British Literature (EST 131)
From Chaucer
to
The Early Victorian Age
Course Pack
(For Private Circulation Only)
Batch of 2020
Department of English
CHRIST (Deemed to be University)
Bangalore – 560029
Table of Contents
Poetry
Unit
Poet
Page No.
01. The Prioress
Geoffrey Chaucer
12
02. Sonnet 116
William Shakespeare
15
03. Hamlet (Act 1, Scene 2)
William Shakespeare
15
04. Hamlet (Act 3, Scene 1)
William Shakespeare
16
05. The Canonization
John Donne
17
06. Satan’s Speech - Paradise Lost
John Milton
18
07. Excerpt from“Mac Flecknoe”
John Dryden
19
08. The Rape of the Lock (Belinda’s Boudoir)
Alexander Pope
21
09. Lines Written in Early Spring
William Wordsworth
22
10. Christabel
Samuel T Coleridge
23
11. Ode to the West Wind
Percy Bysshe Shelley
39
12. La Belle Dame Sans Merci
John Keats
42
Essays
Unit
Essayist
01. Of Truth
Francis Bacon
44
02. The Character of Will Wimble
Joseph Addison
46
03. Beau Tibbs at Home
Oliver Goldsmith
48
04. Dream Children
Charles Lamb
53
Syllabus
British Literature (EST 131)
Anglo-Saxon to Early Victorian
Page No.
I Semester
Course Code
Course Title
No. of Hours
Marks
Credits
EST 131
British Literature: AngloSaxon to Early Victorian
75
(5 hrs / week)
100
4
Course Description
This course will serve as an introductory course to British literature. The course will locate the
texts in their respective socio-political and historical contexts. The selection aims to introduce
the learners to the different genres of British literature.
Course Objectives





To introduce students to the socio-political, religious, cultural, and linguistic aspects of
the UK through English literary texts
To help students understand texts as products of a historical, political and cultural
processes
To enable students to identify different forms, genres and subgenres in literature
To sensitize students to human values through an exposure to socio-historical concerns of
subjectivity, identity, community and nationhood.
To sharpen critical appreciation and analytical writing skills through an introduction to
models of literary criticism
Level of Knowledge
Working knowledge of English and exposure to literature
Expected Learning Outcome
Awareness of the production, dissemination and reception of literary material in England across
different eras and the contemporary debates and trends they stimulate and cognizance of classical
forms, genres and styles of literature
Unit I
05 Hours
The Anglo-Saxon Period - Emergence of English language, History of England from 42 BC to
the Norman Conquest - salient features
The Medieval Period - Impact of Norman rule on English social structure, English language in
the medieval period, mystery, miracle and morality plays, feudalism
Geoffrey Chaucer: The Prioress from Prologue to The Canterbury Tales
Unit II
20 Hours
The Renaissance Period and after – Protestantism, Bible translation, religious literature,
humanism, English Renaissance, Baroque Style, Rococo Style
William Shakespeare
William Shakespeare
Francis Bacon
John Donne
John Milton
: Sonnet 116
: Soliloquies from Hamlet
: Of Truth
: Canonization
: Excerpt from Satan’s speech in Book 1, Paradise Lost
Unit III
25 Hours
Reformation, Restoration and after - Metaphysical Poetry, Epic conventions, Mock epic,
Puritanism, Restoration, Rise of the novel, the English novel in the 18th century, Gunpowder
plot, Oliver Cromwell, Dissolving the parliament, Periodical essays, empiricism, Influence of
French culture through restoration, the enlightenment
John Dryden
Alexander Pope
Addison and Steele
Oliver Goldsmith
Oliver Goldsmith
: First three stanzas of Mac Flecknoe
: Belinda’s Boudoir from The Rape of the Lock
: Character of Will Wimble
: Beau Tibbs
: She Stoops to Conquer
Unit IV
25 Hours
Romantic and early Victorian Age - Romanticism, notion of literary creation and poets, closet
drama, the French Revolution, Victorian morality, industrial revolution, utilitarianism, rise of
nation-states, impact of colonialism on England, emergence of universal education in England
William Wordsworth
S.T. Coleridge
Shelley
Keats
Charles Lamb
Mary Shelley
Notes:
: Lines Written in Early Spring
: Christabel
: Ode to the Westwind
: La Belle Dame Sans Merci
: Dream Children
: Frankenstein
1. For all texts, Norton Editions are to be treated as the official prescribed editions.
2. For critical material The Cambridge Companion Series of CUP, Case Book Series of
Macmillan and Palgrave, and Norton series of WW Norton are officially prescribed.
Examination and Assessment:
Continuous Internal Assessment (CIA)
CIA 1 - A creative individual, pair or group assignment
CIA 2 – Mid term examination
CIA 3 – Online Test from the novel and play
Mid Semester Examination CIA II: 2 Hours
Section A: Short Notes
Section B: Essay Questions
Section C: Long Essay Questions
Total: 50 Marks
3 x 5 marks = 15 marks
2 x 10 marks = 20 marks
1 x 15 marks = 15
End Semester Examination: 3 Hours
Section A: Short Notes
Section B: Essay Questions
Section C: Long Essay Questions
(20 marks)
(50 marks)
(20 marks)
(3 questions out of 5)
(2 questions out of 3)
(1 question out of 2)
Total: 100 Marks
6x5 marks = 30 marks
4x10 marks = 40 marks
2x15 marks = 30 marks
(6 questions out of 8)
(4 questions out of 6)
(2 questions out of 4)
Bibliography of Required Reading
1. Abrams, M.H. A Glossary of Literary Terms.8th Ed. New York: Wardworth, 2005. Print.
2. Ferguson, Margaret, Mary Jo Salter and Jon Stallworthy. Eds. The Norton Anthology of
Poetry.4th Ed. New York: WW Norton, 1996. Print
3. Gordden, Malcom, and Michael Lapidge.The Cambridge Companion to Old English
Literature.Rpt Cambridge: CUP, 2006. Print.
4. Gupta, Ambika Sen. Selected College Poems. Rpt. Hyderabad: Orient Longman, 1999.
5. Herman, Daniel. The Cambridge Companion to Narrative. Cambridge: CUP, 2007. Print.
6. John, Eileen, and Dominic McIver Lopes. Philosophy of Literature: Contemporary and
Classic Readings. Oxford: Blackwell, 2004. Print
7. Maxwell, Richard, and Katie Trumpener.The Cambridge Companion to Fiction in the
Romantic Period. Cambridge: CUP, 2008. Print
8. Sampson, George.The Concise Cambridge History of English Literature, 3rd Ed.
Cambridge: CUP, 2005. Print
9. Ramarao, Vimala. Ed.Explorations. Vol I. Bangalore: Prasaranga, Bangalore University,
2004. Print
10. Shingle, Michael. Daniel Defoe Robinson Crusoe. New York: WW Norton, 1994. Print.
The Prioress - Geoffrey Chaucer
From Prologue to The Canterbury Tales
Ther was also a nonne, a prioresse,
That of hirsmylyng was fulsymple and coy;
Hire grettesteooth was but by seinteloy;
And she was clepedmadameeglentyne.
Fulweel she soong the service dyvyne,
Entuned in hir nose fulsemely,
And frenssh she spakful faire and fetisly,
After the scole of stratfordattebowe,
For frenssh of parys was to hire unknowe.
At mete welytaught was she with alle:
She leet no morsel from hirlippesfalle,
Ne wettehirfyngres in hir sauce depe;
Welkoude she carie a morsel and welkepe
That no drope ne fille upon hire brest.
In curteisie was set fulmuchelhir lest.
Hir over-lippewyped she so clene
That in hircoppether was no ferthyngsene
Of grece, whan she dronkenhaddehirdraughte.
Fulsemely after hir mete she raughte.
And sikerly she was of greet desport,
Andfulplesaunt, and amyable of port,
And peyned hire to countrefetecheere
Of court, and to been estatlich of manere,
And to ben holdendigne of reverence.
