Climate is dependent on temperature, winds, the elevation of land, soil, ranges of mountains, and proximity of bodies of water; and it is also the expression, if we may so term it, of the changes in the atmosphere sensibly affecting our organs. Humboldt refers it to humidity, temperature, changes in barometric pressure, calmness or agitation of the air, amount of electric force, and transparency of the sky.
When mountains range themselves in lines of latitude across a continent, they are barriers to civilization, to the mingling of races, and the union of states. Thus, the Pyrenees have always kept France and Spain apart, the Alps and the Apennines have secluded Switzerland from its neighbors. In our own country, Providence has placed our great mountains on a northern and southern axis; the slopes, the direction, the prevailing winds, the facilities for transportation and travel favor no one of our northern, southern, and western States more than another.
Climate affects vegetation and the distribution of animal life, and thus greatly modifies commerce.
Whatever of importance is accomplished in those countries where climate has overpowered a race is best and principally done by the men of the temperate zones, who carry with them perseverance, courage, and ability, and maintain their ascendency, true to their type, while they have their life to live.
But with our own eyes we may perceive how much climate affects agriculture. The humidity or dryness of soils, their natural or acquired heat or cold, the prevailing winds, the quantity of rain, the snows, the dews, all affect the planter of the seed and the tiller of the ground; they increase or diminish the aggregate of the products of countries, the value of their imports and exports, -in short, their material power, their resources, their influence, their very existence.
The climate of our own country is exceedingly variable. The transitions from heat to cold are very sudden, the range of the mercury is very great. In the North, we have almost the Arctic winters; in the South, almost the peculiarities of the tropics. Of the State of Pennsylvania it has been said, that in this respect it is a compound of all the countries in the world. Mr. Jefferson and Dr. Rush, as before observed, insisted that our climate has changed; and Williams, the historian of Vermont, contends that New England has deteriorated in its seasons, temperature, harvests, and health, since its early settlement. Our winds blow from every point of the compass, but a due north wind is very rare. Our great western lakes have a large influence on our climate. Some learned men have asserted, that, if they were land, their area being about ninety-four thousand square miles, the region would be so cold as to be scarcely inhabitable.
Such is an outline of our subject. The science itself is by no means systematized. Many things are taken for granted which may yet be disproved. If, says Humboldt, we perceive a want of connection in the phenomena of certain sciences, we may anticipate the revelation of new facts, whose importance will probably be commensurate with the attention directed to other branches of study. What we want is a larger class of observers, and not only those who are professional persons, but those who would commune with Nature, and seek to invigorate their minds by the acquisition of new ideas, and a recourse to rich and pure sources of enjoyment.
But more than this. It is a requirement of the present age, says the same authority, that there should be an equal appreciation of all branches of mathematical and physical science; for the material wealth and the growing prosperity of nations are principally based upon a more enlightened employment of the products and forces of Nature.
Much attention has of late years been paid to this subject. Many distinguished men in Europe have connected their great reputations indissolubly with it, and it is absolutely true that more persons are engaged in a common effort to promote this science than any other of our time. In Paris there is a large and flourishing society where the most brilliant of its savans combine their efforts. In London, that which was established in 1850 has met with remarkable success, and a most unexpected crowd of supporters. The finest instruments, the most accurate observations, and entire uniformity of purpose have been the result. In Germany, equal zeal prevails among its naturalists. There are more than eight hundred stations throughout the world where regular observations are made, and upwards of three hundred and sixty of them are in the United States. The Smithsonian Institution has been also a wise patron of this science, by its numerous publications, its lucid directions for observing meteorological changes, and the bestowal of standard instruments in large numbers to efficient and well-placed observers. By a recent arrangement, a portion of this work is to be performed by the Patent Office.
Observation, and accuracy in observation, are the foundation of this science. The results are compared to the leaves of a book, which will some day be arranged and bound together in one volume. The instruments in use are delicate, ingenious, and indispensable. Their history, uses, and importance would be topic enough for a separate article.
While at the first view Meteorology may appear to occupy but a limited sphere, upon a closer examination it will be found to embrace almost all the sciences, and to be commensurate with Nature itself. It is continually influencing us, by its agencies appealing to our senses, ministering to our wants, and governing our conduct.
