No More Learning

On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes,
The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods.
Waste sandy valleys, once perplexed with thorn,
The spiry fir and shapely box adorn;
To leafless shrubs the flowering palms succeed,
And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed.
The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead,
And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead;
The steer and lion at one crib shall meet,
And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet.
The smiling infant in his hand shall take
The crested basilisk and speckled snake,
Pleased the green lustre of the scales survey,
And with their forky tongues shall innocently play.
Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, rise!
Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes!
See, a long race thy spacious courts adorn;
See future sons, and daughters yet unborn,'
In crowding ranks on every side arise,
Demanding life, impatient for the skies!
See barbarous nations at thy gates attend,
Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend;
See thy bright altars thronged with prostrate kings,
And heaped with products of Sabæan springs!
For thee Idumè's spicy forests blow,
And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow.
See heaven its sparkling portals wide display,
And break upon thee in a flood of day!
No more the rising sun shall gild the morn,
Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn;
But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays,
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze
O'erflow thy courts: the light himself shall shine
Revealed, and God's eternal day be thine!
The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay,
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away;
But fixed his word, his saving power remains;
Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns!


## p. 11757 (#381) ##########################################

11757
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED
(1802-1839)
W
INTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED was born in London, in 1802.
His father was an eminent barrister, and the son was sent
to Eton at the age of twelve. He remained at Eton till his
twentieth year; and while an upper-class man was instrumental, in
collaboration with Walter Blunt and Henry Nelson Coleridge, in
founding the Etonian, which under his management had more claims
to be considered literature than any other undergraduate magazine
ever published. From Eton he went to Trinity College, Cambridge.
At the university he was the friend of
Macaulay and Austin, and was distinguished
both for brilliant scholarship and for skill
in versification. He took his degree in
1825, and having prepared himself for the
law, he was admitted to the bar in 1829.
While at the university he was the princi-
pal contributor to Knight's Quarterly, and
his verse appeared in periodicals with con-
siderable regularity during his life. He
seemed eminently fitted for English polit-
ical life, and obtained a seat in Parliament
in 1830; but unfortunately lost his health
from pulmonary troubles, and died in 1839
at the age of thirty-seven.
Shakespeare is not more unmistakably the first dramatist than
Praed is the first writer of society verse. It is true that he did not
write anything of the flawless accuracy and dainty precision of form
of Austin Dobson's 'Avis, nor anything quite as gay and insouciant
as 'La Marquise'; but Dobson is too much of a littérateur and a
lover of eighteenth-century bric-a-brac, to be regarded primarily as
a writer of vers de société. The subject-matter of this sub-department
of poetry grows out of the superficial social relations among persons
of leisure and culture. In form it should be light and unconsciously
graceful, and in tone good-humored and well-bred; its satire not ris-
ing much above pleasantry, and its morality kindly rather than
righteous. It is more germane to the Celtic than to the Germanic
side of our compound national spirit, and has more affinity with the