But, for to speken of hire conscience,
She was so charitable and so pitous
She woldewepe, if that she saugh a mous
Kaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde.
Of smalehoundeshadde she that she fedde
Withrostedflessh, or milk and wastel-breed.
But soorewepte she if oon of hem were deed,
Or if men smoot it with a yerdesmerte;
And al was conscience and tendreherte.
Fulsemylyhirwympulpynched was,
Hir nose tretys, hir eyen greye as glas,
Hir mouth fulsmal, and thertosofte and reed;
But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed;
It was almoost a spanne brood, I trowe;
For, hardily, she was natundergrowe.
Fulfetys was hircloke, as I was war.
Of smal coral aboute hire arm she bar
A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene,
And theronheng a brooch of gold fulsheene,
On which ther was first write a crowned a,
And after amorvincitomnia.
Modern English Version
There was also a nun, a prioress,
Who, in her smiling, modest was and coy;
Her greatest oath was but "By Saint Eloy!"
And she was known as Madam Eglantine.
Full well she sang the services divine,
Intoning through her nose, becomingly;
And fair she spoke her French, and fluently,
After the school of Stratford-at-the-Bow,
For French of Paris was not hers to know.
At table she had been well taught withal,
And never from her lips let morsels fall,
Nor dipped her fingers deep in sauce, but ate
With so much care the food upon her plate
That never driblet fell upon her breast.
In courtesy she had delight and zest.
Her upper lip was always wiped so clean
That in her cup was no iota seen
Of grease, when she had drunk her draught of wine.
Becomingly she reached for meat to dine.
And certainly delighting in good sport,
She was right pleasant, amiable- in short.
She was at pains to counterfeit the look
Of courtliness, and stately manners took,
And would be held worthy of reverence.
But, to say something of her moral sense,
She was so charitable and piteous
That she would weep if she but saw a mouse
Caught in a trap, though it were dead or bled.
She had some little dogs, too, that she fed
On roasted flesh, or milk and fine white bread.
But sore she'd weep if one of them were dead,
Or if men smote it with a rod to smart:
For pity ruled her, and her tender heart.
Right decorous her pleated wimple was;
Her nose was fine; her eyes were blue as glass;
Her mouth was small and therewith soft and red;
But certainly she had a fair forehead;
It was almost a full span broad, I own,
For, truth to tell, she was not undergrown.
Neat was her cloak, as I was well aware.
Of coral small about her arm she'd bear
A string of beads and gauded all with green;
And therefrom hung a brooch of golden sheen
Whereon there was first written a crowned "A,"
And under, Amor Vincit Omnia.
Sonnet 116 – William Shakespeare
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Hamlet – William Shakespeare – Act 1 Scene 2
O, that this too too solid flesh would melt
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d
His canon ‘gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on’t! ah fie! ’tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely. That it should come to this!
But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two:
So excellent a king; that was, to this,
Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!
Must I remember? why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on: and yet, within a month–
Let me not think on’t–Frailty, thy name is woman!–
A little month, or ere those shoes were old
With which she follow’d my poor father’s body,
Like Niobe, all tears:–why she, even she–
O, God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,
Would have mourn’d longer–married with my uncle,
My father’s brother, but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules: within a month:
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her galled eyes,
She married. O, most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
It is not nor it cannot come to good:
But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue.
Hamlet – William Shakespeare - Act 3 Scene 1
To be, or not to be- that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them. To die- to sleepNo more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die- to sleep.
To sleep- perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub!
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after deathThe undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns- puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.- Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia!- Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins rememb'red.
The Canonization - John Donne
For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love,
Or chide my palsy, or my gout,
My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune flout,
With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,
Take you a course, get you a place,
Observe his honor, or his grace,
Or the king's real, or his stampèd face
Contemplate; what you will, approve,
So you will let me love.
Alas, alas, who's injured by my love?
What merchant's ships have my sighs drowned?
Who says my tears have overflowed his ground?
When did my colds a forward spring remove?
When did the heats which my veins fill
Add one more to the plaguy bill?
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still
Litigious men, which quarrels move,
Though she and I do love.
Call us what you will, we are made such by love;
Call her one, me another fly,
We're tapers too, and at our own cost die,
And we in us find the eagle and the dove.
The phœnix riddle hath more wit
By us; we two being one, are it.
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.
We die and rise the same, and prove
Mysterious by this love.
We can die by it, if not live by love,
And if unfit for tombs and hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;
And if no piece of chronicle we prove,
We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms;
As well a well-wrought urn becomes
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,
And by these hymns, all shall approve
Us canonized for Love.
And thus invoke us: "You, whom reverend love
Made one another's hermitage;
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;
Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove
Into the glasses of your eyes
(So made such mirrors, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize)
Countries, towns, courts: beg from above
A pattern of your love!"
Book 1, Paradise Lost - John Milton - Excerpt from Satan’s Speech
‘Is this the region, this the soil, the clime,’
Said then the lost archangel, `this the seat
That we must change for heav’n, this mournful gloom
For that celestial light? Be it so, since he
Who now is sovran can dispose and bid
What shall be right: furthest from him is best
Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme
Above his equals. Farewell happy fields
Where joy forever dwells: hail horrors, hail
Infernal world, and thou profoundest hell
Receive thy new possessor: one who brings
A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less than he
Whom thunder bath made greater? Here at least
We shall be free; the almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
Here we may reign secure, and in my choice
To reign is worth ambition though in hell:
Better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven.
Excerpt from John Dryden’s Mac Flecknoe
All human things are subject to decay,
And, when Fate summons, monarchs must obey:
This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young
Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long:
In prose and verse, was own'd, without dispute
Through all the realms of Non-sense, absolute.
This aged prince now flourishing in peace,
And blest with issue of a large increase,
Worn out with business, did at length debate
To settle the succession of the State:
And pond'ring which of all his sons was fit
To reign, and wage immortal war with wit;
Cry'd, 'tis resolv'd; for nature pleads that he
Should only rule, who most resembles me:
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,
Mature in dullness from his tender years.
Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he
Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity.
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence,
But Shadwell never deviates into sense.
Some beams of wit on other souls may fall,
Strike through and make a lucid interval;
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray,
His rising fogs prevail upon the day:
Besides his goodly fabric fills the eye,
And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty:
Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain,
And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee,
Thou last great prophet of tautology:
Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was sent before but to prepare thy way;
And coarsely clad in Norwich drugget came
To teach the nations in thy greater name.
My warbling lute, the lute I whilom strung
When to King John of Portugal I sung,
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on silver Thames did'st cut thy way,
With well tim'd oars before the royal barge,
Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge;
And big with hymn, commander of an host,
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets toss'd.
Methinks I see the new Arion sail,
The lute still trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well sharpen'd thumb from shore to shore
The treble squeaks for fear, the basses roar:
Echoes from Pissing-Alley, Shadwell call,
And Shadwell they resound from Aston Hall.
About thy boat the little fishes throng,
As at the morning toast, that floats along.
Sometimes as prince of thy harmonious band
Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing hand.
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not ev'n the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme:
Though they in number as in sense excel;
So just, so like tautology they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore
The lute and sword which he in triumph bore
And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more.
Here stopt the good old sire; and wept for joy
In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, persuade,
That for anointed dullness he was made.
The Rape of the Lock - From Canto 1, Belinda’s Boudoir - Alexander Pope
And now, unveiled, the Toilet stands displayed,
Each silver vase in mystic order laid.
First, robed in white, the Nymph intent adores,
With head uncovered, the Cosmetic powers.
A heavenly Image in the glass appears,
To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears;
The inferior Priestess, at her altar's side,
Trembling, begins the sacred rites of Pride.
Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here
The various offerings of the world appear;
From each she nicely culls with curious toil,
And decks the Goddess with the glittering spoil.
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks,
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box.
The tortoise here and elephant unite,
Transformed to combs, the speckled and the white.
