While in the words of thine own hallow'd pray'r (III. Thine is the equal sun, that shines above, THY hand, that on the sinner's head [in wrath] descends, IV. Almighty! deign the humble calls to own Our changeless law shall be thy pray'r and praise! The music is sweet, solemn, and exquisitely adapted to express the humility of prayer, and the simultaneous burst of harmonized sounds swelled, and rose to the vault of heaven with a thrilling effect, while a yet deeper interest was excited by the moral spectacle of this countless host, these "thousands and tens of thousands of mighty men of war, all equally from the arbiter of the fate of millions to the meanest soldier-united in the attitude of reverent, and meek devotion, and pouring forth, as it were, one voice and one heart in praise and thanksgiving to their common Maker. It has been my lot to be twice present at military Masses, performed on a gigantic scale, which, however, bore no resemblance to the ceremony which I have so feebly attempted to describe. One of them, which took place at Verona, was a mere ecclesiastical field-day, where the offices of religion were illustrated with the pomp and circumstance of war. The troops were drawn up under arms as if for a review; the arrival of the Viceroy of Lombardy was announced by the thunder of artillery, booming along the line; and the officiating priest-the minister of that faith, which inculcates "good will amongst men"-knelt at the central altar, amidst the waving of plumes, the glancing of helmets, the clang of sabres, the roll of drums, the brattle of trumpets, and a grand final operatic crash of all the bands brigaded en masse. Even the most solemn and mystic rite of the Roman Catholic Church-the elevation of the Host-was received with the same salute, as the presence of a mortal monarch. But here was neither proud pageantry to dazzle the eye, nor the pealing strains of elaborate music to ravish the ear. All was pure and lowly. The soldiers had laid aside their arms, and the "earthly great" their rank, as if the emblems of physical force, and the social distinctions of mere human assumption were inconsistent with the true worship of the God of peace, in whose sight all men are alike, and to whom their united homage was now addressed in the simple words, and unadorned melody of the national hymn. The Lord's prayer was subsequently read, and we all dispersed in silence to our respective quarters, as if under the influence of feelings too big for utterance. BAN TUV A I. BY CHARLES HOOTON. BAN TUVAI a man has slain ; Sad it is a man to slay. None can make him live again, None undo thy deed, Tuvai. Who, in time of misery, Will compassion have on thee? Ah, he was a harmless one! Damage-doing is thy trade: Mischief in him was there none, But of mischief thou art made. Thou, who has a heart that can Cut in twain the life of man. Think upon so dark a deed, Done for all eternity! We are sowing day by day. I. Accusation. Yet thou saw'st it undismay'd: Harsh Tuvai was not afraid. Is the world of life confin'd To the bodies that we see? Are not living things of mind Rushing through futurity? These would surely me beset, If my hands with blood were wet. Yet thou wand'rest in the night, Fancyless as in the noon : Shadows never cross thy sight, Pale companions of the moon : Blind Tuvai can nothing see But the dense and bodily. With the hands that did the deed That in gore have been imbued. "Ilate th' offender with his crimes ;He and his offence are one!" So they said in elder times Days, like people, dead and gone: What, if so we said to-day?What would come of thee, Tuvai? Conscious of self-sin are all ; II. SAD Tuvai! I pity thee: So I pity all who sin. They but make the misery They are blind, and we have eyes. Extenuation. Say not that it serves them right; Lo! they stumble, being blind, Crime results from lack of light In the region of the mind. How, in that unform'd abyss, Should the man but go amiss? Where hath happen'd crime and woe, | Up in shadows hast thou grown Mingle sorrow with thy blame: I, from out my heart, do know All cannot be sin and shame. Thou, Tuvai, wast in the dark Of a heathen mind, night-born,— Through it shone no heav'nly spark, O'er it broke no promis'd dawn,When thou will'd the frightful will, Thus, a fellow-man to kill. Life to thee was as a dream,— None regarded thee with care, Thou, a living accident, Earth to thee was full of fear,On aggression ever bent. Of inevitable law Thou becamest what thou saw. Rankly, as a sunless weed.Should-be flowers are leaves alone ;All thy heart unripen'd seed. Ne'er thy soul did seraphs greet ;— Earth's a pitfall to thy feet. That wast thou to other men Which were other men to thee; Living, doing, o'er again What in life thou chanc'd to see. Better seen had better done :Would thy world had well begun! Still I love thee not, Tuvai: Violence and I are foes. Love I not, nor ever may, Who create another's woes. All that lives is half my heart :I am but the other part. Men who cruel are should know He who pains a speechless beast, Doth, at each inhuman blow, Strike on God's mysterious breast. Crush a worm within my view,— Lo! thy foot hath crush'd me too! III. FOR this death thou shalt not die ;- Thou shalt live, and may'st repent. I will have thee ta'en away To a bitter banishment. Thou, companionless, shalt be In this South Pacific sea, Which thy trembling frail canoe Hath not heart to venture through. What is it but simply just, Thou, who hast a man destroy'd, Should thyself return to dust, Wanting all he had supplied? When companion thou hast none, Right thou❜lt value him that's gone. Speechless to the world, thy brain Shall forget thy native tongue : Dumb in solitude, again To the dumb shalt thou belong. Wordless cry alone, and sign Yearn'd for vainly, through thy life. Love shall burn for bird and beast,Thou, of all, shalt know the