XXIII.

"Some died of want, of sorrow some,
And some of broken age:

They who lived on were sad as birds
Cooped in a narrow cage.

O children, with the savage beasts
I'd rather lay me down,

Than dwell among the stifling lanes
Within a factory town!

XXIV.

"Sharp hunger forced us to the mills;
We slaved for scanty food

'Midst flashing looms, and buzzing wheels,
And strangers rough and rude.
From morn to night we toiled and spun
Like beasts to labour driven,
And only through the dingy panes
We saw the light of heaven.

XXV.

"Ay, there was room for all! The child
That scarce could walk alone,

The little ones we loved so well,
The stripling and the grown;
The modest maiden forced to bear
The coarse and scurril jest ;

The old man with his silver hairs-
The wife with babe at breast.

XXVI.

"All, all might work-for England ne'er
Had borne so high a name,

Though not for Christian chivalry
She strove to keep her fame.

No longer streamed Saint George's cross
The foremost in the air,

Her glory lay in cotton bales

And yards of flimsy ware.

XXVII.

"For this we toiled, for this we span ; For this all round and round

Ten thousand chimney-stalks were reared
Above the blackening ground.

For this they made the reaper's song,
The ploughman's whistle cease;
And 'midst the clanking of the chains
Proclaimed the reign of peace!

XXVIII.

"But we the Highland-born, the free,
How could we struggle there?

Still in our hearts we felt the breath
Of our fresh mountain air-

We saw the shadows of the hills

Hang in the waters clear,

The purling of the distant rills
Was sounding in our ear.

XXIX.

"We sang the old familiar songs—
We sang them at the loom;
We sang of light, and love, and joy,
When all around was gloom.
O then, O then-the bitter tears
Rose to each aching eye-

O were we but once more at home,
Though only there to die!

XXX.

"Death came, but came not quickly. Pale And weak my sister grew;

With sharpened pain and wasting sobs
Her heavy breath she drew.

At last I laid her in her bed

When she could work no more.

I kissed her poor, thin, wasted cheek— I prayed-and all was o'er!

XXXI.

"I laid her in a stranger's grave.
And then I turned and fled,
I cared not whither-anywhere-
To earn my honest bread;
In any land where flesh and blood
Were reckoned more than gain-
Where tyrant masters did not wring
Their wealth from woe and pain.'

XXXII.

O England-England! many a heart
Is sad and sore for thee,
Though basely, meanly, falsely driven
To dwell beyond the sea.

O England! if the bonny Rose
Was drooping on your crown,
Why did you stretch a cruel hand
To pluck the Thistle down?

XXXIII.

There's many a name of noble fame
Writ in your ancient roll;

There's many an honest statesman yet
Of free and generous soul:

Why stoop to those who cannot walk
With high and upright head,
Whose living souls no kindred own
With thy time-honoured dead?

XXXIV.

The worst of all-the thrice-forsworn-
The gamester of thy fame-

How dares he deem that aftertimes
Will give him aught but shame?
Let monuments be reared above-

Of marble heap a hill

The peasant's curse upon his head
Shall weigh the heavier still!

Dies Boreales.

No. VI.

CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS.

Camp at Cladich.

SCENE I.-The Wren's Nest.

TIME-Six A.M.

NORTH-TALBOYS-SEWARD.

NORTH.

You recollect the words of Edmund in Lear

"A credulous father, and a brother noble
Whose nature is so far from doing harm,

That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty
One's practices ride easy."

This is exactly Iago with Othello-believing in virtue, using, despising it. These idolators of self think the virtuous worship imaginary, unreal Gods. But they never doubt the sincerity of the worship; and therein show a larger intelligence, a clearer insight, than those other idolators who, shut up in their own character, ascribe their own motives to all; and in virtues can see only different shapes of hypocrisy.

TALBOYS.

The Devil himself knows better, sir. He knows that Virtue exists; only he flatters himself that he can undermine its foundations. "And ofttimes does succeed"-seeking Evil "as contrary to His High Will whom we resist!"

TALBOYS.

In what war soever, sir, you are once engaged, you soon feel yourself pledged to it. A few blows given on both sides settle you fast, and you no longer inquire about the cause.

NORTH.

To an evil soul all good is a reproach; therefore he wars on it. To the self-dissatisfied the happiness of the good is a reproach; therefore, if he be thoroughly selfish, he pulls it down.

TALBOYS.

Every one's impulse is to throw off pain; and if no pity, no awe, no love be there to stay him, he pulls down of course.

NORTH.

My dear Talboys, believe me, that, for a moment, every man has motives fit for a fiend. Perhaps he obeys-perhaps rejects them. The true fiend is constant.

TALBOYS.

Every man has motives fit for a fiend! I beg you to speak for yourself, my dear sir.

NORTH.

I speak of myself, of you, and of Iago. What is the popular apprehension or theory of the malice disclosed in "mine Ancient"—not the Old One, but the Standard-bearer?

TALBOYS.

Why, the prompt, apt, and natural answer will be, he is a Devil.

I'd rather reason in a circle, sir, than not reason at all. I like reasoning in a circle-it is pleasant pastime in a cold, raw morning-far preferable to ascending Cruachan; for you are never far from home, and when tired can leap out at your own pleasure, and take some reasoning in a straight line.

NORTH.

You are always so pleasant, Talboys, circular or ziz-zag. Whence is the malice in the heart of a Devil?

I want data, sir.

TALBOYS.

Milton has given some historical elucidation of it; but the People reason less, and are no philosophers.

NORTH.

Hate in a devil is like Love in an Angel-uncaused, or self-causing; it is his natural function-his Essence, his Being. Herein the seraph is a seraph-the fiend is a fiend.

TALBOYS.

"Evil! be Thou my good! By Thee at least
Divided Empire with Heaven's King I hold,
By Thee, and more perhaps than half will reign."

Reason-Motive-Cause.

NORTH.

Prospero calls Caliban a devil-a born Devil.

TALBOYS.

Also, a demi-Devil—as Othello calls Iago.

NORTH.

The Philosopher knows-in humanity-of no born devil. He follows, or tries to follow, the causes which have turned the imperfect nature into the worst. The popular sense takes things as it finds them, and acknowledges "born devils," Iago being one, and of the prime." The totality of monster in the moral world seems to that unphilosophical, sincere, and muchto-the-purpose intuition, expressed under the image of a nativity. The popular sense recognises a temper of man which elects evil for evil's sake-which inflicts pain, because it likes to see pain suffered-which destroys, because it revels in misery.

TALBOYS.

Coleridge calls Iago's "a motiveless malignity." He hated Othello for not promoting him, but Cassio. That seems to me the real, tangible motive-a haunting, goading, fretting preference-an affront-an insult-a curbing of power-wounding him where alone he is sensitive-in self-esteem and pride. See his contempt for Cassio as a book-warrior-and " for a fair life"-simply like our notion of a "milksop." Why Othello, who so prizes him for his honesty as to call him ever "honest Iago," keeps him down, I have not a guess—

NORTH.

Haven't you? And pray what right have you to interfere with the practice of promotion in the army of the Venetian State?