiration? “Ten thousand men,” says M. Michelet himself–“ten thousand men wept”; and of these ten thousand the majority were political enemies knitted together by cords of superstition. What else was it but her constancy, united with her angelic gentleness, that drove the fanatic English soldier–who had sworn to throw a faggot on her scaffold, as _his_ tribute of abhorrence, that _did_ so, that fulfilled his vow–suddenly to turn away a penitent for life, saying everywhere that he had seen a dove rising upon wings to heaven from the ashes where she had stood? What else drove the executioner to kneel at every shrine for pardon to _his_ share in the tragedy? And, if all this were insufficient, then I cite the closing act of her life as valid on her behalf, were all other testimonies against her. The executioner had been directed to apply his torch from below. He did so. The fiery smoke rose upwards in billowing volumes. A Dominican monk was then standing almost at her side. Wrapped up in his sublime office, he saw not the danger, but still persisted in his prayers. Even then, when the last enemy was racing up the fiery stairs to seize her, even at that moment did this noblest of girls think only for _him_, the one friend that would not forsake her, and not for herself; bidding him with her last breath to care for his own preservation, but to leave _her_ to God. That girl, whose latest breath ascended in this sublime expression of self-oblivion, did not utter the word _recant_ either with her lips or in her heart. No, she did not, though one should rise from the dead to swear it.
* * * * *
The shepherd girl that had delivered France–she, from her dungeon, she, from her baiting at the stake, she, from her duel with fire, as she entered her last dream–saw Domrémy, saw the fountain of Domrémy, saw the pomp of forests in which her childhood had wandered. That Easter festival which man had denied to her languishing heart–that resurrection of springtime, which the darkness of dungeons had intercepted from _her_, hungering after the glorious liberty of forests–were by God given back into her hands, as jewels that had been stolen from her by robbers. With those, perhaps (for the minutes of dreams can stretch into ages), was given back to her by God the bliss of childhood. By special privilege for _her_ might be created, in this farewell dream, a second childhood, innocent as the first; but not, like _that_, sad with the gloom of a fearful mission in the rear. This mission had now been fulfilled. The storm was weathered; the skirts even of that mighty storm were drawing off. The blood that she was to reckon for had been exacted; the tears that she was to shed in secret had been paid to the last. The hatred to herself in all eyes had been faced steadily, had been suffered, had been survived. And in her last fight upon the scaffold she had triumphed gloriously; victoriously she had tasted the stings of death. For all, except this comfort from her farewell dream, she had died–died, amidst the tears of ten thousand enemies died, amidst the drums and trumpets of armies–died, amidst peals redoubling upon peals, volleys upon volleys, from the saluting clarions of martyrs.
Bishop of Beauvais! because the guilt-burdened man is in dreams haunted and waylaid by the most frightful of his crimes, and because upon that fluctuating mirror-rising (like the mocking mirrors of _mirage_ in Arabian deserts) from the fens of death–most of all are reflected the sweet countenances which the man has laid in ruins; therefore I know, bishop, that you also, entering your final dream, saw Domrémy. That fountain, of which the witnesses spoke so much, showed itself to your eyes in pure morning dews; but neither dews, nor the holy dawn, could cleanse away the bright spots of innocent blood upon its surface. By the fountain, bishop, you saw a woman seated, that hid her face. But, as _you_ draw near, the woman raises her wasted features. Would Domrémy know them again for the features of her child? Ah, but _you_ know them, bishop, well! Oh, mercy! what a groan was _that_ which the servants, waiting outside the bishop’s dream at his bedside, heard from his labouring heart, as at this moment he turned away from the fountain and the woman, seeking rest in the forests afar off. Yet not _so_ to escape the woman, whom once again he must behold before he dies. In the forests to which he prays for pity, will he find a respite? What a tumult, what a gathering of feet is there! In glades where only wild deer should run, armies and nations are assembling. There is the Bishop of Beauvais, clinging to the shelter of thickets. What building is that which hands so rapid are raising? Is it a martyr’s scaffold? Will they burn the child of Domrémy a second time? No: it is a tribunal that rises to the clouds. Shall my Lord of Beauvais sit again upon the judgment-seat, and again number the hours for the innocent? Ah no! he is the prisoner at the bar. Already all is waiting: the mighty audience is gathered, the Court is hurrying to their seats, the witnesses are arrayed, the judge is taking his place. My lord, have you no counsel? “Counsel I have none: in heaven above, or on earth beneath, counsellor there is none now that would take a brief from _me:_ all are silent.” Is it, indeed, come to this? Alas! the time is short, the tumult is wondrous, the crowd stretches away into infinity, but yet I will search in it for somebody to take your brief; I know of somebody that will be your counsel. Who is this that cometh from Domrémy? Who is she in bloody coronation robes from Rheims? Who is she that cometh with blackened flesh from walking the furnaces of Rouen? This is she, the shepherd girl, counsellor that had none for herself, whom I choose, bishop, for yours. She it is, I engage, that shall take my lord’s brief. She it is, bishop, that would plead for you: yes, bishop, SHE–when heaven and earth are silent.
PANCRATIUS
_By_ CARDINAL WISEMAN
Note.–The selection following has been adapted from _Fabiola_, or _The Church of the Catacombs_, a tale by Cardinal Wiseman. Pancratius, one of the early Christian martyrs, was a boy of fourteen at the time the story opens and was but little older at his death. At school his nobility incurred the enmity of Corvinus, whose hatred lead to the early denunciation of Pancratius.
When the Roman emperor decided to exterminate the Christians and sought to publish the bloody edict, Pancratius in a perilous attempt succeeded in tearing down and burning the royal proclamation. Corvinus had a narrow escape from the emperor’s wrath, and his hatred of Pancratius increased. Unable to secure another victim, Corvinus seized his old schoolmaster and gave him up to torture and death at the hands of his pupils. On his return from this bloody expedition, Corvinus, drunken and reckless, was thrown from his chariot into a canal and would have drowned had not Pancratius rescued him. At that time Pancratius recovered the knife with which he had cut down the edict and which was kept by Corvinus as evidence against the young Christian. Ignorant of his rescuer’s name, Corvinus still sought for Pancratius, and this selection shows how he succeeded.