Here files of pins extend their shining rows,
Puffs, powders, patches, Bibles, billet-doux.
Now awful Beauty puts on all its arms;
The fair each moment rises in her charms,
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace,
And calls forth all the wonders of her face;
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise,
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes.
The busy sylphs surround their darling care,
These set the head, and those divide the hair,
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown;
And Betty's praised for labours not her own.
Lines Written in Early Spring - William Wordsworth
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
Christabel - Samuel Taylor Coleridge
PART I
'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;
Tu—whit! Tu—whoo!
And hark, again! the crowing cock,
How drowsily it crew.
Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
Hath a toothless mastiff bitch;
From her kennel beneath the rock
She maketh answer to the clock,
Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;
Ever and aye, by shine and shower,
Sixteen short howls, not over loud;
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.
Is the night chilly and dark?
The night is chilly, but not dark.
The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
It covers but not hides the sky.
The moon is behind, and at the full;
And yet she looks both small and dull.
The night is chill, the cloud is gray:
'Tis a month before the month of May,
And the Spring comes slowly up this way.
The lovely lady, Christabel,
Whom her father loves so well,
What makes her in the wood so late,
A furlong from the castle gate?
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betrothèd knight;
And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that's far away.
She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak
But moss and rarest misletoe:
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,
And in silence prayethshe.
The lady sprang up suddenly,
The lovely lady Christabel!
It moaned as near, as near can be,
But what it is she cannot tell.—
On the other side it seems to be,
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.
The night is chill; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady's cheek—
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
Hush, beating heart of Christabel!
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak.
What sees she there?
There she sees a damsel bright,
Drest in a silken robe of white,
That shadowy in the moonlight shone:
The neck that made that white robe wan,
Her stately neck, and arms were bare;
Her blue-veined feet unsandl'd were,
And wildly glittered here and there
The gems entangled in her hair.
I guess, 'twas frightful there to see
A lady so richly clad as she—
Beautiful exceedingly!
Mary mother, save me now!
(Said Christabel) And who art thou?
The lady strange made answer meet,
And her voice was faint and sweet:—
Have pity on my sore distress,
I scarce can speak for weariness:
Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!
Said Christabel, How camest thou here?
And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,
Did thus pursue her answer meet:—
My sire is of a noble line,
And my name is Geraldine:
Five warriors seized me yestermorn,
Me, even me, a maid forlorn:
They choked my cries with force and fright,
And tied me on a palfrey white.
The palfrey was as fleet as wind,
And they rode furiously behind.
They spurred amain, their steeds were white:
And once we crossed the shade of night.
As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,
I have no thought what men they be;
Nor do I know how long it is
(For I have lain entranced I wis)
Since one, the tallest of the five,
Took me from the palfrey's back,
A weary woman, scarce alive.
Some muttered words his comrades spoke:
He placed me underneath this oak;
He swore they would return with haste;
Whither they went I cannot tell—
I thought I heard, some minutes past,
Sounds as of a castle bell.
Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she).
And help a wretched maid to flee.
Then Christabel stretched forth her hand,
And comforted fair Geraldine:
O well, bright dame! may you command
The service of Sir Leoline;
And gladly our stout chivalry
Will he send forth and friends withal
To guide and guard you safe and free
Home to your noble father's hall.
She rose: and forth with steps they passed
That strove to be, and were not, fast.
Her gracious stars the lady blest,
And thus spake on sweet Christabel:
All our household are at rest,
The hall as silent as the cell;
Sir Leoline is weak in health,
And may not well awakened be,
But we will move as if in stealth,
And I beseech your courtesy,
This night, to share your couch with me.
They crossed the moat, and Christabel
Took the key that fitted well;
A little door she opened straight,
All in the middle of the gate;
The gate that was ironed within and without,
Where an army in battle array had marched out.
The lady sank, belike through pain,
And Christabel with might and main
Lifted her up, a weary weight,
Over the threshold of the gate:
Then the lady rose again,
And moved, as she were not in pain.
So free from danger, free from fear,
They crossed the court: right glad they were.
And Christabel devoutly cried
To the lady by her side,
Praise we the Virgin all divine
Who hath rescued thee from thy distress!
Alas, alas! said Geraldine,
I cannot speak for weariness.
So free from danger, free from fear,
They crossed the court: right glad they were.
Outside her kennel, the mastiff old
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.
The mastiff old did not awake,
Yet she an angry moan did make!
And what can ail the mastiff bitch?
Never till now she uttered yell
Beneath the eye of Christabel.
Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch:
For what can ail the mastiff bitch?
They passed the hall, that echoes still,
Pass as lightly as you will!
The brands were flat, the brands were dying,
Amid their own white ashes lying;
But when the lady passed, there came
A tongue of light, a fit of flame;
And Christabel saw the lady's eye,
And nothing else saw she thereby,
Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,
Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall.
O softly tread, said Christabel,
My father seldom sleepeth well.
Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare,
And jealous of the listening air
They steal their way from stair to stair,
Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,
And now they pass the Baron's room,
As still as death, with stifled breath!
And now have reached her chamber door;
And now doth Geraldine press down
The rushes of the chamber floor.
The moon shines dim in the open air,
And not a moonbeam enters here.
But they without its light can see
The chamber carved so curiously,
Carved with figures strange and sweet,
All made out of the carver's brain,
For a lady's chamber meet:
The lamp with twofold silver chain
Is fastened to an angel's feet.
The silver lamp burns dead and dim;
But Christabel the lamp will trim.
She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright,
And left it swinging to and fro,
While Geraldine, in wretched plight,
Sank down upon the floor below.
O weary lady, Geraldine,
I pray you, drink this cordial wine!
It is a wine of virtuous powers;
My mother made it of wild flowers.
And will your mother pity me,
Who am a maiden most forlorn?
Christabel answered—Woe is me!
She died the hour that I was born.
I have heard the grey-haired friar tell
How on her death-bed she did say,
That she should hear the castle-bell
Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.
O mother dear! that thou wert here!
I would, said Geraldine, she were!
But soon with altered voice, said she—
'Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!
I have power to bid thee flee.'
Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?
Why stares she with unsettled eye?
Can she the bodiless dead espy?
And why with hollow voice cries she,
'Off, woman, off!this hour is mine—
Though thou her guardian spirit be,
Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me.'
Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side,
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue—
Alas! said she, this ghastly ride—
Dear lady! it hath wildered you!
The lady wiped her moist cold brow,
And faintly said, ' 'tis over now!'
Again the wild-flower wine she drank:
Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright,
And from the floor whereon she sank,
The lofty lady stood upright:
She was most beautiful to see,
Like a lady of a far countrèe.
And thus the lofty lady spake—
'All they who live in the upper sky,
Do love you, holy Christabel!
And you love them, and for their sake
And for the good which me befel,
Even I in my degree will try,
Fair maiden, to requite you well.
But now unrobe yourself; for I
Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.'
QuothChristabel, So let it be!
And as the lady bade, did she.
Her gentle limbs did she undress,
And lay down in her loveliness.
But through her brain of weal and woe
So many thoughts moved to and fro,
That vain it were her lids to close;
So half-way from the bed she rose,
And on her elbow did recline
To look at the lady Geraldine.
Beneath the lamp the lady bowed,
And slowly rolled her eyes around;
Then drawing in her breath aloud,
Like one that shuddered, she unbound
The cincture from beneath her breast:
Her silken robe, and inner vest,
Dropt to her feet, and full in view,
Behold! her bosom and half her side—
A sight to dream of, not to tell!
O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!
Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs;
Ah! what a stricken look was hers!
Deep from within she seems half-way
To lift some weight with sick assay,
And eyes the maid and seeks delay;
Then suddenly, as one defied,
Collects herself in scorn and pride,
And lay down by the Maiden's side!—
And in her arms the maid she took,
Ah wel-a-day!
And with low voice and doleful look
These words did say:
'In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow,
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow;
But vainly thou warrest,
For this is alone in
Thy power to declare,
That in the dim forest
Thou heard'st a low moaning,
And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair;
And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity,
To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.'