Its influence upon its votaries is equally remarkable; for, as a rule, they are distinguished among the learned, their characters are in harmony with their pursuits, and they are recognized everywhere for disinterestedness, philanthropy, and public and private virtue. While Mental Philosophy, has made but little progress since the times of Plato, and the world is but little better for scholastic disputations, Natural Science has civilized man, elevated his condition, increased the circle of his exertions, and, by the development of some of its simplest principles, united the intelligent, the learned, the enterprising, and the virtuous of all nations into a recognized and a noble brotherhood.
TREASURE-TROVE
Once, the Castle of Chalus, crowned
With sullen battlements, stood and frowned
On the sullen plain around it;
But Richard of England came one day,
And the Castle of Chalus passed away
In such a rapid and sure decay
No modern yet has found it.
Who has not heard of the Lion King
Who made the harps of the minstrels ring?
Oh, well they might imagine it
Hard for chivalry's ranks to show
A knight more gallant to face a foe,
With a firmer lance or a heavier blow,
Than Richard I. Plantagenet;
Or gayer withal: for he loved his joke,
As well as he loved, with slashing stroke,
The haughtiest helm to hack at:
Wine or blood he laughingly poured;
'Twas a lightsome word or a heavy sword,
As he found a foe or a festive board,
With a skull or a joke to crack at.
Yet some their candid belief avow,
That, if Richard lived in England now,
And his lot were only a common one,
He ne'er had meddled with kings or states,
But might have been a bruiser of pates
And champion now of the "heavy weights,"
A first-rate "Fighting Phenomenon."
A vassal bound in peace and war
To Richard I. was Vidomar,
A noble as proud and needy
As ever before that monarch bowed,
But not so needy and not so proud
As the monarch himself was greedy.
Vicomte was he of the Limousin,
Where stones were thick and crops were thin,
And profits small and slow to come in.
But slow and sure, the father's plan, did
Not suit the son. Sire lived close-handed;
Became, not rich, but very landed.
The only debt that ever he made
Was Nature's debt, and that he paid
About the time of the Third Crusade,
A time when the fashion was fully set
By Richard of running in tilts and debt,
When plumes were high and prudence low,
And every knight felt bound to "go
The pace," and just like Richard do,
By running his purse and a Paynim through.
Yet do not suppose that Vidomar
Was ever a knight in the Holy War:
For Richard many a Saracen's head
Had lopped before the old Count was dead;
And Richard was home from Palestine,
Home from the dungeon of Tiernstein,
And many a Christian corpse had made,
Ere the time in which the story is laid.
But the fashion he set became so strong,
That Vidomar was hurried along,
And did as many a peer has done
On reaching a title and twenty-one,
And met the fate that will meet a peer
Who lives in state on nothing a year.
Deserted by all, except some Jews,
Holding old post-obits and IOUs,
Who hunted him up and hunted him down,
He left Limoges, the capital town,
For his country castle Chalus,
(As spendthrift lords to Boulogne repair,
To give their estates a chance to air,)
And went to turning fallows;
At least, he ordered it, (much the same,)
And went himself in pursuit of game
Or any rural pleasure,
Till one fine day, as he rode away,
A serf came running behind to say
They'd found a crock of treasure.
No more he thought of hawk or hound,
But spurred to the spot, and there he found,
Beyond his boldest thoughts,
A sum to set him afloat again,
The leading figure, 'twas very plain,
Was followed by several 0s.
Oh, who can tell of the schemes that flew
Through his head, as the treasure met his view,
And he knew that again his note was good?
He may have felt as a debtor would
Who has dodged a dogging dun,
Or a bank-cashier in his hour of dread
With brokers behind and breakers ahead,
Or a blood with his last "upon the red,"
And each expecting a run.
What should he do? 'Twas very true
That all of his debts were overdue;
But the "real- whole-souled" must use their gold
To run new scores,not to pay off old.
That night he lay till the break of day,
The doubtful question solving:
Himself in his bed, and that in his head,
He kept by turns revolving.
That selfsame day, not very far
From the country castle of Vidomar,
The king had been progressing:
A courtly phrase, when the king was out
On a chivalrous bender; any route
As good as another: what about
Were little good in guessing.
That night, as he sat and drank, he frowned,
While courtiers moodily stood around,
All wondering what the journey meant,
Till a scout reported, "Treasure found!"
With a rap that made the glasses bound,
He swore, "By Arthur's table round,
I'll have another tournament!"
No more, as he sat and drank, he frowned,
Or courtiers moodily stood around,
But all were singing, drinking;
And louder than all the songs he led,
And louder he said, "Ho! pass the red!"
Till he went to bed with a ring in his head
That seemed like gold a- chinking.