WINTHROP M. PRAED


## p. 11758 (#382) ##########################################

11758
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED
urbane, sententious Horace than with any of the great originals of
our national literature; though the frank paganism of the Roman
must be tempered with a delicate flavor of chivalric gallantry. The
cavalier poets Suckling and Lovelace display in their verse some of
the spirit of this genre. Pope's 'Rape of the Lock' is too affected
and artificial to come precisely into the category. Prior's charming
verses To Chloe' have the true tone of careless persiflage; but the
eighteenth century was as a rule too formal and academic for this
dainty exotic. Praed's verse embodies that good-humored interest in
trifles, that necessity of never being insistent or tiresome or officious,
that gracious submergement of the personal for the entertainment
of others, and the well-bred ease of expression, which is the note of
good society. If it be objected that these characteristics, with the
exception of the first, are never found in "good society," it may
be answered that they can be found nowhere else, for they make
society good. "Good society," like everything else, has its ideal, by
which we define it, as we define Christianity by something which
it does not practically reach. This ideal is embodied in the verse
of Praed.
Few men have ever been more careless of literary reputation
than he, and it was not till after his death that any collection of his
verse was made. In fact, no comprehensive edition of his work was
published in England till 1864, though several had appeared in the
United States. Thirty years ago it would not have been considered
good form to cultivate literary notoriety in the modern manner; and
Praed was precisely the opposite of what is conveyed in that express-
ive word of English slang, "cad. " He wrote one poem, 'The Red
Fisherman,' which for imaginative force, and a certain element of
poetic vision, is distinguished from the rest; but 'Every-day Char-
acters,' 'Private Theatricals,' 'School and Schoolfellows,' 'A Letter
of Advice,' 'Our Ball,' 'My Partner,' and 'My Little Cousins,' — and
the list might be extended,- are as good of their kind as anything
can be. There is the apparent spontaneity, the correspondence be-
tween form and sentiment, and the fine workmanship, which are so
rare and so satisfying. No one, not even the Brownings, excelled
Praed in the easy use of the trochaic or feminine rhyme. His rhymes
and even his puns seem inevitable, as if the language had been con-
structed for that very purpose.
Praed is an artist in light verse: and art is a realization of the
excellent; perfection is an absolute matter. The subject of the epic
may be weightier than that of light verse, but the beauty of the short
verse may be not inferior to the beauty of the great poem, and it
is much more easily apprehended. The beauty of the humming-bird
is not less than the beauty of the eagle; and besides, the humming-


## p. 11759 (#383) ##########################################

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED
11759
bird is darting about the vines of the porch, and the eagle is on
the top of a mountain or up in the clouds, where it is not easy to get
at him. Light verse like Praed's is art; for the function of art is to
charm as well as to elevate. When the Muse drops the great ques-
tions, and discourses about every-day matters, she does not become
the gossip nor the newspaper reporter. She does not lay aside her
delicate tact nor her keen vision: her words are still literature;
the literature of a class, perhaps, but still aiming at the ideal repre-
sentation of a mood, and reaching excellence as often as the greater
literature of humanity. The heroic, the philosophic, the devotedly
Christian are motifs beyond the aim of light verse, but it is not on
that account hostile to them. In reaching perfection of form as Praed
did, he put light verse in sympathy with nature, which finishes little
things; and in so doing is following a great principle, which makes
beauty universal, and therefore divine.
TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-NINE
"Rien n'est changé, mes amis. "-CHARLES X.
HEARD a sick man's dying sigh,
I
And an infant's idle laughter;
The Old Year went with mourning by-
The New came dancing after!
Let Sorrow shed her lonely tear,
Let Revelry hold her ladle;
Bring boughs of cypress for the bier,
Fling roses on the cradle;
Mutes to wait on the funeral state;
Pages to pour the wine:
A requiem for Twenty-Eight,
And a health to Twenty-Nine!
Alas for human happiness!
Alas for human sorrow!
Our yesterday is nothingness,
What else will be our morrow?
Still Beauty must be stealing hearts,
And Knavery stealing purses;
Still cooks must live by making tarts,
And wits by making verses;
While sages prate and courts debate,
The same stars set and shine:


## p. 11760 (#384) ##########################################

11760
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED
And the world, as it rolled through Twenty-Eight,
Must roll through Twenty-Nine.
Some king will come, in Heaven's good time,
To the tomb his father came to;
Some thief will wade through blood and crime
To a crown he has no claim tc;
Some suffering land will rend in twain
The manacles that bound her,
And gather the links of the broken chain
To fasten them proudly round her;
The grand and great will love and hate,
And combat and combine:
And much where we were in Twenty-Eight,
We shall be in Twenty-Nine.
O'Connell will toil to raise the Rent,
And Kenyon to sink the Nation;
And Sheil will abuse the Parliament,
And Peel the Association;
And the thought of bayonets and swords
Will make ex-chancellors merry;
And jokes will be cut in the House of Lords,
And throats in the County Kerry;
And writers of weight will speculate
On the Cabinet's design:
And just what it did in Twenty-Eight
It will do in Twenty-Nine.
And the Goddess of Love will keep her smiles,
And the God of Cups his orgies;
And there'll be riots in St. Giles,
And weddings in St. George's;
And mendicants will sup like kings,
And lords will swear like lackeys;
And black eyes oft will lead to rings,
And rings will lead to black eyes;
And pretty Kate will scold her mate,
In a dialect all divine,-
Alas! they married in Twenty-Eight,
They will part in Twenty-Nine.
And oh! I shall find how, day by day,
All thoughts and things look older;


