Fourth Reader

THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW

On every side death stared us in the face; no human skill could avert it any longer. We saw the moment approach when we must bid farewell to earth, yet without feeling that unutterable horror which must have been experienced by the unhappy victims at Cawnpore. We were resolved rather to die than to yield, and were fully persuaded that in twenty-four hours all would be over. The engineer had said so, and all knew the worst. We women strove to encourage each other, and to perform the light duties which had been assigned to us, such as conveying orders to the batteries, and supplying the men with provisions, especially cups of coffee, which we prepared day and night.

I had gone out to try to make myself useful, in company with Jessie Brown, the wife of a corporal in my husband’s regiment. Poor Jessie had been in a state of restless excitement all through the siege, and had fallen away visibly within the last few days. A constant fever consumed her, and her mind wandered occasionally, especially that day, when the recollections of home seemed powerfully present to her. At last, overcome with fatigue, she lay down on the ground, wrapped up in her plaid. I sat beside her, promising to awaken her when, as she said, her “father should return from the ploughing.”

She fell at length into a profound slumber, motionless and apparently breathless, her head resting in my lap. I myself could no longer resist the inclination to sleep, in spite of the continual roar of the cannon. Suddenly I was aroused by a wild, unearthly scream close to my ear; my companion stood upright beside me, her arms raised, and her head bent forward in the attitude of listening.

A look of intense delight broke over her countenance; she grasped my hand, drew me towards her, and exclaimed: “Dinna ye hear it? dinna ye hear it? Ay. I’m no dreaming: it’s the slogan o’ the Highlanders! We’re saved! we’re saved!” Then flinging herself on her knees, she thanked God with passionate fervor. I felt utterly bewildered; my English ears heard only the roar of artillery, and I thought my poor Jessie was still raving; but she darted to the batteries, and I heard her cry incessantly to the men: “Courage! courage! Hark to the slogan – to the Macgregor, the grandest of them a’! Here’s help at last!”

To describe the effect of these words upon the soldiers would be impossible. For a moment they ceased firing, and every soul listened with intense anxiety. Gradually, however, there arose a murmur of bitter disappointment, and the wailing of the women, who had flocked to the spot, burst out anew as the colonel shook his head. Our dull Lowland ears heard only the rattle of the musketry. A few moments more of this deathlike suspense, of this agonizing hope, and Jessie, who had again sunk on the ground, sprang to her feet, and cried in a voice so clear and piercing that it was heard along the whole line: “Will ye no believe in it noo? The slogan has ceased, indeed, but the Campbells are comin’! D’ ye hear? d’ ye hear?”

At that moment all seemed indeed to hear the voice of God in the distance, when the pibroch of the Highlanders brought us tidings of deliverance; for now there was no longer any doubt of the fact. That shrill, penetrating, ceaseless sound, which rose above all other sounds, could come neither from the advance of the enemy, nor from the work of the sappers. No, it was indeed the blast of the Scottish bagpipes, now shrill and harsh, as threatening vengeance on the foe, then in softer tones, seeming to promise succor to their friends in need.

Never, surely, was there such a scene as that which followed. Not a heart in the residency of Lucknow but bowed itself before God. All, by one simultaneous impulse, fell upon their knees, and nothing was heard but bursting sobs and the murmured voice of prayer. Then all arose, and there rang out from a thousand lips a great shout of joy, which resounded far and wide, and lent new vigor to that blessed pibroch.

To our cheer of “God save the Queen,” they replied by the well-known strain that moves every Scot to tears, “Should auld acquaintance be forgot.” After that, nothing else made any impression on me. I scarcely remember what followed. Jessie was presented to the general on his entrance into the fort, and at the officers’ banquet her health was drunk by all present, while the pipers marched around the table playing once more the familiar air of “Auld Lang Syne.”

– From a letter by the wife of an officer at Lucknow.