At length they came near one of the chambers which flanked the eastern side of the longer arm of the hall. [Footnote: Corvinus and his, companion are searching among the Christian captives at work on the baths of Diocletian for suitable men to fight the lions in the amphitheater.] In one of them they saw a number of convicts (if we must use the term) resting after their labor. The center of the group was an old man, most venerable in appearance, with a long white beard streaming on his breast, mild in aspect, gentle in word, cheerful in his feeble action. It was the confessor Saturninus, now in his eightieth year, yet loaded with two heavy chains. At each side were the more youthful laborers, Cyriacus and Sisinnius, of whom it is recorded, that in addition to their own task-work, one on each side, they bore up his bonds. Indeed, we are told that their particular delight was, over and above their own assigned portion of toil, to help their weaker brethren, and perform their work for them.
Several other captives lay on the ground about the old man’s feet, as he, seated on a block of marble, was talking to them with a sweet gravity, which riveted their attention, and seemed to make them forget their sufferings. What was he saying to them? Was he requiting Cyriacus for his extraordinary charity by telling him that, in commemoration of it, a portion of the immense pile which they were toiling to raise would be dedicated to God under his invocation, become a title, and close its line of titulars by an illustrious name? Or was he recounting another more glorious vision, how this smaller oratory was to be superseded and absorbed by a glorious temple in honour of the Queen of Angels, which should comprise that entire superb hall, with its vestibule, under the directing skill of the mightiest artistic genius that the world should ever see? [Footnote: Michelangelo–The noble and beautiful church of Sta Maria degh Angeli was made by him out of the central hall and circular vestibule. The floor was afterwards raised, and thus the pillars were shortened and the height of the building diminished by several feet.] What more consoling thought could have been vouchsafed to those poor oppressed captives than that they were not so much erecting baths for the luxury of a heathen people, or the prodigality of a wicked emperor, as in truth building up one of the stateliest churches in which the true God is worshiped, and the Virgin Mother, who bore Him incarnate, is affectionately honoured?
From a distance Corvinus saw the group, and pausing, asked the superintendent the names of those who composed it. He enumerated them readily; then added, “You may as well take that old man, if you like; for he is not worth his keep so far as work goes.”
“Thank you,” replied Corvinus; “a pretty figure he would cut in the amphitheater. The people are not to be put off with decrepit old creatures, whom a single stroke of a bear’s or tiger’s paw kills outright. They like to see young blood flowing, and plenty of life struggling against wounds and blows before death comes to decide the contest. But there is one there whom you have not named. His face is turned from us; he has not the prisoner’s garb, nor any kind of fetter. Who can it be?”
“I do not know his name,” answered Rabirius; “but he is a fine youth, who spends much of his time among the convicts, relieves them and even at times helps them in their work. He pays, of course, well for being allowed all this; so it is not our business to ask questions.”
“But it is mine, though,” said Corvinus sharply; and he advanced for this purpose. The voice caught the stranger’s ear, and he turned round to look.
Corvinus sprang upon him with the eye and action of a wild beast, seized him, and called out with exultation, “Fetter him instantly. This time, at least, Pancratius, thou shalt not escape.”
* * * * *
Pancratius, with some twenty more, fettered and chained together, was led through the streets to prison. As they were thus dragged along, staggering and stumbling helplessly, they were unmercifully struck by the guards who conducted them; and any persons near enough to reach them dealt them blows and kicks without remorse. Those further off pelted them with stones or offal, and assailed them with insulting ribaldry. They reached the Mamertine prison at last, and were thrust down into it, and found there already other victims, of both sexes, awaiting their time of sacrifice. The youth had just time, while he was being handcuffed, to request one of the captors to inform his mother and Sebastian of what had happened; and he slipt his purse into his hand.
A prison in ancient Rome was not the place to which a poor man might court committal, hoping there to enjoy better fare and lodging than he did at home. Two or three of these dungeons, for they are nothing better, still remain; and a brief description of the one which we have mentioned will give our readers some idea of what confessorship cost, independent of martyrdom.
The Mamertine prison is composed of two square subterranean chambers, one below the other, with only one round aperture in the center of each vault, through which alone light, air, food, furniture, and men could pass. When the upper story was full, we may imagine how much of the two first could reach the lower. No other means of ventilation, drainage, or access could exist. The walls, of large stone blocks, had, or rather have, rings fastened into them, for securing the prisoners, but many used to be laid on the floor, with their feet fastened in the stocks; and the ingenious cruelty of the persecutors often increased the discomfort of the damp stone floor, by strewing with broken potsherds this only bed allowed to the mangled limbs and welted backs of the tortured Christians.
* * * * *
Pancratius and his companions stood before the judge, for it wanted only three days to the _munus,_ or games, at which they were to “fight with wild beasts.”
“What art thou?” he asked of one.
“I am a Christian, by the help of God,” was the rejoinder.
At length, after having put similar questions and received similar answers from all the others, except from one wretched man, who, to the grief of the rest, wavered and agreed to offer sacrifice, the prefect turned to Pancratius, and thus addressed him: “And now, insolent youth, who hadst the audacity to tear down the Edict of the divine emperors, even for thee there shall be mercy if yet thou wilt sacrifice to the gods. Show thus at once thy piety and thy wisdom, for thou art yet but a stripling.”
Pancratius signed himself with the sign of the saving cross, and calmly replied, “I am the servant of Christ. Him I acknowledge by my mouth, hold firm in my heart, _incessantly adore_. This youth which you behold in me has the–wisdom of grey hairs, if it worship but one God. But your gods, with those who adore them, are destined to eternal destruction.”