THE CONCLUSION TO PART I
It was a lovely sight to see
The lady Christabel, when she
Was praying at the old oak tree.
Amid the jaggèd shadows
Of mossy leafless boughs,
Kneeling in the moonlight,
To make her gentle vows;
Her slender palms together prest,
Heaving sometimes on her breast;
Her face resigned to bliss or bale—
Her face, oh call it fair not pale,
And both blue eyes more bright than clear,
Each about to have a tear.
With open eyes (ah woe is me!)
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully,
Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis,
Dreaming that alone, which is—
O sorrow and shame! Can this be she,
The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree?
And lo! the worker of these harms,
That holds the maiden in her arms,
Seems to slumber still and mild,
As a mother with her child.
A star hath set, a star hath risen,
O Geraldine! since arms of thine
Have been the lovely lady's prison.
O Geraldine! one hour was thine—
Thou'st had thy will! By tairn and rill,
The night-birds all that hour were still.
But now they are jubilant anew,
From cliffand tower, tu—whoo! tu—whoo!
Tu—whoo! tu—whoo! from wood and fell!
And see! the lady Christabel
Gathers herself from out her trance;
Her limbs relax, her countenance
Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids
Close o'er her eyes; and tears she sheds—
Large tears that leave the lashes bright!
And oft the while she seems to smile
As infants at a sudden light!
Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep,
Like a youthful hermitess,
Beauteous in a wilderness,
Who, praying always, prays in sleep.
And, if she move unquietly,
Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free
Comes back and tingles in her feet.
No doubt, she hath a vision sweet.
What if her guardian spirit 'twere,
What if she knew her mother near?
But this she knows, in joys and woes,
That saints will aid if men will call:
For the blue sky bends over all!
PART II
Each matin bell, the Baron saith,
Knells us back to a world of death.
These words Sir Leoline first said,
When he rose and found his lady dead:
These words Sir Leoline will say
Many a morn to his dying day!
And hence the custom and law began
That still at dawn the sacristan,
Who duly pulls the heavy bell,
Five and forty beads must tell
Between each stroke—a warning knell,
Which not a soul can choose but hear
From Bratha Head to Wyndermere.
SaithBracy the bard, So let it knell!
And let the drowsy sacristan
Still count as slowly as he can!
There is no lack of such, I ween,
As well fill up the space between.
In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair,
And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent,
With ropes of rock and bells of air
Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent,
Who all give back, one after t'other,
The death-note to their living brother;
And oft too, by the knell offended,
Just as their one! two! three! is ended,
The devil mocks the doleful tale
With a merry peal from Borodale.
The air is still! through mist and cloud
That merry peal comes ringing loud;
And Geraldine shakes off her dread,
And rises lightly from the bed;
Puts on her silken vestments white,
And tricks her hair in lovely plight,
And nothing doubting of her spell
Awakens the lady Christabel.
'Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel?
I trust that you have rested well.'
And Christabel awoke and spied
The same who lay down by her side—
O rather say, the same whom she
Raised up beneath the old oak tree!
Nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair!
For shebelike hath drunken deep
Of all the blessedness of sleep!
And while she spake, her looks, her air
Such gentle thankfulness declare,
That (so it seemed) her girded vests
Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts.
'Sure I have sinn'd!' said Christabel,
'Now heaven be praised if all be well!'
And in low faltering tones, yet sweet,
Did she the lofty lady greet
With such perplexity of mind
As dreams too lively leave behind.
So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed
Her maiden limbs, and having prayed
That He, who on the cross did groan,
Might wash away her sins unknown,
She forthwith led fair Geraldine
To meet her sire, Sir Leoline.
The lovely maid and the lady tall
Are pacing both into the hall,
And pacing on through page and groom,
Enter the Baron's presence-room.
The Baron rose, and while he prest
His gentle daughter to his breast,
With cheerful wonder in his eyes
The lady Geraldine espies,
And gave such welcome to the same,
As might beseem so bright a dame!
But when he heard the lady's tale,
And when she told her father's name,
Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale,
Murmuring o'er the name again,
Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine?
Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness in the brain.
And thus it chanced, as I divine,
With Roland and Sir Leoline.
Each spake words of high disdain
And insult to his heart's best brother:
They parted—ne'er to meet again!
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining—
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between;—
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been.
Sir Leoline, a moment's space,
Stood gazing on the damsel's face:
And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine
Came back upon his heart again.
O then the Baron forgot his age,
His noble heart swelled high with rage;
He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side
He would proclaim it far and wide,
With trump and solemn heraldry,
That they, who thus had wronged the dame,
Were base as spotted infamy!
'And if they dare deny the same,
My herald shall appoint a week,
And let the recreant traitors seek
My tourney court—that there and then
I may dislodge their reptile souls
From the bodies and forms of men!'
He spake: his eye in lightning rolls!
For the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he kenned
In the beautiful lady the child of his friend!
And now the tears were on his face,
And fondly in his arms he took
Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace,
Prolonging it with joyous look.
Which when she viewed, a vision fell
Upon the soul of Christabel,
The vision of fear, the touch and pain!
She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again—
(Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee,
Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?)
Again she saw that bosom old,
Again she felt that bosom cold,
And drew in her breath with a hissing sound:
Whereat the Knight turned wildly round,
And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid
With eyes upraised, as one that prayed.
The touch, the sight, had passed away,
And in its stead that vision blest,
Which comforted her after-rest
While in the lady's arms she lay,
Had put a rapture in her breast,
And on her lips and o'er her eyes
Spread smiles like light!
With new surprise,
'What ails then my belovèd child?
The Baron said—His daughter mild
Made answer, 'All will yet be well!'
I ween, she had no power to tell
Aught else: so mighty was the spell.
Yet he, who saw this Geraldine,
Had deemed her sure a thing divine:
Such sorrow with such grace she blended,
As if she feared she had offended
Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid!
And with such lowly tones she prayed
She might be sent without delay
Home to her father's mansion.
'Nay!
Nay, by my soul!' said Leoline.
'Ho! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine!
Go thou, with sweet music and loud,
And take two steeds with trappings proud,
And take the youth whom thou lov'st best
To bear thy harp, and learn thy song,
And clothe you both in solemn vest,
And over the mountains haste along,
Lest wandering folk, that are abroad,
Detain you on the valley road.
'And when he has crossed the Irthing flood,
My merry bard! hehastes, he hastes
Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood,
And reaches soon that castle good
Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes.
'Bard Bracy!bardBracy! your horses are fleet,
Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet,
More loud than your horses' echoing feet!
And loud and loud to Lord Roland call,
Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall!
Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free—
Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me!
He bids thee come without delay
With all thy numerous array
And take thy lovely daughter home:
And he will meet thee on the way
With all his numerous array
White with their panting palfreys' foam:
And, by mine honour! I will say,
That I repent me of the day
When I spake words of fierce disdain
To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!—
—For since that evil hour hath flown,
Many a summer's sun hath shone;
Yet ne'er found I a friend again
Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine.
The lady fell, and clasped his knees,
Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing;
And Bracy replied, with faltering voice,
His gracious Hail on all bestowing!—
'Thy words, thou sire of Christabel,
Are sweeter than my harp can tell;
Yet might I gain a boon of thee,
This day my journey should not be,
So strange a dream hath come to me,
That I had vowed with music loud
To clear yon wood from thing unblest.
Warned by a vision in my rest!
For in my sleep I saw that dove,
That gentle bird, whom thou dost love,
And call'st by thy own daughter's name—
Sir Leoline! I saw the same
Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan,
Among the green herbs in the forest alone.
Which when I saw and when I heard,
I wonder'd what might ail the bird;
For nothing near it could I see
Save the grass and green herbs underneath the old tree.
'And in my dream methought I went
To search out what might there be found;
And what the sweet bird's trouble meant,
That thus lay fluttering on the ground.