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

Half a league, half a league,Half a league onward,All in the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.“Forward, the Light Brigade!Charge for the guns!” he said:Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.“Forward, the Light Brigade!”Was there a man dismay’d?Not tho’ the soldier knewSome one had blunder’d:Theirs not to make reply,Theirs not to reason why,Theirs but to do and die:Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon in front of themVolley’d and thunder’d;Storm’d at with shot and shell.Boldly they rode and well,Into the jaws of Death,Into the mouth of HellRode the six hundred.Flash’d all their sabres bare,Flash’d as they turn’d in air,Sabring the gunners there,Charging an army, whileAll the world wonder’d:Plunged in the battery-smoke,Right thro’ the line they broke;Cossack and RussianReel’d from the sabre-strokeShatter’d and sunder’d.Then they rode back, but not —Not the six hundred.Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon behind themVolley’d and thunder’d;Storm’d at with shot and shell,While horse and hero fell,They that had fought so wellCame thro’ the jaws of Death,Back from the mouth of Hell,All that was left of them,Left of six hundred.When can their glory fade?O the wild charge they made!All the world wonder’d.Honor the charge they made!Honor the Light Brigade,Noble six hundred!– Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

HASTE NOT, REST NOT

Without haste, without rest!Bind the motto to thy breast;Bear it with thee as a spell;Storm or sunshine, guard it well;Heed not flowers that round thee bloomBear it onward to the tomb.Haste not! let no thoughtless deedMar fore’er the spirit’s speed;Ponder well and know the right —Onward then with all thy might;Haste not! years can ne’er atoneFor one reckless action done.Rest not! – life is sweeping by;Do and dare before you die;Something mighty and sublimeLeave behind to conquer time.Glorious ’tis to live for ayeWhen these forms have passed away.Haste not, rest not! calmly wait,Meekly bear the storms of fate;Duty be thy polar guide —Do the right, whate’er betide.Haste not, rest not! conflicts past,God shall crown thy work at last.– Johann Wolfgang Goethe.

DOUBTING CASTLE

Now there was, not far from the place where they lay, a castle called Doubting Castle, the owner whereof was Giant Despair, and it was in his grounds they now were sleeping; wherefore he, getting up in the morning early, and walking up and down his fields, caught Christian and Hopeful asleep in his grounds.

Then, with a grim and surly voice, he bade them awake, and asked them whence they were and what they did in his grounds. They told him they were pilgrims and that they had lost their way. Then said the Giant, “You have this night trespassed on me by trampling in and lying on my grounds, and therefore you must go along with me.”

So they were forced to go, because he was stronger than they. They also had but little to say, for they knew themselves in fault. The Giant therefore drove them before him, and put them into his castle, in a very dark dungeon. Here, then, they lay from Wednesday morning till Saturday night, without one bit of bread, or drop of drink, or light, or any person to ask how they did. In this place Christian had double sorrow, because it was through his counsel that they were brought into this distress.

Now Giant Despair had a wife, and her name was Diffidence. So he told his wife what he had done, that he had taken a couple of prisoners, and cast them into his dungeon for trespassing on his grounds. Then he asked her also what he had best do further with them? So she asked him what they were, whence they came, and whither they were bound? and he told her. Then she counselled him that when he arose in the morning he should beat them without mercy.

So when he arose, he getteth him a grievous crab-tree cudgel, and goes down into the dungeon to them, and there first falls to rating them as if they were dogs. Then he fell upon them and beat them fearfully, in such sort that they were not able to help themselves or to turn upon the floor. This done, he withdraws and leaves them there to condole their misery, and to mourn under their distress.

The next night she, talking with her husband further about them, and understanding that they were yet alive, did advise him to counsel them to make away with themselves.

So, when morning was come, he goes to them in a surly manner, as before, and perceiving them to be very sore with the stripes that he had given them the day before, he told them that since they were never likely to come out of that place, their only way would be forthwith to make an end of themselves, either with knife, halter, or poison. “For why,” said he, “should you choose to live, seeing it is attended with so much bitterness?”

But they desired him to let them go. With that, he looked ugly upon them, and rushing to them, had doubtless made an end of them himself, but that he fell into one of his fits (for he sometimes in sunshiny weather fell into fits), and lost for a time the use of his hands. Wherefore he withdrew and left them as before to consider what to do.