“Strike him on the mouth for his blasphemy, and beat him with rods,” exclaimed the angry judge.
“I thank thee,” replied meekly the noble youth, “that thus I suffer some of the same punishment as was inflicted on my Lord.”
The prefect then pronounced sentence in the usual form. “Lucianus, Pancratius, Rusticus, and others, and the women Secunda and Rufina, who have all owned themselves Christians, and refuse to obey the sacred emperor, or worship the gods of Rome, we order to be exposed to wild beasts in the Flavian amphitheater.”
The mob howled with delight and hatred, and accompanied the confessors back to their prison with this rough music, but they were gradually overawed by the dignity of their gait, and the shining calmness of their countenances. Some men asserted that they must have perfumed themselves, for they could perceive a fragrant atmosphere surrounding their persons.
* * * * *
The morning broke light and frosty; and the sun, glittering on the gilded ornaments of the temples and other public buildings, seemed to array them in holiday splendor. And the people, too, soon come forth into the streets in their gayest attire, decked out with unusual richness. The various streams converge towards the Flavian amphitheater, now better known by the name of the Coliseum. Each one directs his steps to the arch indicated by the number of his ticket, and thus the huge monster keeps sucking in by degrees that stream of life, which soon animates and enlivens its oval tiers over tiers of steps, till its interior is tapestried all round with human faces, and its walls seem to rock and wave to and fro, by the swaying of the living mass. And, after this shall have been gorged with blood and inflamed with fury, it will melt once more, and rush out in a thick continuous flow through the many avenues by which it entered, now bearing their fitting name of _Vomitoria;_ for never did a more polluted stream of the dregs and pests of humanity issue from an unbecoming reservoir, through ill-assorted channels, than the Roman mob, drunk with the blood of martyrs, gushing forth from the pores of the amphitheater.
The emperor came to the games surrounded by his court, with all the pomp and circumstance which befitted an imperial festival, keen as any of his subjects to witness the cruel games, and to feed his eyes with a feast of carnage. His throne was on the eastern side of the amphitheater, where a large space, called the _pulvinar,_ was reserved, and richly decorated for the imperial court.
Various sports succeeded one another; and many a gladiator, killed or wounded, had sprinkled the bright sand with blood, when the people, eager for fiercer combats, began to call, or roar, for the Christians and the wild beasts. It is time, therefore, for us to think of our captives.
Before the citizens were astir, they had been removed from the prison to a strong chamber called the _spoliatorium,_ the press-room, where their fetters and chains were removed. An attempt was made to dress them gaudily as heathen priests and priestesses; but they resisted, urging that as they had come spontaneously to the fight, it was unfair to make them appear in a disguise which they abhorred. During the early part of the day they remained thus together encouraging one another, and singing the Divine praises, in spite of the shouts which drowned their voices from time to time.
While they were thus engaged, Corvinus entered, and, with a look of insolent triumph, thus accosted Pancratius:
“Thanks to the gods, the day is come which I have long desired. It has been a tiresome and tough struggle between us who should fall uppermost. I have won it.”
“How sayest thou, Corvinus; when and how have I contended with thee?”
“Always–everywhere. Thou hast haunted me in my dreams; thou hast danced before me like a meteor, and I have tried in vain to grasp thee. Thou hast been my tormentor, my evil genius. I have hated thee; devoted thee to the infernal gods; cursed thee and loathed thee; and now my day of vengeance is come.”
“Methinks,” replied Pancratius, smiling, “this does not look like a combat. It has been all on one side; for _I_ have done none of these things towards thee.”
“No? thinkest thou that I believe thee, when thou hast lain ever as a viper on my path, to bite my heel and overthrow me?”
“Where, I again ask?”
“Everywhere, I repeat. At school; in the Forum; in the cemetery; in my father’s own court. Yes, everywhere.”
“And nowhere else but where thou hast named? When thy chariot was dashed furiously along the Appian way, didst thou not hear the tramp of horses’ hoofs trying to overtake thee?”
“Wretch!” exclaimed the prefect’s son in a fury; “and was it thy accursed steed which, purposely urged forward, frightened mine, and nearly caused my death?”
“No, Corvinus, hear me calmly. It is the last time we shall speak together. I was travelling quietly with a companion towards Rome, after having paid the last rites to our master Cassianus” (Corvinus winced, for he knew not this before), “when I heard the clatter of a runaway chariot, and then, indeed, I put spurs to my horse; and it is well for thee that I did.”
“How so?”
“Because I reached thee just in time–when thy strength was nearly exhausted, and thy blood almost frozen by repeated plunges in the cold canal; and when thy arm, already benumbed, had let go its last stay, and thou wast falling backwards for the last time into the water. I saw thee–I knew thee, as I took hold of thee, insensible. I had in my grasp the murderer of one most dear to me. Divine justice seemed to have overtaken him; there was only my will between him and his doom. It was my day of vengeance, and I fully gratified it.”
“Ha! and how, pray?”
“By drawing thee out, and laying thee on the bank, and chafing thee till thy heart resumed its functions; and then consigning thee to thy servants, rescued from death.”
“Thou liest!” screamed Corvinus; “my servants told me that _they_ drew me out.”
“And did they give thee my knife, together with thy leopard-skin purse, which I found on the ground, after I had dragged thee forth?”
“No; they said the purse was lost in the canal. It _was_ a leopard-skin purse, the gift of an African sorceress. What sayest thou of the knife?”
“That it is here, see it, still rusty with the water; thy purse I gave to thy slaves; my own knife I retained for myself; look at it again. Dost thou believe me now? Have I been always a viper on thy path?”