I went and peered, and could descry
No cause for her distressful cry;
But yet for her dear lady's sake
I stooped, methought, the dove to take,
When lo! I saw a bright green snake
Coiled around its wings and neck.
Green as the herbs on which it couched,
Close by the dove's its head it crouched;
And with the dove it heaves and stirs,
Swelling its neck as she swelled hers!
I woke; it was the midnight hour,
The clock was echoing in the tower;
But though my slumber was gone by,
This dream it would not pass away—
It seems to live upon my eye!
And thence I vowed this self-same day
With music strong and saintly song
To wander through the forest bare,
Lest aught unholy loiter there.'
Thus Bracy said: the Baron, the while,
Half-listening heard him with a smile;
Then turned to Lady Geraldine,
His eyes made up of wonder and love;
And said in courtly accents fine,
'Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove,
With arms more strong than harp or song,
Thy sire and I will crush the snake!'
He kissed her forehead as he spake,
And Geraldine in maiden wise
Casting down her large bright eyes,
With blushing cheek and courtesy fine
She turned her from Sir Leoline;
Softly gathering up her train,
That o'er her right arm fell again;
And folded her arms across her chest,
And couched her head upon her breast,
And looked askance at Christabel
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy;
And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head,
Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye
And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread,
At Christabel she looked askance!—
One moment—and the sight was fled!
But Christabel in dizzy trance
Stumbling on the unsteady ground
Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound;
And Geraldine again turned round,
And like a thing, that sought relief,
Full of wonder and full of grief,
She rolled her large bright eyes divine
Wildly on Sir Leoline.
The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone,
She nothing sees—no sight but one!
The maid, devoid of guile and sin,
I know not how, in fearful wise,
So deeply she had drunken in
That look, those shrunken serpent eyes,
That all her features were resigned
To this sole image in her mind:
And passively did imitate
That look of dull and treacherous hate!
And thus she stood, in dizzy trance;
Still picturing that look askance
With forced unconscious sympathy
Full before her father's view—
As far as such a look could be
In eyes so innocent and blue!
And when the trance was o'er, the maid
Paused awhile, and inly prayed:
Then falling at the Baron's feet,
'By my mother's soul do I entreat
That thou this woman send away!'
She said: and more she could not say:
For what she knew she could not tell,
O'er-mastered by the mighty spell.
Why is thy cheek so wan and wild,
Sir Leoline? Thy only child
Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride,
So fair, so innocent, so mild;
The same, for whom thy lady died!
O by the pangs of her dear mother
Think thou no evil of thy child!
For her, and thee, and for no other,
She prayed the moment ere she died:
Prayed that the babe for whom she died,
Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride!
That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled,
Sir Leoline!
And wouldst thou wrong thy only child,
Her child and thine?
Within the Baron's heart and brain
If thoughts, like these, had any share,
They only swelled his rage and pain,
And did but work confusion there.
His heart was cleft with pain and rage,
His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild,
Dishonoured thus in his old age;
Dishonoured by his only child,
And all his hospitality
To the wronged daughter of his friend
By more than woman's jealousy
Brought thus to a disgraceful end—
He rolled his eye with stern regard
Upon the gentle minstrel bard,
And said in tones abrupt, austere—
'Why, Bracy!dost thou loiter here?
I bade thee hence!' The bard obeyed;
And turning from his own sweet maid,
The agèd knight, Sir Leoline,
Led forth the lady Geraldine!
THE CONCLUSION TO PART II
A little child, a limber elf,
Singing, dancing to itself,
A fairy thing with red round cheeks,
That always finds, and never seeks,
Makes such a vision to the sight
As fills a father's eyes with light;
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast
Upon his heart, that he at last
Must needs express his love's excess
With words of unmeant bitterness.
Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together
Thoughts so all unlike each other;
To mutter and mock a broken charm,
To dally with wrong that does no harm.
Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty
At each wild word to feel within
A sweet recoil of love and pity.
And what, if in a world of sin
(O sorrow and shame should this be true!)
Such giddiness of heart and brain
Comes seldom save from rage and pain,
So talks as it 's most used to do.
Ode to the West Wind - Percy Bysshe Shelley
I
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave,until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear!
II
Thou on whose stream, ‘mid the steep sky’s commotion,
Loose clouds like Earth’s decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith’s height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear!
III
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae’s bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave’s intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!
IV
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O Uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne’er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.
V
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened Earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
La Belle Dame Sans Merci – John Keats
I.
O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.
5
II.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.
III.
I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
10
IV.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
15
V.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
20
VI.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
25
VII.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
“I love thee true.”
VIII.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
30
IX.
And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dream’d—Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream’d
On the cold hill’s side.
35
X.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!”
40
XI.
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
45
XII.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.
Essays
“Of Truth” – Francis Bacon
WHAT is truth? said jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer. Certainly there be, that
delight in giddiness, and count it a bondage to fix a belief; affecting free-will in thinking, as well
as in acting. And though the sects of philosophers of that kind be gone, yet there remain certain
discoursing wits, which are of the same veins, though there be not so much blood in them, as was
in those of the ancients. But it is not only the difficulty and labor, which men take in finding out
of truth, nor again, that when it is found, it imposeth upon men’s thoughts, that doth bring lies in
favor; but a natural, though corrupt love, of the lie itself. One of the later school of the Grecians,
examineth the matter, and is at a stand, to think what should be in it, that men should love lies;
where neither they make for pleasure, as with poets, nor for advantage, as with the merchant; but
for the lie’s sake. But I cannot tell; this same truth, is a naked, and open day-light, that doth not
show the masks, and mummeries, and triumphs, of the world, half so stately and daintily as
candle-lights. Truth may perhaps come to the price of a pearl, that showeth best by day; but it
will not rise to the price of a diamond, or carbuncle, that showeth best in varied lights. A mixture
of a lie doth ever add pleasure. Doth any man doubt, that if there were taken out of men’s minds,
vain opinions, flattering hopes, false valuations, imaginations as one would, and the like, but it
would leave the minds, of a number of men, poor shrunken things, full of melancholy and
indisposition, and unpleasing to themselves?
One of the fathers, in great severity, called poesy vinumdaemonum, because it fireth the
imagination; and yet, it is but with the shadow of a lie. But it is not the lie that passeth through
the mind, but the lie that sinketh in, and settleth in it, that doth the hurt; such as we spake of
before. But howsoever these things are thus in men’s depraved judgments, and affections, yet
truth, which only doth judge itself, teacheth that the inquiry of truth, which is the love-making, or
wooing of it, the knowledge of truth, which is the presence of it, and the belief of truth, which is
the enjoying of it, is the sovereign good of human nature. The first creature of God, in the works
of the days, was the light of the sense; the last, was the light of reason; and his sabbath work ever
since, is the illumination of his Spirit. First he breathed light, upon the face of the matter or
chaos; then he breathed light, into the face of man; and still he breatheth and inspireth light, into
the face of his chosen. The poet, that beautified the sect, that was otherwise inferior to the rest,
saith yet excellently well: It is a pleasure, to stand upon the shore, and to see ships tossed upon
the sea; a pleasure, to stand in the window of a castle, and to see a battle, and the adventures
thereof below: but no pleasure is comparable to the standing upon the vantage ground of truth (a
hill not to be commanded, and where the air is always clear and serene), and to see the errors,
and wanderings, and mists, and tempests, in the vale below; so always that this prospect be with
pity, and not with swelling, or pride. Certainly, it is heaven upon earth, to have a man’s mind
move in charity, rest in providence, and turn upon the poles of truth.