Towards evening the Giant goes down into the dungeon again, to see if his prisoners had taken his counsel; but when he came there, he found them alive, and truly, alive was all. For now, for want of bread and water, and by reason of the wounds they received when he beat them, they could do little but breathe.

But, I say, he found them alive, at which he fell into a grievous rage, and told them that seeing they had disobeyed his counsel, it should be worse with them than if they had never been born. At this they trembled greatly, and I think that Christian fell into a swoon; but coming a little to himself again, they renewed their discourse about the Giant’s counsel, and whether yet they had best take it or no.

Now the Giant’s wife asked him concerning the prisoners, and if they had taken his counsel. To which he replied, “They are sturdy rogues; they choose rather to bear all hardships than to make away with themselves.”

Then said she, “Take them into the castle yard to-morrow, and show them the bones and skulls of those that thou hast already despatched; and make them believe, ere a week comes to an end, thou wilt tear them in pieces as thou hast done their fellows before them.”

So when the morning was come, the Giant goes to them again, and takes them into the castle yard and shows them, as his wife had bidden him.

“These,” said he, “were once pilgrims as you are, and they trespassed on my grounds as you have done, and when I thought fit, I tore them in pieces; and so within ten days I shall do you. Go, get you down to your den again!” and with that he beat them all the way thither. They lay, therefore, all day on Saturday in lamentable case, as before.

Now, when the night was come, Mistress Diffidence and her husband the Giant began to renew their discourse of their prisoners; and the old Giant wondered that he could neither by his blows nor counsel bring them to an end. And with that his wife replied: —

“I fear,” said she, “that they live in hopes that some one will come to relieve them; or that they have pick-locks about them, by means of which they hope to escape.”

“And sayest thou so, my dear?” said the Giant. “I shall therefore search them in the morning.”

Well, on Saturday, about midnight, they began to pray, and continued in prayer till almost break of day.

Now, a little before it was day, good Christian, as one half amazed, brake out into this passionate speech: —

“What a fool,” quoth he, “am I to lie in a dungeon, when I may as well walk at liberty! I have a key in my bosom, called Promise, that will, I am persuaded, open any lock in Doubting Castle.”

Then said Hopeful, “That’s good news; good brother, pluck it out of thy bosom and try.”

Then Christian pulled it out of his bosom, and began to try at the dungeon door, whose bolt, as he turned the key, gave back, and the door flew open with ease, and Christian and Hopeful both came out. Then he went to the outward door that leads into the castle yard, and with his key opened that door also. After that he went to the iron gate, for that must be opened too; but that lock went hard, yet the key did open it.

Then they thrust open the gate to make their escape with speed, but that gate, as it opened, made such a creaking, that it waked Giant Despair, who, hastily rising to pursue his prisoners, felt his limbs to fail, for his fits took him again, so that he could by no means go after them. Then they went on, and came to the king’s highway, and so were safe.

Now when they were gone over the stile, they began to contrive with themselves what they should do at that stile to prevent those that should come after from falling into the hands of Giant Despair. So they consented to erect there a pillar, and to engrave upon the side thereof this sentence: “Over this stile is the way to Doubting Castle, which is kept by Giant Despair, who despiseth the King of the Celestial Country, and seeks to destroy his holy pilgrims.” Many, therefore, that followed after read what was written and escaped the danger. – John Bunyan.

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle’s nest!Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm!Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!Ye signs and wonders of the elements,Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!