## p. 11761 (#385) ##########################################

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED
11761
How the laugh of Pleasure grows less gay,
And the heart of Friendship colder;
But still I shall be what I have been,
Sworn foe to Lady Reason,
And seldom troubled with the spleen,
And fond of talking treason;
I shall buckle my skate, and leap my gate,
And throw and write my line:
And the woman I worshiped in Twenty-Eight
I shall worship in Twenty-Nine.
THE VICAR
So
OME years ago, ere time and taste
Had turned our parish topsy-turvy,
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,
And roads as little known as scurvy,
The man who lost his way, between
St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket,
Was always shown across the green,
And guided to the parson's wicket.
Back flew the bolt of lissom lath;
Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle,
Led the lorn traveler up the path,
Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle;
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,
Upon the parlor steps collected,
Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say,
"Our master knows you - you're expected. "
Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown,
Uprose the doctor's winsome marrow;
The lady laid her knitting down,
Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow:
Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed,
Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner,
He found a stable for his steed,
And welcome for himself, and dinner.
If, when he reached his journey's end,
And warmed himself in court or college,
He had not gained an honest friend
And twenty curious scraps of knowledge,-
"
XX-730


## p. 11762 (#386) ##########################################

11762
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED
If he departed as he came,
With no new light on love or liquor,-
Good sooth, the traveler was to blame,
And not the vicarage, nor the vicar.
His talk was like a stream, which runs
With rapid change from rocks to roses:
It slipped from politics to puns,
It passed from Mahomet to Moses;
Beginning with the laws which keep
The planets in their radiant courses,
And ending with some precept deep
For dressing eels, or shoeing horses.
He was a shrewd and sound divine,
Of loud Dissent the mortal terror:
And when, by dint of page and line,
He 'stablished truth, or startled error,
The Baptist found him far too deep;
The Deist sighed with saving sorrow;
And the lean Levite went to sleep,
And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow.
His sermon never said or showed
That earth is foul, that heaven is gracious,
Without refreshment on the road
From Jerome or from Athanasius;
And sure a righteous zeal inspired
The hand and head that penned and planned them,
For all who understood admired,
And some who did not understand them.
He wrote, too, in a quiet way,
Small treatises and smaller verses,
And sage remarks on chalk and clay,
And hints to noble lords- and nurses;
True histories of last year's ghost,
Lines to a ringlet, or a turban,
And trifles for the Morning Post,
And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.
He did not think all mischief fair,
Although he had a knack of joking;
He did not make himself a bear,
Although he had a taste for smoking;


## p. 11763 (#387) ##########################################

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED
11763
And when religious sects ran mad,
He held, in spite of all his learning,
That if a man's belief is bad,
It will not be improved by burning.
And he was kind, and loved to sit
In the low hut or garnished cottage,
And praise the farmer's homely wit,
And share the widow's homelier pottage;
At his approach complaint grew mild;
And when his hand unbarred the shutter,
The clammy lips of fever smiled
The welcome which they could not utter.
He always had a tale for me
Of Julius Cæsar, or of Venus;
From him I learnt the Rule of Three,
Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Quæ genus;
I used to singe his powdered wig,
To steal the staff he put such trust in,
And make the puppy dance a jig
When he began to quote Augustine.
Alack the change! In vain I look
For haunts in which my boyhood trifled,—
The level lawn, the trickling brook,
The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled:
The church is larger than before;
You reach it by a carriage entry;
It holds three hundred people more,
And pews are fitted up for gentry.
Sit in the vicar's seat: you'll hear
The doctrine of a gentle Johnian,
Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear,
Whose phrase is very Ciceronian.
Where is the old man laid? -look down,
And construe on the slab before you,
"Hic jacet GVLIELMVS BROWN,
Vir nulla non donandus lauru. »