'Twere wrong to infer from what you're read
That Richard awoke with an aching head;
For nerves like his resisted
With wonderful ease what we might deem
Enough to stagger a Polypheme,
And his spirits would never more than seem
A trifle too much "assisted."
And yet in the morn no fumes were there,
And his eyes were bright,almost as a pair
Of eyes that you and I know;
For his head, the best authorities write,
(See the Story of Tuck,) was always right
And sound as ever after a night
Of "Pellite curas vino!"
As soon as the light broke into his tent,
Without delay for a herald he sent,
And bade him don his tabard,
And away to the Count to say, "By law
That gold was the king's: unless he saw
The same ere noon, his sword he would draw
And throw away the scabbard."
An hour, for his morning exercise,
He swayed that sword of wondrous size,
'Twas called his great "persuader";
Then a mace of steel he smote in two,
A feat which the king would often do,
Since Saladin wondered at that coup
When he met our stout crusader.
A trifle for him: he "trained to light,"
Grown lazy now: but his appetite,
On the whole, was satisfactory,
As the vanishing viands, warm and cold,
Most amply proved, ere, minus the gold,
The herald returned and trembling told
How the Count had proved refractory:
Had owned it true that his serfs had found
A treasure buried somewhere in the ground,
Perhaps not strictly a nugget:
Though none but Norman lawyers chose
To count it tort, if the finders "froze"
To treasure-trove,especially those
Who held the land where they dug it,
For quits he'd give up half,down,cash;
And that, for one who had gone to smash,
Was a liberal restitution:
His neighbor Shent-per-Shent did sue
On a better claim, and put it through,
Recovered his suit, but not a sou
At the tail of an execution.
Coeur gazed around with the ominous glare
Of the lion deprived of the lion's share,
A look there was no mistaking,
A look which the courtiers never saw
Without a sudden desire to draw
Away from the sweep of the lion's paw
Before their bones were aching.
He caught the herald,'twas by the slack
Of garments below and behind his back,
Then twirled him round for a minute;
And when at last he let him free,
He shied him at a neighboring tree,
A distance of thirty yards and three,
And lodged him handsomely in it:
Then seized his ponderous battle-axe,
And bade his followers mount their hacks,
With a look on his countenance so stern,
So little of fun, so full of fight,
That, when he came in the Count's full sight,
In something of haste and more of fright,
The Count rode out of the postern;
And crowding leagues from his angry liege,
He left his castle to storm or siege,
His poor beef-eaters to hold out,
Or save themselves as well as they could,
Or be food for crows: what noble should
Waste thought on such? As a noble would,
He prudently smuggled the gold out.
In the feudal days, in the good old times
Of feudal virtues and feudal crimes,
A point of honor they'd make in it,
Though sure in the end their flag must fall,
To show stout fight and never to call
A truce till they saw a hole in the wall
Or a larder without any steak in it.
The fight began. Shouts filled the air,
"St. George!" "St. Denis!"as here and there
The shock of the battle shifted;
There were catapult-shots and shots by hand,
Ladders with desperate climbers manned,
Rams and rocks, hot lead, and sand
On the heads of the climbers sifted.
But the sturdy churls would not give way,
Though Richard in person rushed to the fray
With all of his rash proclivity
For knocks; till, despairing of knightly fame
In doughty deeds for a doubtful claim,
The hero of Jaffa changed his game
To a masterly inactivity.
He stretched his lines in a circle round,
And pitched his tent on a rising ground
For general supervision
Of both the hostile camps, while he
Could join with Blondel in minstrel glee,
Or drink, or dice with Marcadee,
And they- consume provision.
To starve a garrison day by day
You may not think a chivalrous way
To take a fortification.
The story is dull: by way of relief,
I make a digression, very brief,
And leave the "ins" to swallow their beef,
The "outs" their mortification.
Many there were in Richard's train
More known to fame and of higher degree,
But none that suited his fickle vein
So well as Blondel and Marcadee.
Blondel had grown from a minstrel-boy
To a very romantic troubadour
Whose soul was music, whose song was joy,
Whose only motto was Vive l'amour!
In lady's bower, in lordly hall,
From the king himself to the poorest clown,
A joyous welcome he had from all,
And Care in his presence forgot to frown.
Sadly romantic, fantastic and vain,
His heart for his head still made amends;
For he never sang a malicious strain.
And never was known to fail his friends.
Who but he, when the captive king,
By a brother betrayed, was left to rot,
Would have gone disguised to seek and sing,
Till he heard his tale and the tidings brought?