THE DAISY

There is a flower, a little flower,With silver crest and golden eye,That welcomes every changing hour,And weathers every sky.The prouder beauties of the fieldIn gay but quick succession shine,Race after race their honors yield,They flourish and decline.But this small flower, to Nature dear,While moons and stars their courses run,Wreathes the whole circle of the year,Companion of the sun.It smiles upon the lap of May,To sultry August spreads its charms,Lights pale October on his way,And twines December’s arms.The purple heath, and golden broom,In moory mountains catch the gale,O’er lawns the lily spreads perfume,The violet in the vale;But this bold floweret climbs the hill,Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,Plays on the margin of the rill,Peeps round the fox’s den.Within the garden’s cultured round,It shares the sweet carnation’s bed;And blooms in consecrated groundIn honor of the dead.The lambkin crops its crimson gem,The wild bee murmurs on its breast,The blue fly bends its pensile stemLight o’er the skylark’s nest.’Tis Flora’s page: in every place,In every season, fresh and fair,It opens with perennial grace,And blossoms everywhere.On waste and woodland, rock and plain,Its humble buds unheeded rise:The rose has but a summer reign,The daisy never dies.– James Montgomery.If I can stop one heart from breaking,I shall not live in vain:If I can ease one life the aching,Or cool one pain,Or help one fainting robinUnto his nest again,I shall not live in vain. – Dickinson.

LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT

Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,Lead Thou me on!The night is dark, and I am far from home, —Lead Thou me on!Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to seeThe distant scene, – one step enough for me.I was not ever thus, nor prayed that ThouShouldst lead me on:I loved to choose and see my path; but nowLead Thou me on!I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it stillWill lead me onO’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, tillThe night is gone,And with the morn those angel faces smileWhich I have loved long since, and lost awhile.– John Henry Newman.To him that wills, ways are not wanting.

ESCAPE FROM A PANTHER

By this time Elizabeth Temple and Louisa had gained the summit of the mountain, where they left the highway, and pursued their course under the shade of the trees. Their conversation was entirely occupied with the little incidents and scenes of their walk, and every tall pine, and every shrub or flower, called forth some simple expression of admiration.

In this manner they proceeded along the margin of the precipice, when Elizabeth suddenly started, and exclaimed, – “Listen! there are the cries of a child on this mountain! Is there a clearing near us, or can some little one have strayed from its parents?”

“Such things frequently happen,” returned Louisa. “Let us follow the sounds: it may be a wanderer starving on the hill.” More than once Elizabeth was on the point of announcing that she saw the sufferer, when Louisa caught her by the arm, and, pointing behind them, cried, —

“Look at the dog!”

Brave had been their companion from the time the voice of his young mistress lured him from his kennel to the present moment. His advanced age had long before deprived him of his activity; and when his companions stopped to view the scenery, or to add to their bouquets, the mastiff would lay his huge frame on the ground, and await their movements, with his eyes closed, and a listlessness in his air that ill accorded with the character of a protector.

But when aroused by this cry from Louisa, Miss Temple turned, she saw the dog with his eyes keenly set on some distant object, his head bent near the ground, and his hair actually rising on his body, through fright or anger. It was most probably the latter, for he was growling in a low key, and occasionally showing his teeth, in a manner that would have terrified his mistress, had she not so well known his good qualities.

“Brave!” she said. “Be quiet, Brave! what do you see, fellow?”

At the sound of her voice, the rage of the mastiff, instead of being at all diminished, began to increase. He stalked in front of the ladies, and seated himself at the feet of his mistress, growling louder than before, and occasionally giving vent to his ire by a short, surly barking.

“What does he see?” said Elizabeth. “There must be some animal in sight.”

Hearing no answer from her companion, Miss Temple turned her head, and beheld Louisa standing with her face whitened to the color of death, and her finger pointing upwards. The quick eye of Elizabeth glanced in the direction indicated by her friend, where she saw the fierce front and glaring eyes of a female panther, fixed on them and threatening to leap.

“Let us fly,” exclaimed Elizabeth, grasping the arm of Louisa, whose form yielded like melting snow.

There was not a single feeling in the temperament of Elizabeth Temple that could prompt her to desert a companion in such an extremity. She fell on her knees by the side of the inanimate Louisa, encouraging their only safeguard, the dog, at the same time, by the sound of her voice.

“Courage, Brave!” she cried, her own tones beginning to tremble, “courage, courage, good Brave!”

A quarter-grown cub, that had hitherto been unseen, now appeared, dropping from the branches of a sapling. This vicious creature approached the dog, imitating the actions and sounds of its parent, but exhibiting a strange mixture of the playfulness of a kitten with the ferocity of its race. Standing on its hind legs, it would rend the bark of a tree with its fore paws, and play the antics of a cat; and then, by lashing itself with its tail, growling and scratching the earth, it would attempt the manifestations of anger that rendered its parent so terrific.