## p. 11764 (#388) ##########################################

11764
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED
THE BELLE OF THE BALL
EARS, years ago, ere yet my dreams
Had been of being wise or witty;
Ere I had done with writing themes,
Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty;
Years, years ago, while all my joys
Were in my fowling-piece and filly,—
In short, while I was yet a boy,
I fell in love with Laura Lilly.
Y
I saw her at a country ball;
There, when the sound of flute and fiddle
Gave signal sweet in that old hall
Of hands across and down the middle,
Hers was the subtlest spell by far
Of all that sets young hearts romancing;
She was our queen, our rose, our star,
And when she danced-O heaven, her dancing!
Dark was her hair, her hand was white,
Her voice was exquisitely tender,
Her eyes were full of liquid light;
I never saw a waist so slender;
Her every look, her every smile,
Shot right and left a score of arrows:
I thought 'twas Venus from her isle,
And wondered where she'd left her sparrows.
She talked of politics or prayers,
Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's sonnets,
Of daggers or of dancing bears,
Of battles or the last new bonnets;
By candle-light, at twelve o'clock,
To me it mattered not a tittle,-
If these bright lips had quoted Locke,
I might have thought they murmured Little.
--
Through sunny May, through sultry June.
I loved her with a love eternal;
I spoke her praises to the moon,
I wrote them for the Sunday Journal.
My mother laughed,—I soon found out
That ancient ladies have no feeling;
My father frowned; - but how should gout
Find any happiness in kneeling?


## p. 11765 (#389) ##########################################

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED
11765
She was the daughter of a dean,
Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic;
She had one brother, just thirteen,
Whose color was extremely hectic;
Her grandmother for many a year
Had fed the parish with her bounty;
Her second cousin was a peer,
And lord-lieutenant of the county.
But titles and the three-per-cents,
And mortgages and great relations,
And India bonds and tithes and rents,-
Oh! what are they to love's sensations?
Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks,
Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses;
He cares as little for the stocks
As Baron Rothschild for the Muses.
She sketched- the vale, the wood, the beach,
Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading;
She botanized- I envied each
Young blossom in her boudoir fading;
She warbled Handel-it was grand,
-
She made the Catalina jealous;
She touched the organ-I could stand
For hours and hours and blow the bellows.
And she was flattered, worshiped, bored;
Her steps were watched, her dress was noted,
Her poodle dog was quite adored,
Her sayings were extremely quoted.
She laughed and every heart was glad
As if the taxes were abolished;
She frowned- and every look was sad
As if the opera were demolished.
She smiled on many just for fun-
I knew that there was nothing in it;
I was the first, the only one,
Her heart had thought of for a minute
I knew it, for she told me so,
In phrase which was divinely molded;
She wrote a charming hand, and oh!
How sweetly all her notes were folded!


## p. 11766 (#390) ##########################################

11766
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED
Our love was like most other loves:
A little glow, a little shiver,
A rosebud and a pair of gloves,
And Fly not Yet' upon the river;
Some jealousy of some one's heir,
Some hopes of dying broken-hearted,
A miniature, a lock of hair,
The usual vows - and then we parted.
We parted-months and years rolled by;
We met again four summers after;
Our parting was all sob and sigh,
Our meeting was all mirth and laughter:
For in my heart's most secret cell
There had been many other lodgers;
And she was not the ball-room belle,
But only Mrs. -Something-Rogers.