Little the listening sentries dreamed,
As they watched the king and a minstrel play,
That what but an idle rhyming seemed
Would rouse all England another day!
'Twas the timely aid of a friend in need,
And, seldom as Richard felt the power
Of a service past, he remembered the deed
And cherished him ever from that hour:
He made him his bard, with nought to do
But court the ladies and court the Nine,
And every day bring something new
To sing for the revellers over their wine;
With once a year a pipe of Sherry,
A suit of clothes, and a haunch of venison,
To make himself and his fellows merry,
The salary now of Alfred Tennyson.
Marcadee was a stout Brabançon,
With conscience weak and muscles strong,
Who roamed about from clime to clime,
The side of virtue or yet of crime
Ready to take in a regular way
For any leader and regular pay;
Who trusted steel, and thought it odd
To fear the Devil or honor God.
His forte was not in the field alone,
He was no common fighter,
For in all accomplishments he shone,
At least, in all the lighter.
To lance or lute alike au fait,
With grasp now firm, now light,
He flourished this to knightly lay,
And that to lay a knight.
Ready in fashion to lead the ton,
In the battle-field his men,
He danced like a Zephyr, and, harness on,
Could walk his mile in ten.
And Nature gave him such a frame,
His tailor such a fit,
That, whether a head or a heart his aim,
He always made a hit.
Wherever he went, the ladies dear
Would very soon adore him,
And, quite of course, the lords would sneer,
But never sneer before him!
Perhaps it fared with the ladies worse
Than it fared with their gallants;
For he broke a vow with as slight remorse
As he ever broke a lance.
Thus, tilting here and jilting there,
He fought a foe or he fooled a fair,
But little recking how;
So deadly smooth, so cruel and vain,
He might have made a capital Cain,
Or a splendid dandy now.
In short, if you looked o'er land and sea,
From London to the Niger,
You certainly must have said with me,
If Richard was lion, Marcadee
Might well have been the tiger.
A month went by. They lay there still,
And chafed with nothing but time to kill,
A tough old foe. Observe the way
They laid him out, as thus:One day,
'Twas after dinner and afternoon,
When the noise was over of knife and fork,
And only was heard an occasional cork
And Blondel idly thrumming a tune,
King Richard pushed the wine along,
And rapped the table, and cried, "A song!
Dulness I hold a shame, a sin
Against good wine. Come, Blondel, begin!"
Blondel coughed,was "half afraid,"
Was "out last night on a serenade,
And caught a cold,"his "voice was gone,
And really, just now, his head""Go on!"
He bowed, and swept the chords "Brrrrang"
With a handful of notes, and thus he sang:
BLONDEL.
Life is fleeting,make it pleasant;
Care for nothing but the present;
For the past we leave behind us,
And the future may not find us.
Though we cannot shun its troubles,
Care and sorrow we may banish;
Though its pleasures are but bubbles,
Catch the bubbles ere they vanish.
There is joy we cannot measure,
Joy we may not win with treasure.
When the glance of Beauty thrills us',
When her love with rapture fills us,
Let us seize it ere it passes;
Be our motto, "Love is mighty."
Fill, then, fill your brimming glasses!
Fill, and drink to Aphrodite!
Of course they drank with a right good will,
For they never missed a chance "to fill."
And yet a few, I'm sorry to own,
Made side-remarks in an undertone,
Like those we hear, when, nowadays,
Good-natured friends, with seeming praise,
Contrive to damn. In the midst of the hum
They heard a loud and slashing thrum:
'Twas the king: and each his breath drew in
Till you might have heard a falling pin.
Some little excuse, at first, he made,
While over the lute his fingers strayed:
"You know my way,as the fancies come,
I improvise."There was ink on his thumb.
That morning, alone, good hours he spent
In writing despatches never sent.
RICHARD.
There is pleasure when bright eyes are glancing
And Beauty is willing; but more
When the war-horse is gallantly prancing
And snuffing the battle afar,
When the foe, with his banner advancing,
Is sounding the clarion of war.
Where the battle is deadly and gory,
Where foeman 'gainst foeman is pressed,
Where the path is before me to glory,
Is pleasure for me, and the best.
Let me live in proud chivalry's story,
Or die with my lance in its rest!
The plaudits followed him loud and free
As he tossed the lute to Marcadee,
Who caught it featly, bowing low,
And said, "My liege, I may not know
To improvise; but I'll give a song,
The song of our camp,we've known it long.