All this time Brave stood firm and undaunted, short tail erect, his body drawn backwards on its haunches, and his eyes following the movements of both dam and cub. At every gambol played by the latter, it approached nigher to the dog, the growling of the three becoming more horrid at each moment, until the younger beast, overleaping its intended bound, fell directly before the mastiff. There was a moment of fearful cries and struggles, but they ended, almost as soon as commenced, by the cub appearing in the air, hurled from the jaws of Brave with a violence that sent it against a tree so forcibly as to render it completely senseless.

Elizabeth witnessed the short struggle, and her blood was warming with the triumph of the dog, when she saw the form of the old panther in the air, springing twenty feet from the branch of the beech to the back of the mastiff. No words can describe the fury of the conflict that followed. It was a confused struggle on the dry leaves, accompanied by loud and terrific cries. Miss Temple continued on her knees, bending over the form of Louisa, her eyes fixed on the animals, with an interest so horrid, and yet so intense, that she almost forgot her own stake in the result.

So rapid and vigorous were the bounds of the inhabitant of the forest, that its active frame seemed constantly in the air, while the dog nobly faced his foe at each successive leap. When the panther lighted on the shoulders of the mastiff, which were its constant aim, old Brave, though torn with her talons, and stained with his own blood, that already flowed from a dozen wounds, would shake off his furious foe like a feather, and, rearing on his hind legs, rush to the fray again with his jaws distended and a dauntless eye.

But age, and his pampered life, greatly disqualified the noble mastiff for such a struggle. In everything but courage he was only the vestige of what he had once been. A higher bound than ever raised the wary and furious beast far beyond the reach of the dog, who was making a desperate but fruitless dash at her, from which she alighted in a favorable position on the back of her aged foe. For a single moment only could the panther remain there, the great strength of the dog returning with a convulsive effort. But Elizabeth saw, as Brave fastened his teeth in the side of his enemy, that the collar of brass around his neck, which had been glittering throughout the fray, was of the color of blood, and, directly, that his frame was sinking to the earth, where it soon lay prostrate and helpless. Several mighty efforts of the wildcat to extricate herself from the jaws of the dog followed, but they were fruitless, until the mastiff turned on his back, his lips collapsed, and his teeth loosened, when the short convulsions and stillness that succeeded announced the death of poor Brave.

Elizabeth now lay wholly at the mercy of the beast. There is said to be something in the front of the image of the Maker that daunts the hearts of the inferior beings of His creation; and it would seem that some such power, in the present instance, suspended the threatened blow. The eyes of the monster and the kneeling maiden met for an instant, when the former stooped to examine her fallen foe; next, to scent her luckless cub. From the latter examination she turned, however, with her eyes apparently emitting flashes of fire, her tail lashing her sides furiously, and her claws projecting inches from her broad feet.

Miss Temple did not or could not move. Her hands were clasped in the attitude of prayer, but her eyes were still drawn to her terrible enemy. Her cheeks were blanched to the whiteness of marble, and her lips were slightly separated with horror.

The moment seemed now to have arrived for the fatal termination, when a rustling of leaves behind seemed rather to mock the organs than to meet her ears. “Hist! hist!” said a low voice, “stoop lower, girl; your bonnet hides the creature’s head.”

It was rather the yielding of nature than a compliance with this unexpected order that caused the head of the girl to sink on her bosom. Then she heard the report of the rifle, the whizzing of the bullet, and the enraged cries of the beast, who was rolling over on the earth, tearing the twigs and branches within her reach. At the next instant Leather-Stocking rushed by her, and called aloud: —

“Come in, Hector; come in; ’tis a hard-lived animal, and may jump again.”

The brave hunter fearlessly maintained his position, notwithstanding the violent bounds of the wounded panther, until his rifle was again loaded, when he stepped up to the animal, and, placing the muzzle close to her head, every spark of life was extinguished by the discharge.