Too ungenerous to acknowledge that he had been conquered in the struggle between them, Corvinus only felt himself withered, degraded, before his late school fellow, crumbled like a clot of dust in his hands. His very heart seemed to him to blush. He felt sick, and staggered, hung down his head, and sneaked away. He cursed the games, the emperor, the yelling rabble, the roaring beasts, his horses and chariot, his slaves, his father, himself–but he could not, for his life, curse Pancratius.
He had reached the door, when the youth called him back. He turned and looked at him with a glance of respect, almost approaching to love. Pancratius put his hand on his arm, and said, “Corvinus, I have freely forgiven thee. There is One above, who cannot forgive without repentance. Seek pardon from Him.”
Corvinus slunk away, and appeared no more that day. He lost the sight on which his coarse imagination had gloated for days, which he had longed for during months.
As he was leaving the prisoners, the _lanista_, or master of the gladiators, entered the room and summoned them to the combat. They hastily embraced one another, and took leave on earth. They entered the arena, or pit of the amphitheater, opposite the imperial seat, and had to pass between two files of _venatores_, or huntsmen, who had the care of the wild beasts, each armed with a heavy whip wherewith he inflicted a blow on every one, as he went by him. They were then brought forward, singly or in groups, as the people desired, or the directors of the spectacle chose. Sometimes the intended prey was placed on an elevated platform to be more conspicuous; at another time he was tied up to posts to be more helpless. A favorite sport was to bundle up a female victim in a net, and expose her to be rolled, tossed, or gored by wild cattle. One encounter with a single wild beast often finished the martyr’s course; while occasionally three or four were successively let loose, without their inflicting a mortal wound.
But we must content ourselves with following the last steps of our youthful hero, Pancratius. As he was passing through the corridor that led to the amphitheater, he saw Sebastian standing on one side, with a lady closely enwrapped in her mantle, and veiled. He at once recognized her, stopped before her, knelt, and taking her hand, affectionately kissed it. “Bless me, my dear mother,” he said, “in this your promised hour.”
“See, my child, the heavens,” she replied, “and look up thither, where Christ with His saints expecteth thee. Fight the good fight, for thy soul’s sake, and show thyself faithful and steadfast in thy Saviour’s love. Remember him too whose relic thou bearest round thy neck.” [Footnote: The father of Pancratius had suffered martyrdom, and the relic mentioned was stained with the parent’s blood.]
“Its price shall be doubled in thine eyes, my sweet mother, ere many hours are over.”
“On, on, an let us have none of this fooling,” said the _lanista_, with a stroke of his cane.
Lucina retreated; while Sebastian pressed the hand of her son, and whispered in his ear, “Courage, dearest boy; may God bless you! I shall be close behind the emperor; give me a last look there, and–your blessing.”
Pancratius soon stood in the midst of the arena, the last of the faithful band. He had been reserved, in hopes that the sight of others’ sufferings might shake his constancy; but the effect had been the reverse. He took his stand where he was placed, and his yet delicate frame contrasted with the swarthy and brawny limbs of the executioners who surrounded him. They now left him alone; and we cannot better describe him than Eusebius, an eye-witness, does a youth a few years older:
“You might have seen a tender youth, who had not yet entered his twentieth year, standing without fetters, with his hands stretched forth in the form of a cross, and praying to God most attentively, with a fixed and untrembling heart; not retiring from the place where he first stood, nor swerving the least, while bears and leopards, breathing fury and death in their very snort, were just rushing on to tear his limbs in pieces. And yet, I know not how, their jaws seemed seized and closed by some divine and mysterious power, and they drew altogether back.”
Such was the attitude, and such the privilege of our heroic youth. The mob were frantic, as they saw one wild beast after another careering madly round him, roaring and lashing its sides with its tail, while he seemed placed in a charmed circle, which they could not approach. A furious bull, let loose upon him, dashed madly forward, with his neck bent down, then stopped suddenly, as though he had struck his head against a wall, pawed the ground, and scattered the dust around him, bellowing fiercely.
“Provoke him, thou coward!” roared out, still louder, the enraged emperor.
Pancratius awoke as from a trance, and waving his arms, ran towards his enemy; but the savage brute, as if a lion had been rushing on him, turned round, and ran away towards the entrance, where, meeting his keeper, he tossed him high into the air. All were disconcerted except the brave youth, who had resumed his attitude of prayer; when one of the crowd shouted out, “He has a charm round his neck; he is a sorcerer!” The whole multitude reechoed the cry, till the emperor, having commanded silence, called out to him, “Take that amulet from thy neck, and cast it from thee.”
“Sire,” replied the youth, with a musical voice, that rang sweetly through the hushed amphitheater, “it is no charm that I wear, but a memorial of my father, who in this very place made gloriously the same confession which I now humbly make: I am a Christian; and for love of Jesus Christ, God and man, I gladly give my life. Do not take from me this only legacy. Try once more; it was a panther which gave him his crown; perhaps it will bestow the same on me.”
For an instant there was dead silence; the multitude seemed softened, won. The graceful form of the gallant youth, his now inspired countenance, the thrilling music of his voice, the intrepidity of his speech, and his generous self-devotion to his cause, had wrought upon that cowardly herd. Pancratius felt it, and his heart quailed before their mercy more than before their rage; he had promised himself heaven that day; was he to be disappointed? Tears started into his eyes, as stretching forth his arms once more in the form of a cross, he called aloud:
“Today; oh yes, today, most blessed Lord, is the appointed day of Thy coming. Tarry not longer; show now Thy mercy to me who in Thee believe!”