To pass from theological, and philosophical truth, to the truth of civil business; it will be
acknowledged, even by those that practise it not, that clear, and round dealing, is the honor of
man’s nature; and that mixture of falsehoods, is like alloy in coin of gold and silver, which may
make the metal work the better, but it embaseth it. For these winding, and crooked courses, are
the goings of the serpent; which goeth basely upon the belly, and not upon the feet. There is no
vice, that doth so cover a man with shame, as to be found false and perfidious. And therefore
Montaigne saith prettily, when he inquired the reason, why the word of the lie should be such a
disgrace, and such an odious charge? Saith he, If it be well weighed, to say that a man lieth, is as
much to say, as that he is brave towards God, and a coward towards men. For a lie faces God,
and shrinks from man. Surely the wickedness of falsehood, and breach of faith, cannot possibly
be so highly expressed, as in that it shall be the last peal, to call the judgments of God upon the
generations of men; it being foretold, that when Christ cometh, he shall not find faith upon the
earth.
“The Character of Will Wimble”– Joseph Addison
As I was yesterday morning walking with Sir Roger before his house, a country fellow brought
him a huge fish, which, he told him, Mr. William Wimble had caught that very morning ; and
that lie presented it with his service to him, and intended to come and dine with him. At the same
time he delivered a letter, which my friend read to me as soon as the messenger left him.
Sir Roger,
I desire you to accept of a jack, which is the best I have caught this season. I intend to come and
stay with you a week, and see how the perch bite in the Black river. I observed with some
concern, the last time I saw you upon the bowling-green, that your whip wanted a lash to it ; I
will bring half a dozen with me that I twisted last week, which I hope will serve you all the time
you are in the country. I have not been out of the saddle for six days last past, having been at
Eton with Sir John's eldest son. He takes to his learning hugely.
I am, Sir, your humble Servant,
"Will Wimble."
This extraordinary letter, and message that accompanied it, made me very curious to know the
character and quality of the gentleman who sent them ; which I found to be as follows — Will
Wimble is younger brother to a baronet, and descended of the ancient family of the Wimbles. He
is now between forty and fifty; but being bred to no business, and born to no estate, he generally
lives with his elder brother as superintendent of his game. He hunts a pack of dogs better than
any man in the country, and is very famous for finding out a hare. He is extremely well versed in
all the little handicrafts of an idle man; he makes a May-fly to a miracle; and furnishes the whole
country with angle-rods. As he is a good-natured, officious fellow, and very much esteemed
upon account of his family, he is a welcome guest at every house, and keeps up a good
correspondence among all the gentlemen about him. He carries a tulip root in his pocket from
one to another, or exchanges a puppy between a couple of friends that live perhaps in the
opposite sides of the county. Will is a particular favourite of all the young heirs, whom he
frequently obliges with a net that he hasweaved, or a setting dog that he has made himself; he
now and then presents a pair of garters of his own knitting to their mothers or sisters ; and raises
a great deal of mirth among them, by inquiring, as often as he meets them," how they wear
?"These gentleman-like manufactures, and obliging little humours, make Will the darling of the
country.
Sir Roger was proceeding in the character of him, when he saw him make up to us with two or
three hazel-twigs in his hand, that he had cut in Sir Roger's woods as he came through them in
his way to the house. I was very much pleased to observe on one side the hearty and sincere
welcome with which Sir Roger received him, and on the other, the secret joy which his guest
discovered at sight of the good old knight. After the first salutes were over, Will desired Sir
Roger to lend him one of his servants to carry a set of shuttlecocks, he had with him in a little
box, to a lady that lived about a mile off, to whom it seems he had promised such a present for
above this half-year. Sir Roger's back was no sooner turned, but honest Will began to tell me of a
large cock pheasant that he had sprung in one of the neighbouring woods, with two or three other
adventures of the same nature. Odd and uncommon characters are the game that I look for, and
most delight in ; for which reason I was as much pleased with the novelty of the person that
talked to me, as he could be for his life with the springing of a pheasant, and therefore listened to
him with more than ordinary attention.
In the midst of his discourse the bell rang to dinner, where the gentleman I have been speaking of
had the pleasure of seeing the huge jack he had caught, served up for the first dish in a most
sumptuous manner. Upon our sitting down to it, he gave us a long account how he had hooked it,
played with it, foiled it, and at length drew it out upon the bank, with several other particulars,
that lasted all the first course. A dish of wild fowl,that came afterwards, furnished conversation
for the rest of the dinner, which concluded with a late invention of Will's for improving the
quail-pipe.
Upon withdrawing into my room after dinner, I was secretly touched with compassion towards
the honest gentleman that had dined with us; and could not but consider, with a great deal of
concern, how so good an heart, and such busy hands, were wholly employed in trifles; that so
much humanity should be so little beneficial to others, and so much industry so little
advantageous to himself. The same temper of mind, and application to affairs, might have
recommended him to the public esteem, and have raised,
his fortune in another station of life. What good to his country, or himself, might not a trader or
merchant have done with such useful, though ordinary, qualifications? Will Wimble's is the case
of many a younger brother of a great family, who had rather see their children starve like
gentlemen, than thrive in a trade or profession that is beneath their quality. Thishumour fills
several parts of Europe with pride and beggary. It is the happiness of a trading nation, like ours,
that the younger sons, though incapable of any liberal art or profession, may be placed in such a
way of life, as may perhaps enable them to vie with the best of their family. Accordingly, we
find several citizens that were launched into the world with narrow fortunes, rising by an honest
industry to greater estates than those of their elder brothers. It is not improbable but Will was
formerly tried at divinity, law, or physic; and that finding his genius did not lie that way, his
parents gave him up at length to his own inventions. But certainly, however improper he might
have been for studies of a higher nature, he was perfectly well turned for the occupations of trade
and commerce.
“Beau Tibbs at Home” – Oliver Goldsmith
THOUGH naturally pensive, yet I am fond of gay company, and take every opportunity 1
of thus dismissing the mind from duty. From this motive I am often found in the centre
of a crowd, and wherever pleasure is to be sold am always a purchaser. In those places,
without being remarked by any, I join in whatever goes forward; work my passions into
a similitude of frivolous earnestness, shout as they shout, and condemn as they happen
to disapprove. A mind thus sunk for a while below its natural standard is qualified for
stronger flights, as those first retire who would spring forward with greater vigour.
Attracted by the serenity of the evening, my friend and I lately went to gaze upon the 2
company in one of the public walks near the city. Here we sauntered together for some
time, either praising the beauty of such as were handsome, or the dresses of such as had
nothing else to recommend them. We had gone thus deliberately forward for some time,
when stopping on a sudden, my friend caught me by the elbow and led me out of the
public walk. I could perceive by the quickness of his pace, and by his frequently
looking behind, that he was attempting to avoid somebody who followed: we now
turned to the right, then to the left; as we went forward, he still went faster, but in vain;
the person whom he attempted to escape hunted us through every doubling, and gained
upon us at each moment, so that at last we fairly stood still, resolving to face what we
could not avoid.
Our pursuer came up and joined us with all the familiarity of an old acquaintance. 3
“My dear Drybone,” cries he, shaking my friend’s hand, “where have you been hiding
this half a century? Positively I had fancied you were gone down to cultivate
matrimony and your estate in the country.” During the reply I had an opportunity of
surveying the appearance of our new companion: his hat was pinched up with peculiar
smartness; his looks were pale, thin, and sharp; round his neck he wore a broad black
riband, and in his bosom a buckle studded with glass; his coat was trimmed with
tarnished twist; he wore by his side a sword with a black hilt; and his stockings of silk,
though newly washed, were grown yellow by long service. I was so much engaged with
the peculiarity of his dress that I attended only to the latter part of my friend’s reply, in
which he complimented Mr. Tibbs on the taste of his clothes, and the bloom in his
countenance. “Pshaw, pshaw, Will!” cried the figure, “no more of that if you love me;
you know I hate flattery—on my soul I do; and yet, to be sure, an intimacy with the
great will improve one’s appearance, and a course of venison will fatten; and yet, faith,
I despise the great as much as you do; but there are a great many damn’d honest fellows
among them, and we must not quarrel with one half because the other wants weeding. If
they were all such as Lord Mudler, one of the most good-natured creatures that ever
squeezed a lemon, I should myself be among the number of their admirers. I was
yesterday to dine at the Duchess of Piccadilly’s. My lord was there. ‘Ned,’ says he to
me, ‘Ned,’ says he, ‘I’ll hold gold to silver I can tell you where you were poaching last
night.’—‘Poaching, my lord?’ says I, ‘faith you have missed already; for I stayed at
home and let the girls poach for me. That’s my way. I take a fine woman as some
animals do their prey—stand still, and swoop, they fall into my mouth.”