It suits not well this tinkle and thrum,
But needs to be heard with a rattling drum.
Ho, there! Tambour!He knows it well,
'The Brabançon!'Now make it tell;
Let your elbows now with a spirit wag
In the outside roll and the double drag."
MARCADEE.
I'm but a soldier of fortune, you see:
Huzza!
Glory and love,they are nothing to me:
Ha, ha!
Glory's soon faded, and love is soon cold:
Give me the solid, reliable gold:
Hurrah for the gold!
Country or king I have none, I am free:
Huzza!
Patriot's quarrel, 'tis harvest for me:
Ha, ha!
A soldier of fortune, my creed is soon told,
I'd fight for the Devil, to pocket his gold:
Hurrah for the gold!
He turned to the king, as he finished the verse,
And threw on the table a heavy purse
With a pair of dice; another, I trow,
Still lurked incog. for a lucky throw:
"'Tis mine; 'twas thine. If the king would play,
Perchance he'd find his revenge to-day.
Gambling, I own, is a fault, a sin;
I always repentunless I win."
Le jeu est fait. "Well thrown! eleven!
My purse is gone.Double-six, by heaven!"
At this unlucky point in the game
A herald was ushered in. He came
With a flag of truce, commissioned to say
The garrison now were willing to lay
The keys of the castle at his feet,
If he'd let them go and let them eat:
They'd done their best; could do no more
Than humbly wait the fortune of war
And Richard's word. It came in tones
That grated harshly:"Dn the bones
And double-six! Marcadee, you've won.
Take back my word to each mother's son,
And tell them Richard swore it:
Be the smoke of their den their funeral pall!
By the Holy Tomb, I'll hang them all!
They've hung out so well behind their wall,
They'll hang out well before it."
Then Richard laughed in his hearty way,
Enjoying his joke, as a monarch may;
He laughed till he ached for want of breath:
If it lacked in life, it was full of death:
Like many, believing the next best thing
To a joke with a point is a joke with a sting.
Loud he laughed; but he laughed not long
Ere he leaped to the back of his charger strong,
And bounded forward, axe on high,
Circling the tents with his battle-cry,
"Away! away! we shall win the day:
In the front of the fight you'll find me:
The first to get in my spurs shall win,
My boots to the wight behind me!"
* * * They have reached the moat;
The draw is up, but a wooden float
Is thrust across, and onward they run;
The bank is gained and the barbican won;
The outer gate goes down with a crash;
Through the portcullis they madly dash,
And with shouts of triumph they now assail
The innermost gate. The crushing hail
Of rocks and beams goes through the mass,
Like the summer-hail on the summer-grass;
They falter, they waver. A stalwart form
Breaks through the ranks, like a bolt in the storm:
'Tis the Lion King!"How, now, ye knaves!
Do ye look for safety? Find your graves!"
One blow to the left, one blow to the right,
Two recreants fall;no more of flight.
One stride to the front, and, stroke on stroke,
His curtle-axe rends the double oak.
Down shower the missiles;they fall in vain;
They scatter like drops from the lion's mane.
He is down,he is up;that right arm! how
'Tis nerved with the strength of twenty, now!
The barrier yields,it shivers,it falls.
"Huzza! Saint George! to the walls! to the walls!
Throw the rate to the moat! cut down! spare not!
No quarter! rememberJesu! I'm shot!"
On a silken pallet lying, under hangings stiff with gold,
Now is Coeur-de-Lion sighing, weakly sighing, he the bold!
For with riches, power, and glory now forever he must part.
They have told him he is dying. Keen remorse is at his heart
Life is grateful, life is glorious, with the pulses bounding high
In a warrior frame victorious: it were easy so to die.
Yet to die is fearful ever; oh, how fearful, when the sum
Of the past is lengthened murder,and a fearful world to come!
Where are now the wretched victims of his wrath? The deed is done.
He has conquered. They have suffered. Yonder, blackening in the sun,
From the battlements they're hanging. Little joy it gives to him
Now to see the work of vengeance, when his eye is growing dim!
One was saved,the daring bowman who the fatal arrow sped;
He was saved, but not for mercy; better numbered with the dead!
Now, relenting, late repenting, Richard turns to Marcadee,
Saying, "Haste, before I waver, bring the captive youth to me."
He is brought, his feet in fetters, heavy shackles on his hands,
And, with eye unflinching, gazing on the king, erect he stands.
He is gazing not in anger, not for insult, not for show;
But his soul, before its leaving, Richard's very soul would know.