## p. 11766 (#391) ##########################################



## p. 11766 (#392) ##########################################


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## p. 11766 (#393) ##########################################

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## p. 11766 (#394) ##########################################


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## p. 11766 (#395) ##########################################

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## p. 11766 (#396) ##########################################

4. PRESCOTT
WA
vira
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## p. 11767 (#397) ##########################################

11767
WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT
(1796-1859)
BY FRANCIS NEWTON THORPE
RESCOTT had been at work on his 'Ferdinand and Isabella'
about four years when he adopted the plan that distin-
Anguishes all his histories. To this he was led by his confi-
dence in Mably, author of 'Étude de l'Histoire,' of whom he made
this record: "I like particularly his notion of the necessity of giv
ing an interest as well as utility to history, by letting events tend
to some obvious point or moral; in short, by paying such attention
to the development of events tending to this leading result as one
would in the construction of a romance or a drama. » All the world
knows the success of the plan: Prescott is read as freely as the great
novelists and dramatists. A critical, rather than a creative, age has
charged him with being more interesting than accurate. This is
the old charge against Herodotus, and against Thucydides; it is the
charge made against Prescott's great English contemporary, Macaulay.
What critic of either of these has won an equal place in literature?
It would be gratifying, though difficult, to explain why an interest-
ing history provokes suspicion. Each generation revises the record.
Learned specialists who venture to become critics, condemn an entire
work because of a fault in relating an episode. The story of Philip
the Second has been retold by one whose genius Prescott recognized
and encouraged, just as his own had been recognized and encouraged
by Washington Irving. The Spanish-American story has been retold
by Sir Arthur Helps, by Markham, and by John Fiske.
A history is variously judged. One reader estimates it by its
authorities; another by its style. Of literary virtues, style is the
first to be cultivated and the last to be formed.
"With regard to the style of this work," wrote Prescott of his 'Ferdinand
and Isabella,' seven years after its completion, "I will only remark that most
of the defects, such as they are, may be comprehended in the words trop
soigné. At least they may be traced to this source. The only rule is, to
write with freedom and nature, even with homeliness of expression occasion-
ally, and with alternation of long and short sentences; for such variety is essen-
tial to harmony. But after all, it is not the construction of the sentence, but


## p. 11768 (#398) ##########################################

11768
WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT
the tone of the coloring, which produces the effect. If the sentiment is warm,
lively, forcible, the reader will be carried along without much heed to the
arrangement of the periods, which differs exceedingly in different standard
writers. Put life into the narrative, if you would have it take. Elaborate
and artificial fastidiousness in the form of expression is highly detrimental
to this. A book may be made up of perfect sentences and yet the general
impression be very imperfect. In fine, be engrossed with the thought and not
with the fashion of expressing it. "
His plan and his style harmonize, and are principal causes of the
popularity of his books. There is another cause: the fortunes of the
men and women whose lives are depicted on his pages become of
personal interest to the reader. Emerson would call this making
history subjective,-"doing away with this wild, savage, and prepos-
terous Then or There, and introducing in its place the Here and the
Now;" banishing the not-me and supplying the me. All this Prescott
has done. Children are lost in his 'Mexico' and 'Peru' even more
quickly than in Shakespeare or Scott. The dramatist is suddenly
philosophical; the novelist now and then technical: but the historian
takes them straight on from embarkation through shipwreck, battle,
siege, conquest, and retreat, and all as real as the sights in the street.
Here is a miracle like that Bunyan wrought, and even a greater; for
it is the rare miracle of reality. Few are the historians who let us
forget that their page is a paraphrase; their story, second-hand; their
battles, sieges, and fortunes, only words.
Prescott's life, like his books, was a development of events tending
to a leading result. Yet this result was due to an accident while at
Harvard, a junior in his seventeenth year. A piece of bread thought-
lessly thrown at random by a fellow student instantly destroyed the
sight of one eye. The other speedily became affected, and he was
never again able to use it, except at rare intervals and for a short
time. Till the day of his death, forty-seven years after the accident,
he suffered almost constantly. His life, without warning, became a
strict construction of the law of compensation. He belonged to a dis-
tinguished family. His grandfather was that Captain Prescott who
commanded at Bunker Hill. His father was an eminent lawyer,
among whose closer friends were John Quincy Adams and Daniel
Webster. His mother, from whom he inherited a large share of his
hopeful temperament and generous affection, was a woman possessed
of the qualities of Abigail Adams. He had wealth; he had rare
physical beauty. The mental man was complete. He lacked only
that which he had lost by accident.
He completed his college course;
spent some time in search of relief in Europe, and returned to Salem,
his home and his native place. At twenty-four he married; at twenty-
six he decided on a literary life. Other men had eyes. Could he