“Ah, Tibbs, thou art a happy fellow,” cried my companion, with looks of infinite pity; 4
“I hope your fortune is as much improved as your understanding in such
company.”—“Improved,” replied the other; “you shall know—but let it go no
further—a great secret—five hundred a year to begin with. My lord’s word of honour
for it. His lordship took me down in his own chariot yesterday and we had a tête-a-tête
dinner in the country, where we talked of nothing else.”—“I fancy you forget, sir,”
cried I, “you told us but this moment of your dining yesterday in town.”—“Did I say
so?” replied he coolly; “to be sure, if I said so, it was so—Dined in town; egad, now I
do remember, I did dine in town; but I dined in the country too, for you must know, my
boys, I eat two dinners. By the bye I am grown as nice as the devil in my eating. I’ll tell
you a pleasant affair about that:—We were a select party of us to dine at Lady
Grogram’s—an affected piece, but let it go no further—a secret. Well, there happened
to be no assafœtida in the sauce to a turkey, upon which, says I, ‘I’ll hold a thousand
guineas and say done first, that——’ But dear Drybone, you are an honest creature,
lend me half-a-crown for a minute or two, or so, just till——But hearkee, ask me for it
the next time we meet, or it may be twenty to one I forget to pay you.”
When he left us, our conversation naturally turned upon so extraordinary a character. 5
“His very dress,” cries my friend, “is not less extraordinary than his conduct. If you
meet him this day, you find him in rags; if the next, in embroidery. With those persons
of distinction of whom he talks so familiarly he has scarce a coffee-house acquaintance.
However, both for the interests of society, and perhaps for his own, Heaven has made
him poor, and while all the world perceive his wants, he fancies them concealed from
every eye. An agreeable companion because he understands flattery; and all must be
pleased with the first part of his conversation, though all are sure of its ending with a
demand on their purse. While his youth countenances the levity of his conduct, he may
thus earn a precarious subsistence; but when age comes on, the gravity of which is
incompatible with buffoonery, then will he find himself forsaken by all; condemned in
the decline of life to hang upon some rich family whom he once despised, there to
undergo all the ingenuity of studied contempt, to be employed as a spy upon the
servants, or a bugbear to fright the children into obedience.” Adieu.
I am apt to fancy I have contracted a new acquaintance whom it will be no easy matter 6
to shake off. My little Beau yesterday overtook me again in one of the public walks,
and slapping me on the shoulder, saluted me with an air of the most perfect familiarity.
His dress was the same as usual, except that he had more powder in his hair, wore a
dirtier shirt, a pair of temple spectacles, and his hat under his arm.
As I knew him to be a harmless amusing little thing I could not return his smiles with 7
any degree of severity; so we walked forward on terms of the utmost intimacy, and in a
few minutes discussed all the usual topics preliminary to particular conversation. The
oddities that marked his character, however, soon began to appear; he bowed to several
well-dressed persons, who, by their manner of returning the compliment, appeared
perfect strangers. At intervals he drew out a pocket-book, seeming to take
memorandums before all the company, with much importance and assiduity. In this
manner he led me through the length of the whole walk, fretting at his absurdities and
fancying myself laughed at not less than him by every spectator.
When we were got to the end of our procession, “Blast me,” cries he with an air of 8
vivacity, “I never saw the Park so thin in my life before. There’s no company at all today; not a single face to be seen.”—“No company!” interrupted I peevishly; “no
company where there is such a crowd? Why, man, there’s too much. What are the
thousands that have been laughing at us but company?”—“Lord, my dear,” returned he
with the utmost good humour, “you seem immensely chagrined; but, blast me, when the
world laughs at me, I laugh at the world, and so we are even. My Lord Trip, Bill Squash
the Creolian, and I sometimes make a party at being ridiculous, and so we say and do a
thousand things for the joke’s sake. But I see you are grave, and if you are for a fine
grave sentimental companion, you shall dine with me and my wife to-day; I must insist
on’t. I’ll introduce you to Mrs. Tibbs, a lady of as elegant qualifications as any in
nature; she was bred (but that’s between ourselves) under the inspection of the Countess
of All-night. A charming body of voice; but no more of that—she shall give us a song.
You shall see my little girl too, Carolina Wilhelma Amelia Tibbs, a sweet pretty
creature: I design her for my Lord Drumstick’s eldest son; but that’s in friendship, let it
go no further: she’s but six years old, and yet she walks a minuet, and plays on the
guitar immensely already. I intend she shall be as perfect as possible in every
accomplishment. In the first place I’ll make her a scholar: I’ll teach her Greek myself,
and learn that language purposely to instruct her; but let that be a secret.”
Thus saying, without waiting for a reply, he took me by the arm and hauled me along. 9
We passed through many dark alleys and winding ways; for, from some motives to me
unknown, he seemed to have a particular aversion to every frequented street; at last,
however, we got to the door of a dismal-looking house in the outlets of the town, where
he informed me he chose to reside for the benefit of the air.
We entered the lower door, which ever seemed to lie most hospitably open, and I 10
began to ascend an old and creaking staircase, when, as he mounted to show me the
way, he demanded whether I delighted in prospects; to which answering in the
affirmative, “Then,” says he, “I shall show you one of the most charming in the world
out of my window; we shall see the ships sailing, and the whole country for twenty
miles round, tip top, quite high. My Lord Swamp would give ten thousand guineas for
such a one; but, as I sometimes pleasantly tell him, I always love to keep my prospects
at home, that my friends may see me the oftener.”
By this time we were arrived as high as the stairs would permit us to ascend, till we 11
came to what he was facetiously pleased to call the first floor down the chimney; and
knocking at the door a voice from within demanded, “Who’s there?” My conductor
answered that it was him. But this not satisfying the querist, the voice again repeated
the demand; to which he answered louder than before; and now the door was opened by
an old woman with cautious reluctance.
When we were got in, he welcomed me to his house with great ceremony, and turning 12
to the old woman asked where was her lady? “Good troth,” replied she in a peculiar
dialect, “she’s washing your twa shirts at the next door, because they have taken an oath
against lending out the tub any longer.”—“My two shirts!” cried he in a tone that
faltered with confusion; “what does the idiot mean?”—“I ken what I mean weel
enough,” replied the other; “she’s washing your twa shirts at the next door because-”
“Fire and fury, no more of thy stupid exclamations!” cried he; “go and inform her we
have got company. Were that Scotch hag,” continued he, turning to me, “to be forever
in my family, she would never learn politeness, nor forget that absurd poisonous accent
of hers, or testify the smallest specimen of breeding or high life; and yet it is very
surprising too, as I had her from a Parliament man, a friend of mine from the Highlands,
one of the politest men in the world; but that’s a secret.”
We waited some time for Mrs. Tibbs’ arrival, during which interval I had a full 13
opportunity of surveying the chamber and all its furniture, which consisted of four
chairs with old wrought bottoms, that he assured me were his wife’s embroidery; a
square table that had been once japanned; a cradle in one corner, a lumbering cabinet in
the other; a broken shepherdess and a mandarin without a head were stuck over the
chimney; and round the walls several paltry unframed pictures, which, he observed,
were all his own drawing. “What do you think, sir, of that head in the corner, done in
the manner of Grisoni? there’s the true keeping in it; it is my own face, and though
there happens to be no likeness, a Countess offered me a hundred for its fellow: I
refused her, for, hang it, that would be mechanical, you know.”