“The panther!” shouted out a voice. “The panther!” responded twenty. “The panther!” thundered forth a hundred thousand, in a chorus like the roaring of an avalanche. A cage started up, as if by magic, from the midst of the sand, and as it rose, its side fell down, and freed the captive of the desert. With one graceful bound the elegant savage gained its liberty; and, though enraged by darkness, confinement, and hunger, it seemed almost playful as it leaped and turned about. At last it caught sight of its prey. All its feline cunning and cruelty seemed to return and to conspire together in animating the cautious and treacherous movements of its velvet-clothed frame. The whole amphitheater was as silent as if it had been a hermit’s cell, while every eye was intent, watching the stealthy approaches of the sleek brute to its victim. Pancratius was still standing in the same place, facing the emperor, apparently so absorbed in higher thoughts as not to heed the movements of his enemy. The panther had stolen round him, as if disdaining to attack him except in front. Crouching upon its breast, slowly advancing one paw before another, it had gained its measured distance, and there it lay for some moments of breathless suspense. A deep snarling growl, an elastic spring through the air, and it was seen gathered up with its hind feet on the chest and its fangs and fore claws on the throat of the martyr.
He stood erect for a moment, brought his right hand to his mouth, and looking up at Sebastian with a smile, directed to him, by a graceful wave of his arm, the last salutation of his lip–and fell. The arteries of the neck had been severed, and the slumber of martyrdom at once settled on his eyelids. His blood softened, brightened, enriched, and blended inseparably with that of his father. The mother’s sacrifice had been accepted.
ALFRED THE GREAT
[Footnote: This selection is taken from _A Child’s History of England_. Much of the history of Alfred is traditional, and it is not at all probable that Dickens’s picture is strictly true.]
_By_ CHARLES DICKENS
Alfred the Great was a young man, three and twenty years of age, when he became king. [Footnote: Alfred was a grandson of Egbert, the first king of England. Ethelwulf, son of Egbert, and his three older sons had been kings of England, when in 871 Alfred ascended the throne.] Twice in his childhood he had been taken to Rome, where the Saxon nobles were in the habit of going on journeys which they supposed to be religious; and once he had stayed for some time in Paris. Learning, however, was so little cared for then, that at twelve years old he had not been taught to read; although, of the four sons of King Ethelwulf, he, the youngest, was the favorite. But he had–as most men who grow up to be great and good are generally found to have had–an excellent mother; and, one day, this lady, whose name was Osburgha, happened, as she was sitting among her sons, to read a book of Saxon poetry. The art of printing was not known until long and long after that period, and the book, which was written, was what is called “illuminated,” with beautiful bright letters, richly painted. The brothers admiring it very much, their mother said, “I will give it to that one of you four princes who first learns to read.” Alfred sought out a tutor that very day, applied himself to learn with great diligence, and soon won the book. He was proud of it all his life.
This great king, in the first year of his reign, fought nine battles with the Danes. He made some treaties with them too, by which the false Danes swore that they would quit the country. They pretended to consider that they had taken a very solemn oath in swearing this upon the holy bracelets that they wore, and which were always buried with them when they died; but they cared little for it, for they thought nothing of breaking oaths, and treaties too, as soon as it suited their purpose, and coming back again to fight, plunder, and burn, as usual. One fatal winter, in the fourth year of King Alfred’s reign, they spread themselves in great numbers over the whole of England; and so dispersed and routed the king’s soldiers that the king was left alone, and was obliged to disguise himself as a common peasant, and to take refuge in the cottage of one of his cowherds who did not know his face.
Here, King Alfred, while the Danes sought him far and wide, was left alone one day, by the cowherd’s wife, to watch some cakes which she put to bake upon the hearth. But, being at work upon his bows and arrows, with which he hoped to punish the false Danes when a brighter time should come, and thinking deeply of his poor unhappy subjects whom the Danes chased through the land, his noble mind forgot the cakes, and they were burnt. “What!” said the cowherd’s wife, who scolded him well when she came back, and little thought she was scolding the king, “you will be ready enough to eat them by and by, and yet you cannot watch them, idle dog?”
At length, the Devonshire men made head against a new host of Danes who landed on their coast; killed their chief, and captured their flag, on which was represented the likeness of a Raven–a very fit bird for a thievish army like that, I think. The loss of their standard troubled the Danes greatly, for they believed it to be enchanted–woven by the three daughters of one father in a single afternoon–and they had a story among themselves that when they were victorious in battle, the Raven stretched his wings and seemed to fly; and that when they were defeated, he would droop. He had good reason to droop now, if he could have done anything half so sensible; for King Alfred joined the Devonshire men, made a camp with them on a piece of firm ground in the midst of a bog in Somersetshire, and prepared for a great attempt for vengeance on the Danes, and the deliverance of his oppressed people.
But first, as it was important to know how numerous those pestilent Danes were, and how they were fortified, King Alfred, being a good musician, disguised himself as a gleeman or minstrel, and went, with his harp, to the Danish camp. He played and sang in the very tent of Guthrum, the Danish leader, and entertained the Danes as they caroused. While he seemed to think of nothing but his music, he was watchful of their tents, their arms, their discipline, everything that he desired to know. And right soon did this great king entertain them to a different tune; for, summoning all his true followers to meet him at an appointed place, where they received him with joyful shouts and tears, as the monarch whom many of them had given up for lost or dead, he put himself at their head, marched on the Danish camp, defeated the Danes with great slaughter, and besieged them for fourteen days to prevent their escape. But, being as merciful as he was good and brave, he then, instead of killing them, proposed peace, on condition that they should altogether depart from the western part of England and settle in the east, and that Guthrum should become a Christian in remembrance of the Divine religion which now taught his conqueror, the noble Alfred, to forgive the enemy who had so often injured him. This Guthrum did. At his baptism, King Alfred was his godfather. And Guthrum was an honorable chief who well deserved that clemency; for, ever afterwards, he was loyal and faithful to the king. The Danes under him were faithful too. They plundered and burned no more, but worked like honest men. They ploughed, and sowed, and reaped, and led good honest English lives. And I hope the children of those Danes played, many a time, with Saxon children in the sunny fields; and that Danish young men fell in love with Saxon girls, and married them; and that English travelers, benighted at the doors of Danish cottages, often went in for shelter until morning; and that Danes and Saxons sat by the red fire, friends, talking of King Alfred the Great.