least. Free from pain and care's annoy, Though exempt from other ill. Take the lessons that I tell, Keep them ever in thy view: And thy worn old heart renew. Words of generous heart have weight From the heav'ns spontaneously: In the meantime, the boy Billy Lamb, having closed, as we have said, the garden-gate, lingered for a moment, and then took his way across the common in the direction of Stephen Gimlet's house, which was at the distance of about a mile and a half. He went at a quick pace, but two or three times he stopped, and thought deeply. He was an observing boy, and saw and heard more than people imagined. He was a boy of very strong feelings also, and he had conceived an affection for Beauchamp, which made any thing that touched that gentleman a matter of deep interest to him. Thus, the first time he stopped he repeated to himself the incautious words the lady had uttered, syllable for syllable. "He may have guests at his marriage he does not expect," said the boy, meditating. "She looked mighty fierce too. I wonder what she meant? No good, I'm sure, by the way her eyes went." He then walked on again about half a mile further; and this time it was a narrow lane he halted in. "You see, our trout has bit at the fly!" repeated Billy Lamb, evidently showing that he had heard a part, at least, of what had passed after he left the garden; "that trout he talked of must be Mr. Beauchamp-that's to say, the lord. I can't make it out. I'll tell Stephen: he seems to know a good deal about them all; or that good, kind Captain Hayward. He's a great friend of this lord's, and will let him know; for they mean him harm, or I am mistaken." When he reached Stephen Gimlet's cottage, however, and opened the door, he found the outer room only tenanted by the little boy, who was standing upon a stool, looking over the pages of a large old Bible, illustrated with some grotesque engravings, in which Adam and Eve, very naked, indeed, the serpent, with a human head in large curls, very much like that of a Chancery barrister; the same personage, in the conventional form of a satyr, together with a number of angels; and Noah's ark with all its beasts; figured conspicuously. In turning his head sharply round to see who it was that came in, the child let fall the leaves that were in his hand upon those opposite; and instantly out flew an old time-stained scrap of paper, which made a gyration in the air before it reached the floor. The boy instantly darted after it, and picked it up before Billy Lamb could see what it was. pot-boy would then have taken it out of his hand; but the other would not give it up, saying, with a screaming tone, The "No, no, no! it is granny's;" and the same moment the voice of Widow Lamb was heard from the inner room, demanding, “Who have you got with you there, child ?" "It is I, mother," answered the deformed boy. "Is Stephen in? I want to speak with him." 66 No, my poor William," answered the old lady, coming forth, and embracing her son; "he has been out a long while.' "Then, is Captain Hayward up-stairs?" asked the youth. "He is out too," answered the widow. "He was out yesterday for the first time, and to-day we have had a grand party here, all the ladies in the carriage, and Mr. Beauchamp walking. Mrs. Clifford came so kindly to ask after me, and so they persuaded Captain Hayward to go out with them. That is to say, Captain Hayward and Miss Mary, and Miss Slingsby with my Lord Lenham. They've gone all up to the hall; Mrs. Clifford in the carriage, and the rest on foot; and I should not wonder, Bill, if Captain Hayward did not come back here again ?" "That is unfortunate !" exclaimed Billy Lamb; "I wanted so much to speak with him, or Stephen." 66 Why, what is the matter, my dear boy?" said his mother; "if you will tell me what it is, I will let Stephen know when he comes back." "Why, the matter is this, mother," answered the deformed boy. "Stephen was asking me a great deal the other day about the gentleman who has got the cottage on Chandleigh Heath, and what his name is. Now, I have found out his name, and it is Captain Moreton." "Have nought to do with him, Bill!" cried the widow ; "have nought to do with him! He is a base villain, and has ruined all who have had any connexion with him." 66 'Why, I have nought to do with him, mother," answered Billy Lamb, "but carrying him up his letters and newspapers; but I heard something there to-day that I thought Stephen might like to know; for I am sure he and the lady he has with him are plotting things to hurt this lord, who was so kind to poor Ste." "Ha! what did you hear?" asked the old lady; more than Stephen, for I know more about that lady." "that concerns me "She does not seem a very sweet one," answered the boy; "for when I told the captain about Lord Lenham going to be married to Sir John's daughter, she looked as if she had a great inclination to scratch somebody's eyes out." "Going to be married to Sir John's daughter!" exclaimed Widow Lamb. "Bill, are you sure that's true?" "Quite sure. Haven't you heard of it ?" said the boy. "All the people in Tarningham know it quite well; and a quantity of things are ordered." Widow Lamb mused gravely for several minutes; and then, shaking her head, said in a low voice, as if to herself: 66 I begin to understand. Well, what more did you hear, Billy?" Why, after a little talk," said the boy, "when they heard that the marriage was to be on Monday-week, the lady cried out, He will have guests at his wedding that he does not expect!' and her eyes looked just like two live coals. She did not say much more; for the captain tried to stop her; but, as soon I had got through the garden-gate, I heard him laugh quite heartily, and say out loud,This is capital, Charlotte; you see our trout has bit at the fly.' "And so, they have been angling for him, have they?" said Widow Lamb; "what more, my boy?" |