Death is certain, death by torture: death for him can have no sting,
If that arrow did its duty,if he share it with the king.
Were he trembling or defiant, were he less or more than bold,
Once again to vengeful fury would he rouse the fiend of old
That in Richard's breast is lurking, ready once again to spring.
Dreading now that vengeful spirit, with a wavering voice, the king
Questions impotently, wildly: "Prisoner, tell me, what of ill
Ever I have done to thee or thine, that me thou wouldest kill?"
Higher, prouder still he bears him; o'er his countenance appear,
Flitting quickly, looks of wonder and of scorn: what does he hear?
"And dost thou ask me, man of blood, what evil thou hast done?
Hast thou so soon forgot thy vow to hang each mother's son?
No! oft as thou hast broken vows, I know them to be strong,
Whene'er thy pride or lust or hate has sworn to do a wrong.
But churls should bow to right divine of kings, for good or ill,
And bare their necks to axe or rope, if 'twere thy royal will?
Ah, hadst thou, Richard, yet to learn the very meanest thing
That crawls the earth in self-defence would turn upon a king?
Yet deem not 'twas the hope of life which led me to the deed:
I'd freely lose a thousand lives to make thee, tyrant, bleed!
Ay! mark me well, canst thou not see somewhat of old Bertrand?
My father good! my brothers dear!all murdered by thy hand!
Yes, one escaped; he saw thee strike, he saw his kindred die,
And breathed a vow, a burning vow of vengeance;it was I!
I've lived; but all my life has been a memory of the slain;
I've lived but to revenge them,and I have not lived in vain!
I read it in thy haggard face, the hour is drawing nigh
When power and wealth can aid thee not,when, Richard, thou must DIE!
What mean those pale, convulsive lips? What means that shrinking brow?
Ha! Richard of the lion- heart, thou art a coward now!
Now call thy hireling ruffians; bid them bring the cord and rack,
And bid them strain these limbs of mine until the sinews crack;
And bid them tear the quivering flesh, break one by one each bone;
Thou canst not break my spirit, though thou mayst compel a groan.
I die, as I would live and die, the ever bold and free;
And I shall die with joy, to think I've rid the world of thee."
Swords are starting from their scabbards, grim and hardened warriors wait
Richard's slightest word or gesture that may seal the bowman's fate.
But his memory has been busy with the deeds of other times.
In the eyes of wakened conscience all his glories turn to crimes,
And his crimes to something monstrous; worlds were little now to give
In atonement for the least. He cries, in anguish, "Let him live.
He has reason; never treason more became a traitor bold.
Youth, forgive as I forgive thee! Give him freedom,give him gold.
Marcadee, be sure, obey me; 'tis the last, the dying hest
Of a monarch who is sinking, sinking fast,oh, not to rest!
Haply, He above, remembering, may relieve my dark despair
With a ray of hope to light the gloom when I am suffering there!"
The captain neared the royal bed
And humbly bowed his helmèd head,
And laid his hand upon the plate
That sheathed his breast, and said, "Though late
Thy mercy comes, I hold it still
My duty to do thy royal will.
If I should fail to serve thee fair,
May I be doomed to sufferthere!"
I've often met with a fast young friend
More ready to borrow than I to lend;
I've heard smooth men in election-time
Prove every creed, but their own, a crime:
Perhaps, if the fast one wished to borrow,
I've taken his word to pay "to-morrow";
Perhaps, while Smooth explained his creed,
I've thought him the man for the country's need;
Perhaps I'm more of a trusting mood
Than you suppose; but I think I would
Have trusted that man of mail,
If I had been the dying king,
About as far as you could sling
An elephant by the tail!
Good subjects then, as now, no doubt,
When a king was dead, were eager to shout
In time, "God save" the new one!
One trouble was always whom to choose
Amongst the heirs; for it raised the deuse
And ran the subject's neck in a noose,
Unless he chose the true one.
Another difficult task,to judge
If the coming king would bear a grudge
For some old breach of concord,
And take the earliest chance to send
A trusty line by a trusty friend
To give his compliments at the end
Of a disagreeable strong cord.
And whoever would have must seize his own.
Thus a dying king was left alone,
With a sad neglect of manners;
Ere his breath was out, the courtiers ran,
With fear or zeal for "the coming man,"
In time to escape from under his ban,
Or hurry under his banners.