All the Danes were not like these under Guthrum; for after some years, more of them came over, in the old plundering and burning way-among them a fierce pirate of the name of Hastings, who had the boldness to sail up the Thames to Gravesend with eighty ships. For three years there was a war with these Danes; and there was a famine in the country, too, and a plague, both upon human creatures and beasts. But King Alfred, whose mighty heart never failed him, built large ships nevertheless, with which to pursue the pirates on the sea; and he encouraged his soldiers, by his brave example, to fight valiantly against them on the shore. At last, he drove them all away, and then there was repose in England.
As great and good in peace as he was great and good in war, King Alfred never rested from his labors to improve his people. He loved to talk with clever men and with travelers from foreign countries, and to write down what they told him for his people to read. He had studied Latin after learning to read English, and now another of his labors was to translate Latin books into the English-Saxon tongue, that his people might be interested and improved by their contents.[Footnote: He is said to have translated large portions of the Bible into Anglo Saxon.] He made just laws, that they might live more happily and freely; he turned away all partial judges that no wrong might be done them; he was so careful of their property, and punished robbers so severely, that it was a common thing to say that under the great King Alfred garlands of golden chains and jewels might have hung across the streets, and no man would have touched one. He founded schools; he patiently heard causes himself in his court of justice, the great desires of his heart were to do right to all his subjects, and to leave England better, wiser, happier in all ways, than he found it.
[Illustration: ALFRED ALLOWS THE CAKES TO BURN]
His industry in these efforts was quite astonishing. Every day he divided into certain portions, and in each portion devoted himself to a certain pursuit. That he might divide his time exactly, he had wax torches or candles made, which were all of the same size, were notched across at regular distances, and were always kept burning. Thus, as the candles burnt down, he divided the day into notches almost as accurately as we now divide it into hours upon the clock. But when the candles were first invented, it was found that the wind and draughts of air, blowing into the palace through the doors and windows and through the chinks in the wall, caused them to gutter and burn unequally. To prevent this, the king had them put into cases formed of wood and white horn. And these were the first lanthorns [Footnote: This is the early form of our word _lantern_.] ever made in England. All this time he was afflicted with a terrible unknown disease, which caused him violent and frequent pain that nothing could relieve. He bore it, as he had borne all the troubles of his life, like a brave, good man, until he was fifty-three years old; and then, having reigned thirty years, he died. He died in the year nine hundred and one; but long ago as that is, his fame, and the love and gratitude with which his subjects regarded him, are freshly remembered to the present hour.
THE BURIAL OF MOSES
_By_ CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER
NOTE.-The biblical account of the death of Moses, upon which _The Burial of Moses_ is based, is given in the thirty-fourth chapter of _Deuteronomy_, and reads as follows:
And Moses went up from the plains of Moab unto the mountain of Nebo, to the top of Pisgah, that is over against Jericho.
And the Lord shewed him all the land of Gilead, unto Dan.
And all Napthtali, and the land of Ephraim, and Manasseh, and all the land of Judah, unto the utmost sea.
And the south, and the plain of the valley of Jericho, the city of palm trees, unto Zoar.
And the Lord said unto him, This is the land which I sware unto Abraham, unto Isaac, and unto Jacob, saying, I will give it unto thy seed: I have caused thee to see it with thine eyes, but thou shalt not go over thither.
So Moses the servant of the Lord died there in the land of Moab, according to the word of the Lord.
And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth- peor: but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day.
By Nebo’s lonely mountain,
On this side Jordan’s wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab
There lies a lonely grave.
And no man knows that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e’er,
For the angels of God upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there.
That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth;
But no man heard the trampling,
Or saw the train go forth–
Noiselessly as the daylight
Comes back when night is done,
And the crimson streak on ocean’s cheek Grows into the great sun.
Noiselessly as the springtime
Her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves;
So without sound of music,
Or voice of them that wept,
Silently down from the mountain’s crown The great procession swept.
Perchance the bald old eagle,
On gray Beth-peor’s height,
Out of his lonely eyrie
Looked on the wondrous sight;
Perchance the lion stalking,
Still shuns that hallowed spot,
For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not.
But when the warrior dieth,
His comrades in the war,
With arms reversed and muffled drums, Follow his funeral car;
They show the banners taken,
They tell his battles won,
And after him lead his masterless steed, While peals the minute gun.
Amid the noblest of the land
We lay the sage to rest,
And give the bard an honored place With costly marble drest,
In the great minster transept,
Where lights like glories fall,
And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings, Along the emblazoned wall.
This was the truest warrior
That ever buckled sword;
This the most gifted poet
That ever breathed a word.
And never earth’s philosopher
Traced with his golden pen
On the deathless page truths half so sage As he wrote down for men.
And had he not high honor?–
The hillside for a pall,
To lie in state, while angels wait, With stars for tapers tall;
And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes, Over his bier to wave,
And God’s own hand in that lonely land To lay him in the grave,–
In that strange grave without a name, Whence his uncoffined clay
Shall break again, O wondrous thought! Before the judgment day,
And stand with glory wrapt around
On the hills he never trod;
And speak of the strife, that won our life, With the incarnate son of God.
O lonely grave in Moab’s land!
O dark Beth-peor’s hill!
Speak to these curious hearts of ours, And teach them to be still.
God hath his mysteries of grace,
Ways that we cannot tell;
He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep Of him He loved so well.
BERNARDO DEL CARPIO
_By_ FELICIA HEMANS
NOTE.–Bernardo del Carpio, a Spanish warrior and grandee, having made many ineffectual attempts to procure the release of his father, the Count Saldana, declared war against King Alphonso of Asturias. At the close of the struggle, the king agreed to terms by which he rendered up his prisoner to Bernardo, in exchange for the castle of Carpio and the captives confined therein. When the warrior pressed forward to greet his father, whom he had not seen for many years, he found a corpse on horseback.