## p. 11769 (#399) ##########################################

WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT
11769
not accomplish, though slowly, as much as others less persevering?
From the day of his decision his life followed a programme. It
was method. His will made real what his wealth, his powers, made
possible. But all followed resolutions, many of which a strong love
of ease made almost useless. First he must prepare for work, then
choose. He began a critical, exhaustive study of the English lan-
guage and literature. Like studies of the French, the Italian, the
Spanish, followed. He employed capable readers; and at twenty-
eight, with many misgivings respecting his own powers, planned a
history of Ferdinand and Isabella. Ten years of labor followed, and
the three volumes were published at Christmas, 1837. They were
printed at the Cambridge press at his own expense, a method he
adhered to for all his books.
He was long in doubt whether to publish the history. His father's
judgment decided his own. Bentley brought it out in England after
it had been declined by two publishers. Its reception was an event
in English literature, and time has not yet set aside the original ver-
dict. He had found his work: Spain, new and old, at the height of
its power. In 1839 he began reading for his Conquest of Mexico. '
Four years later it was published. It had an unparalleled reception.
Five thousand copies were sold in America in four months. This
was only the beginning of a popularity which has been renewed by
successive generations of readers. No history more perfectly illus-
trates the harmony of subject and style.
Early in 1844 he "broke ground," as he says, on Peru. In twelve
months its Conquest' was written. It was nearly two years in press,
and issued in 1847. Though most quickly done of his works, it sus-
tained his reputation. Editions in French, German, Dutch, and Span-
ish, almost immediately appeared. No American book had before
been so received. The Conquest of Peru' closed his contribution to
American history. He was in his fifty-first year, and the most famed
American scholar. The mantle of Irving had fallen upon him. His
friendships were world-wide, and among the great scholars of the
Age. Through these he was largely enabled to collect his vast mass
of material. As Sismondi wrote him, he had attained rich sources
interdicted to European scholars. No other man, certainly no other
historian of his day, possessed and used such resources. His library
contained the best from the archives of Europe, usually in copy;
often the original. In the summer of 1849 he began reading for his
history of Philip the Second. Frequent and afflicting interruptions,
that would have vanquished a less resolute mind, beset him. Age
was creeping on. Domestic sorrow bowed his spirit. In 1850, after
many urgent requests, he visited England. His reception remained
unique in the annals of society for thirty years. The England he
knew was like that England that received James Russell Lowell in


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11770
WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT
after years.
The first volume of 'Philip' was completed in 1852; the
second in 1854, when the two were published; and the third in 1858.
A fourth was begun, but was carried no further than brief notes at
the time of his sudden death at sixty-three.
Prescott never visited the scenes of his histories. For over forty
years- -his literary life - he divided his time between his three
homes, all near his birthplace: the summer at Nahant; the autumn
at Pepperell; the winter and spring in Boston,- for some years at
the house on Bedford Street, but after 1845 at the Beacon Street
home. Here was his great library, and here he died. His infirmity
forbade travel. With his mind's eye he saw Mexico, Peru, and other
regions in the vast Spanish empire, -all from the vantage-ground of
his own library. Of his fidelity to his authorities no doubt has ever
been hinted. He believed in foot-notes, and he spread his vouchers
before the world. In later years some critics have doubted the value
of his authorities, especially for the 'Mexico' and the 'Peru. ' If they
erred he erred. If they, for their own purposes, read European civil-
ization into the institutions of the Aztecs, Prescott had no means of
correcting their vision. He faithfully followed the canons of history,
and trusted the evidence brought forward by the actors themselves.
What he saw in their records, - duly corrected one by the other,-
was that panorama of the New World which was spread before the
eyes of Europe by its conquerors, and which the Old World believed,
and still believes, true. No historian is responsible for not using
undiscovered evidence. Prescott wrote from the archives of Europe,
just as others have written before and after him, confident of the
accuracy of their evidence. If he moved his Aztec world on too
high a plane of civilization, he moved it by authority. Since his
death, the world has turned traveler; men of critical skill have ex-
plored Mexico and Peru, and each has produced his pamphlet. A
mass of ethnological and archæological knowledge has been collected,
much of which corrects the angle of Spanish vision of the sixteenth
century. But all this is from the American side. Prescott wrote
his 'Mexico' and 'Peru' from the European side-of the time of Isa-
bella, Charles, and Philip. If one cares to know how the Old World
first understood the New, he will read Prescott. If he wishes to know
how the New World of to-day interprets that New World of four
centuries ago, he will read Markham and Fiske. Prescott's beautiful
character is reflected in his style, and in his fidelity to his authori-
ties. Archæology and ethnology may correct some of his descrip-
tions; but as literature, his four histories will undoubtedly be read
with pleasure as long as the English remains a living language.
Francis Hurton Thorpe