The wife at last made her appearance, at once a slattern and a coquette; much 14
emaciated, but still carrying the remains of beauty. She made twenty apologies for
being seen in such odious dishabille, but hoped to be excused as she had stayed out all
night at the gardens with the Countess, who was excessively fond of the horns. 1 “And,
indeed, my dear,” added she, turning to her husband, “his lordship drank your health in
a bumper.”—“Poor Jack!” cries he, “a dear good-natured creature, I know he loves me.
But I hope, my dear, you have given orders for the dinner; you need make no great
preparations neither, there are but three of us; something elegant, and little will do—a
turbot, an ortolan, a--” “Or what do you think, my dear,” interrupts the wife, “of a nice
pretty bit of ox-cheek, piping hot, and dressed with a little of my own sauce?”—“The
very thing,” replies he; “it will eat best with some smart bottled beer; but be sure to let
us have the sauce his Grace was so fond of. I hate your immense loads of meat; that is
country all over; extremely disgusting to those who are in the least acquainted with high
life.”
By this time my curiosity began to abate, and my appetite to increase; the company of
fools may at first make us smile, but at last never fails of rendering us melancholy. I
therefore pretended to recollect a prior engagement, and, after having shown my respect
to the house, according to the fashion of the English, by giving the old servant a piece
of money at the door, I took my leave; Mr. Tibbs assuring me, that dinner, if I stayed,
would be ready at least in less than two hours.
Dream-Children: A Reverie - Charles Lamb
Children love to listen to stories about their elders, when they were children; to stretch
their imagination to the conception of a traditionary great-uncle, or grandame, whom
they never saw. It was in this spirit that my little ones crept about me the other evening
to hear about their great-grandmother Field, who lived in a great house in Norfolk (a
hundred times bigger than that in which they and papa lived) which had been the scene
— so at least it was generally believed in that part of the country — of the tragic
incidents which they had lately become familiar with from the ballad of the Children in
the Wood. Certain it is that the whole story of the children and their cruel uncle was to
be seen fairly carved out in wood upon the chimney-piece of the great hall, the whole
story down to the Robin Redbreasts, till a foolish rich person pulled it down to set up a
marble one of modern invention in its stead, with no story upon it. Here Alice put out
one of her dear mother’s looks, too tender to be called upbraiding. Then I went on to
say, how religious and how good their great-grandmother Field was, how beloved and
respected by every body, though she was not indeed the mistress of this great house, but
had only the charge of it (and yet in some respects she might be said to be the mistress
of it too) committed to her by the owner, who preferred living in a newer and more
fashionable mansion which he had purchased somewhere in the adjoining county; but
still she lived in it in a manner as if it had been her own, and kept up the dignity of the
great house in a sort while she lived, which afterwards came to decay, and was nearly
pulled down, and all its old ornaments stripped and carried away to the owner’s other
house, where they were set up, and looked as awkward as if some one were to carry
away the old tombs they had seen lately at the Abbey, and stick them up in Lady C.‘s
tawdry gilt drawing-room. Here John smiled, as much as to say, “that would be foolish
indeed.” And then I told how, when she came to die, her funeral was attended by a
concourse of all the poor, and some of the gentry too, of the neighbourhood for many
miles round, to show their respect for her memory, because she had been such a good
and religious woman; so good indeed that she knew all the Psaltery by heart, ay, and a
great part of the Testament besides. Here little Alice spread her hands. Then I told what
a tall, upright, graceful person their great-grandmother Field once was; and how in her
youth she was esteemed the best dancer — here Alice’s little right foot played an
involuntary movement, till, upon my looking grave, it desisted — the best dancer, I was
saying, in the county, till a cruel disease, called a cancer, came, and bowed her down
with pain; but it could never bend her good spirits, or make them stoop, but they were
still upright, because she was so good and religious. Then I told how she was used to
sleep by herself in a lone chamber of the great lone house; and how she believed that an
apparition of two infants was to be seen at midnight gliding up and down the great
staircase near where she slept, but she said, “those innocents would do her no harm;”
and how frightened I used to be, though in those days I had my maid to sleep with me,
because I was never half so good or religious as she — and yet I never saw the infants.
Here John expanded all his eye-brows and tried to look courageous. Then I told how
good she was to all her grand-children, having us to the great-house in the holydays,
where I in particular used to spend many hours by myself, in gazing upon the old busts
of the Twelve Cæsars, that had been Emperors of Rome, till the old marble heads would
seem to live again, or I to be turned into marble with them; how I never could be tired
with roaming about that huge mansion, with its vast empty rooms, with their worn-out
hangings, fluttering tapestry, and carved oaken pannels, with the gilding almost rubbed
out — sometimes in the spacious old-fashioned gardens, which I had almost to myself,
unless when now and then a solitary gardening man would cross me — and how the
nectarines and peaches hung upon the walls, without my ever offering to pluck them,
because they were forbidden fruit, unless now and then — and because I had more
pleasure in strolling about among the old melancholy-looking yew trees, or the firs, and
picking up the red berries, and the fir apples, which were good for nothing but to look at
— or in lying about upon the fresh grass, with all the fine garden smells around me —
or basking in the orangery, till I could almost fancy myself ripening too along with the
oranges and the limes in that grateful warmth — or in watching the dace that darted to
and fro in the fish-pond, at the bottom of the garden, with here and there a great sulky
pike hanging midway down the water in silent state, as if it mocked at their impertinent
friskings — I had more pleasure in these busy-idle diversions than in all the sweet
flavours of peaches, nectarines, oranges, and such like common baits of children. Here
John slyly deposited back upon the plate a bunch of grapes, which, not unobserved by
Alice, he had meditated dividing with her, and both seemed willing to relinquish them
for the present as irrelevant. Then in somewhat a more heightened tone, I told how,
though their great-grandmother Field loved all her grand-children, yet in an especial
manner she might be said to love their uncle, John L— — because he was so handsome
and spirited a youth, and a king to the rest of us; and, instead of moping about in
solitary corners, like some of us, he would mount the most mettlesome horse he could
get, when but an imp no bigger than themselves, and make it carry him half over the
county in a morning, and join the hunters when there were any out — and yet he loved
the old great house and gardens too, but had too much spirit to be always pent up within
their boundaries — and how their uncle grew up to man’s estate as brave as he was
handsome, to the admiration of every body, but of their great-grandmother Field most
especially; and how he used to carry me upon his back when I was a lame-footed boy
— for he was a good bit older than me — many a mile when I could not walk for pain;
— and how in after life he became lame-footed too, and I did not always (I fear) make
allowances enough for him when he was impatient, and in pain, nor remember
sufficiently how considerate he had been to me when I was lame-footed; and how when
he died, though he had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he had died a great while
ago, such a distance there is betwixt life and death; and how I bore his death as I
thought pretty well at first, but afterwards it haunted and haunted me; and though I did
not cry or take it to heart as some do, and as I think he would have done if I had died,
yet I missed him all day long, and knew not till then how much I had loved him. I
missed his kindness, and I missed his crossness, and wished him to be alive again, to be
quarrelling with him (for we quarreled sometimes), rather than not have him again, and
was as uneasy without him, as he their poor uncle must have been when the doctor took
off his limb. Here the children fell a crying, and asked if their little mourning which
they had on was not for uncle John, and they looked up, and prayed me not to go on
about their uncle, but to tell them some stories about their pretty dead mother. Then I
told how for seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes in despair, yet persisting
ever, I courted the fair Alice W— n; and, as much as children could understand, I
explained to them what coyness, and difficulty, and denial meant in maidens — when
suddenly, turning to Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes with such a
reality of representment, that I became in doubt which of them stood there before me, or
whose that bright hair was; and while I stood gazing, both the children gradually grew
fainter to my view, receding, and still receding till nothing at last but two mournful
features were seen in the uttermost distance, which, without speech, strangely
impressed upon me the effects of speech; “We are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor are we
children at all. The children of Alice called Bartrum father. We are nothing; less than
nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the
tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name”— and
immediately awaking, I found myself quietly seated in my bachelor arm-chair, where I
had fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget unchanged by my side — but John L. (or
James Elia) was gone forever.