The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, And sued the haughty king to free his long imprisoned sire: “I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train, I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord! O, break my father’s chain!”
“Rise! Rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day! Mount thy good horse: and thou and I will meet him on his way.” Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger’s foamy speed.
And, lo, from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band, With one that midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land: “Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see.”
His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek’s hue came and went;
He reached that gray-haired chieftain’s side, and there, dismounting, bent;
A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father’s hand he took,– What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook?
That hand was cold,–a frozen thing,–it dropped from his like lead; He looked up to the face above,–the face was of the dead! A plume waved o’er the noble brow,–the brow was fixed and white; He met, at last, his father’s eyes,–but in them was no sight!
Up from the ground he sprang and gazed; but who could paint that gaze?
They hushed their very hearts that saw its horror and amaze: They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood; For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.
“Father!” at length, he murmured low, and wept like childhood then: Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men! He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown; He flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down.
Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow,– “No more, there is no more,” he said, “to lift the sword for now; My king is false,–my hope betrayed! My father,–O the worth, The glory, and the loveliness are passed away from earth!
“I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside thee, yet; I would that there our kindred blood on Spain’s free soil had met! Thou wouldst have known my spirit, then; for thee my fields were won; And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!”
Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch’s rein,
Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train; And with a fierce, o’ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led, And sternly set them face to face,–the king before the dead:
“Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father’s hand to kiss? Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this? The voice, the glance, the heart I sought,–give answer, where are they?
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay;
“Into these glassy eyes put light;–be still! keep down thine ire! Bid these white lips a blessing speak,–this earth is not my sire: Give me back him for whom I strove,–for whom my blood was shed. Thou canst not?–and a king!–his dust be mountains on thy head!”
He loosed the steed,–his slack hand fell; upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place.
His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strain: His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain.
DAVID
INTRODUCTION
You will never meet a more interesting character in history than David, the great king of the Israelites, who, it is usually claimed, reigned from about 1055 B.C. to 1015 B.C. Under David the Jews reached the height of their power, and he is regarded as their greatest conqueror.
A full biography would be an account of a succession of battles with his enemies the Philistines in which he was always victorious unless, as a punishment for some of the sins his fiery nature led him into, he was temporarily in defeat. Out of the many instances which the Bible gives, we have selected as the most vivid and interesting the accounts of his victory over Goliath, his relations to Saul and Jonathan and the rebellion of his own son Absalom. The story is told as it appears in Hebrew scriptures and is taken from the first and second books of Samuel, but in order to make the story continuous the arrangement of the verses has been changed somewhat. For greater clearness, the scheme of paragraphing has been changed, quotation marks have been used, and other departures made from the old form of printing in bibles.
The interesting story is told with all the vivid directness of the Jewish scriptures, and every one must admire the poetic beauty so characteristic of oriental writings. David’s compact with Jonathan, his sad lament over the death of his traitorous son, and the grand anthem which he sings in gratitude for his victories, show that the great king was more than a warrior and ruler.
In truth, David was as much a poet and musician as he was a warrior and king, for not only did he, by his skill on the harp, quiet the raging fury of Saul’s anger, but he wrote, also, the grandest psalms in existence. The _Twenty-third Psalm_ and the _One Hundred Third Psalm_ which, among others, are printed elsewhere in this work, are fine examples of his skill and art.
DAVID AND GOLIATH
Now the Philistines gathered together their armies to battle against Israel. And Saul and the men or Israel were gathered together and set the battle in array against the Philistines.
And the Philistines stood on a mountain on the one side, and Israel stood on a mountain on the other side: and there was a valley between them.
And there went out a champion out of the camp of the Philistines, named Goliath, of Gath, whose height was six cubits and a span. And the staff of his spear was like a weaver’s beam; and his spear’s head weighed six hundred shekels of iron: and one bearing a shield went before him.
And he stood and cried unto the armies of Israel, and said unto them, “Why are ye come out to set your battle in array? Am I not a Philistine and ye servants to Saul? Choose you a man for you and let him come down to me. If he be able to fight with me, and to kill me, then will we be your servants: but if I prevail against him, and kill him, then shall ye be our servants, and serve us. I defy the armies of Israel this day; give me a man, that we may fight together.”
When Saul and all Israel heard these words of the Philistine, they were dismayed, and greatly afraid.
Now there was a man whose name was Jesse, and he had eight sons, and the three eldest followed Saul to the battle. And David, his youngest son, fed his father’s sheep at Bethlehem.
And the Philistine drew near, morning and evening, and presented himself forty days.
And Jesse said unto David, his son, “Take now to thy brethren an ephah of this parched corn, and these ten loaves, and run to the camp to thy brethren; and carry these ten cheeses unto the captain and their thousand, and look how thy brethren fare, and take their pledge.”
And David rose up early in the morning, and left his sheep with a keeper, and took, and went, as Jesse had commanded him; and he came to the trench, as the host was going forth to the fight, and shouted for the battle, for Israel and the Philistines had put the battle in array, army against army.
And David left his carriage in the hand of the keeper of the carriage, and ran into the army, and came and saluted his brethren.
And as he talked with them, behold, there came up the champion, the Philistine of Gath, Goliath by name, out of the armies of the Philistines, and spake according to the same words: and David heard them.
And all the men of Israel, when they saw the man, fled from him, and were sore afraid. And then the men of Israel said, “Have ye seen this man that is come up?”
Aid David spake to the men that stood by him saying, “What shall be done to the man that killeth this Philistine and taketh away the reproach from Israel? Who is this Philistine that he should defy the armies of the living God?”
And the people answered him after this manner, saying, “The man who killeth him, the king will enrich him with great riches, and will give him his daughter, and make his father’s house free in Israel.”