So Richard was left in a shabby way
To Marcadee, with an abbot to pray
And pother with "consolation,"
Reminding 'twas never too late to search
For mercy, and hinting that Mother Church
Was never known to leave in the lurch
A king with a fat donation.
But the abbot was known to Richard well,
As one who would smoothen the road to hell,
And quite as willing to revel
As preach; and he always preached to "soothe,"
With a mild regard for "the follies of youth,"
Himself, in epitome, proving the truth
Of the world, the flesh, and the Devil.
This was the will that Richard made:
"My body at father's feet be laid;
And to Rouen (it loved me most)
My heart I give; and I give my ins-
Ides to the rascally Poitevins;
To the abbot I give my darlingsins;
And I give "He gave up the ghost.
The abbot looked grave, but never spoke.
The captain laughed, gave the abbot a poke,
And, without ado or lingering,
"Conveyed" the personals, jewels, and gold,
Omitting the formal To Have and to Hold
From the royal finger, before it was cold,
He slipped the royal finger-ring.
There might have been in the eye of the law
A something which lawyers would call a flaw
Of title in such a conversion:
But if weak in the law, he was strong in the hand,
And had the "nine points."He summoned his band,
And ordered before him the archer Bertrand,
Intending a little diversion.
He called the cutter,no cutter of clothes,
But such as royalty kept for those
Who happened to need correcting,
And told him that Richard, before he died,
Desired to have a scalpel applied
To the traitor there. With professional pride,
The cutter began dissecting.
Now Bones was born with a genius to flay:
He might have ranked, had he lived to-day,
As a capital taxidermist:
And yet, as he tugged, they heard him say,
Of all the backs that ever lay
Before him in a professional way,
That was of all backs the firmest.
Kind reader, allow me to drop a veil
In pity; I cannot pursue the tale
In the heartless tone of the last strophe.
'Tis done, and again I'll be the same.
They triumphed not, if they felt no shame:
No muscle quivered, no murmur came,
Until the final catastrophe.
The captain jested a moment, then
He waved his hand and bowed to his men
With a single word, "Disbanded,"
And galloped away with three or four
Stout men-at-arms to the nearest shore,
Where a gallant array not long before
With the king in pride had landed.
He coasted around, went up the Rhine,
So famous then for robbers and wine,
So famous now as a ramble.
The wine and the robbers still are there;
But they rob you now with a bill of fare,
And gentlemen bankers "on the square"
Will clean you out, if you gamble.
He built him a Schloss onsomething-Stein,
And became the first of as proud a line
As e'er took toll on the river,
When barons, perched in their castles high,
On the valley would keep a watchful eye,
And pounce on travellers with their cry,
"The Rhine-dues! down! deliver!"
And crack their crowns for any delay
In paying down. And that, by the way,
About as correctly as I know,
Is the origin true of an ancient phrase
So frequently heard in modern days,
When a gentleman quite reluctantly pays,
I mean, "To come down with the rhino."
A LEGEND OF MARYLAND
A LEGEND OF MARYLAND
"AN OWRE TRUE TALE."
The framework of modern history is, for the most part, constructed out of the material supplied by national transactions described in official documents and contemporaneous records. Forms of government and their organic changes, the succession of those who have administered them, their legislation, wars, treaties, and the statistics demonstrating their growth or decline,these are the elements that furnish the outlines of history. They are the dry timbers of a vast old edifice; they impose a dry study upon the antiquary, and are still more dry to his reader.
But that which makes history the richest of philosophies and the most genial pursuit of humanity is the spirit that is breathed into it by the thoughts and feelings of former generations, interpreted in actions and incidents that disclose the passions, motives, and ambition of men, and open to us a view of the actual life of our forefathers. When we can contemplate the people of a past age employed in their own occupations, observe their habits and manners, comprehend their policy and their methods of pursuing it, our imagination is quick to clothe them with the flesh and blood of human brotherhood and to bring them into full sympathy with our individual nature.
History then becomes a world of living figures,a theatre that presents to us a majestic drama, varied by alternate scenes of the grandest achievements and the most touching episodes of human existence.
In the composing of this drama the author has need to seek his material in many a tangled thicket as well as in many an open field. Facts accidentally encountered, which singly have but little perceptible significance, are sometimes strangely discovered to illustrate incidents long obscured and incapable of explanation. They are like the lost links of a chain, which, being found, supply the means of giving cohesion and completeness to the heretofore useless fragments. The scholar's experience is full of these reunions of illustrative incidents gathered from regions far apart in space, and often in time. The historian's skill is challenged to its highest task in the effort to draw together those tissues of personal and local adventure which, at first without seeming or suspected dependence, prove, when brought into their proper relationship with each other, to be unerring exponents of events of highest concern.
It is pleasant to fall upon the course of one of these currents of adventure, to follow a solitary rivulet of tradition, such as by chance we now and then find modestly flowing along through the obscure coverts of time, and to be able to trace its progress to the confluence of other streams,and finally to see it grow, by the aid of these tributaries, to the proportions of an ample river, which waters the domain of authentic history and bears upon its bosom a clear testimony to the life and character of a people.
The following legend furnishes a striking and attractive exemplification of such a growth, in the unfolding of a romantic passage of Maryland history, of which no annalist has ever given more than an ambiguous and meagre hint. It refers to a deed of bloodshed, of which the only trace that was not obliterated from living rumor so long as a century ago was to be found in a vague and misty relic of an old memory of the provincial period of the State. The facts by which I have been enabled to bring it to the full light of an historical incident, it will be seen in the perusal of this narrative, have successively, and by most curious process of development, risen into view through a series of accidental discoveries, which have all combined, with singular coincidence and adaptation, to furnish an unquestionable chapter of Maryland history, altogether worthy of recital for its intrinsic interest, and still more worthy of preservation for the elements it supplies towards a correct estimate of the troubles which beset the career and formed the character and manners of the forefathers of the State.
CHAPTER I.
TALBOT'S CAVE
It is now many years ago,long before I had reached manhood,that, through my intimacy with a friend, then venerable for his years and most attractive to me by his store of historical knowledge, I became acquainted with a tradition touching a strange incident that had reference to a mysterious person connected with a locality on the Susquehanna River near Havre de Grace. In that day the tradition was repeated by a few of the oldest inhabitants who dwelt in the region. I dare say it has now entirely run out of all remembrance amongst their descendants, and that I am, perhaps, the only individual in the State who has preserved any traces of the facts to which I allude.
There was, until not long ago, a notable cavern at the foot of a rocky cliff about a mile below the town of Port Deposit. It was of small compass, yet sufficiently spacious to furnish some rude shelter against the weather to one who might seek refuge within its solitary chamber. It opened upon the river just where a small brook comes brattling down the bank, along the base of a hill of some magnitude that yet retains the stately name of Mount Ararat. The visitor of this cavern might approach it by a boat from the river, or by a rugged path along the margin of the brook and across the ledges of the rock. This rough shelter went by the name of Talbot's Cave down to a very recent period, and would still go by that name, if it were yet in existence. But it happened, not many years since, that Port Deposit was awakened to a sudden notion of the value of the granite of the cliff, and, as commerce is a most ruthless contemner of all romance, and never hesitates between a speculation of profit and a speculation of history, Talbot's Cave soon began to figure conspicuously in the Price Current, and in a very little while disappeared, like a witch from the stage, in blasts of sulphur fire and rumbling thunder, under the management of those effective scene-shifters, the quarrymen. A government contract, more potent than the necromancy of the famed wizard Michael Scott, lifted this massive rock from its base, and, flying with it full two hundred miles, buried it fathoms below the surface of the Atlantic, at the Rip Raps, near Hampton Roads; and thus it happens that I cannot vouch the ocular proof of the Cave to certify the legend I am about to relate.
The tradition attached to this spot had nothing but a misty and spectral outline. It was indefinite in the date, uncertain as to persons, mysterious as to the event,just such a tradition as to whet the edge of one's curiosity and to leave it hopeless of gratification. I may relate it in a few words.
Once upon a time, somewhere between one and two hundred years ago, there was a man by the name of Talbot, a kinsman of Lord Baltimore, who had committed some crime, for which he fled and became an outlaw and was pursued by the authorities of the Province. To escape these, he took refuge in the wilderness on the Susquehanna, where he found this cave, and used it for concealment and defence for some time,how long, the tradition does not say. This region was then inhabited by a fierce tribe of Indians, who are described on Captain John Smith's map as the "Sasquesahannocks," and who were friendly to the outlaw and supplied him with provisions. To these details was added another, which threw an additional interest over the story,that Talbot had a pair of beautiful English hawks, such as were most prized in the sport of falconry, and that these were the companions of his exile, and were trained by him to pursue and strike the wild duck that abounded, then as now, on this part of the river; and he thus found amusement to beguile his solitude, as well as sustenance in a luxurious article of food, which is yet the pride of gastronomic science, and the envy of bons vivants throughout this continent.