And David’s eldest brother heard when he spake unto the men, and his anger was kindled against David and he said, “Why comest thou down hither, and with whom hast thou left those few sheep in the wilderness? I know thy pride and the naughtiness of thine heart, for thou art come down that thou mightest see the battle.”
And David said, “What have I now done? Is there not a cause?”
And he turned from him toward another, and spake after the same manner: and the people answered again after the former manner.
And when the words were heard that David spake, some one rehearsed them before Saul, and he sent for David.
And David said to Saul, “Let no man’s heart fail because of him; thy servant will go and fight with this Philistine.”
And Saul said to David, “Thou art not able to go against this Philistine to fight with him: for thou art but a youth, and he a man of war from his youth.”
And David said unto Saul, “Thy servant kept his father’s sheep, and there came a lion, and a bear, and took a lamb out of the flock. And I went out after him, and smote him, and delivered it out of his mouth: and when he arose against me, I caught him by his beard, and smote him, and slew him. Thy servant slew both the lion and the bear: and this Philistine shall be as one of them, seeing he hath defied the armies of the living God.
“The Lord that delivered me out of the paw of the lion, and out of the paw of the bear, he will deliver me out of the hand of this Philistine.”
And Saul said unto David, “Go, and the Lord be with thee.”
And Saul armed David with his armour, and he put an helmet of brass upon his head; also he armed him with a coat of mail. And David girded his sword upon his armour, and he essayed to go. But David said unto Saul, “I cannot go with these; for I have not proved them.”
And David put them off him; and he took his staff in his hand, and chose him five smooth stones out of the brook, and put them in a shepherd’s bag which he had, even in a scrip; and his sling was in his hand: and he drew near to the Philistine.
And the Philistine came on and drew near unto David; and the man that bare the shield went before him. And when the Philistine looked about, and saw David, he disdained him: for he was but a youth, and ruddy, and of a fair countenance.
[Illustration: DAVID MEETS GOLIATH]
And the Philistine said unto David, “Am I a dog, that thou comest to me with staves?” And he cursed David by his gods, and said, “Come to me and I will give thy flesh unto the fowls of the air, and to the beasts of the field.”
Then said David to the Philistine, “Thou comest to me with a sword, and with a spear, and with a shield: but I come to thee in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom thou hast defied. This day will the Lord deliver thee into mine hand; and I will smite thee, and take thine head from thee; and I will give the carcases of the host of the Philistines this day unto the fowls of the air, and to the wild beasts of the earth; that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel. And all this assembly shall know that the Lord saveth not with sword and spear: for the battle is the Lord’s, and he will give you into our hands.”
And it came to pass, when the Philistine arose, and came and drew nigh to meet David, that David hasted, and ran toward the army to meet the Philistine. And David put his hand in his bag, and took thence a stone, and slang it, and smote the Philistine in his forehead, that the stone sunk into his forehead; and he fell upon his face to the earth.
So David prevailed over the Philistine with a sling and with a stone, and smote the Philistine, and slew him; but there was no sword in the hand of David. Therefore David ran, and stood upon the Philistine, and took his sword, and drew it out of the sheath thereof, and slew him, and cut off his head therewith. And when the Philistines saw their champion was dead, they fled.
And the men of Israel and Judah arose, and shouted, and pursued the Philistines; and the wounded of the Philistines fell down by the way even unto Gath, and unto Ekron. And the children of Israel returned from chasing after the Philistines, and they spoiled their tents.
And David took the head of the Philistine and brought it to Jerusalem, but he put his armour in his tent.
Now when Saul saw David go forth against the Philistine, he said unto Abner, the captain of the host, “Abner, whose son is this youth?”
And Abner answered, “As thy soul liveth, O king, I cannot tell.”
And the king said, “Inquire thou whose son the stripling is.”
And as David returned from the slaughter of the Philistine, Abner took him, and brought him before Saul with the head of the Philistine in his hand.
And Saul said to him, “Whose son art thou, thou young man?”
And David answered, “I am the son of thy servant Jesse the Bethlehemite.”
And Saul took him that day and would let him go no more to his father’s house. And David went out whithersoever Saul sent him and behaved himself wisely. And Saul set him over the men of war, and he was accepted in the sight of all the people, and also in the sight of Saul’s servants.
DAVID AND SAUL AND JONATHAN
Now Saul, king of Israel, had a son Jonathan whom he dearly loved, a brave warrior and a noble man.
When David, returning from his victory over Goliath, told the story of his fight, Jonathan stood by, a listener.
And when David had made an end of speaking, the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul.
And it came to pass, when David was returned from the slaughter of the Philistine, that the women came out of all the cities of Israel, singing and dancing, to meet king Saul, with tabrets, with joy, and with instruments of music.
And the women answered one another as they played, and said, “Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands.”
And Saul was very wroth, and the saying displeased him; and he said, “They have ascribed unto David ten thousands, and to me they have ascribed but thousands: and what can he have more but the kingdom?”
And Saul eyed David from that day and forward.
And Saul was afraid of David, because the Lord was with him, and was departed from Saul. Therefore Saul removed him from him, and made him his captain over a thousand; and he went out and came in before the people.
And David behaved himself wisely in all his ways; and the Lord was with him. Wherefore when Saul saw that he behaved himself very wisely, he was afraid of him. But all Israel and Judah loved David, because he went out and came in before them.
And Michal, Saul’s daughter, loved David: and they told Saul, and the thing pleased him.
Saul said, “I will give him her that she may be a snare to him and that the hand of the Philistines may be against him.” Wherefore Saul said to David, “Thou shalt this day be my son-in-law.”
And David said unto Saul, “Who am I? and what is my life, or my father’s family in Israel, that I should be son-in-law to the king?”
And Saul commanded his servants, saying, “Commune with David secretly, and say, ‘Behold the king hath delight in thee, and all his servants love thee; now, therefore, be the king’s son-in-law.'”