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WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT
11771
"THE MELANCHOLY NIGHT»
From the Conquest of Mexico'
(
THER
HERE was no longer any question as to the expediency of
evacuating the capital. The only doubt was as to the time.
of doing so, and the route. The Spanish commander called
a council of officers to deliberate on these matters. It was his
purpose to retreat on Tlascala, and in that capital to decide,
according to circumstances, on his future operations. After some.
discussion, they agreed on the causeway of Tlacopan as the ave-
nue by which to leave the city. It would indeed take them back
by a circuitous route, considerably longer than either of those by
which they had approached the capital. But for that reason it
would be less likely to be guarded, as least suspected; and the
causeway itself, being shorter than either of the other entrances,
would sooner place the army in comparative security on the main.
land.
There was some difference of opinion in respect to the hour
of departure. The daytime, it was argued by some, would be
preferable, since it would enable them to see the nature and
extent of their danger, and to provide against it. Darkness
would be much more likely to embarrass their own movements
than those of the enemy, who were familiar with the ground. A
thousand impediments would occur in the night, which might
prevent their acting in concert, or obeying, or even ascertaining,
the orders of the commander. But on the other hand, it was
urged that the night presented many obvious advantages in deal-
ing with a foe who rarely carried his hostilities beyond the day.
The late active operations of the Spaniards had thrown the Mex-
icans off their guard, and it was improbable they would anticipate
so speedy a departure of their enemies. With celerity and cau-
tion they might succeed, therefore, in making their escape from
the town, possibly over the causeway, before their retreat should
be discovered; and could they once get beyond that pass of peril,
they felt little apprehension for the rest.
These views were fortified, it is said, by the counsels of a
soldier named Botello, who professed the mysterious science of
judicial astrology. He had gained credit with the army by some
predictions which had been verified by the events,—those lucky
hits which make chance pass for calculation with the credulous


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11772
WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT
multitude. This man recommended to his countrymen by all
means to evacuate the place in the night, as the hour most pro-
pitious to them, although he should perish in it. The event
proved the astrologer better acquainted with his own horoscope
than with that of others. It is possible Botello's predictions had
some weight in determining the opinion of Cortés. Supersti-
tion was the feature of the age; and the Spanish general, as we
have seen, had a full measure of its bigotry. Seasons of gloom,
moreover, dispose the mind to a ready acquiescence in the marvel-
ous. It is, however, quite as probable that he made use of the
astrologer's opinion, finding it coincided with his own, to influ-
ence that of his men, and inspire them with higher confidence.
At all events, it was decided to abandon the city that very night.
The general's first care was to provide for the safe transport-
ation of the treasure. Many of the common soldiers had con-
verted their share of the prize, as we have seen, into gold chains,
collars, or other ornaments, which they easily carried about their
persons. But the royal fifth, together with that of Cortés him-
self, and much of the rich booty of the principal cavaliers, had
been converted into bars and wedges of solid gold, and deposited
in one of the strong apartments of the palace. Cortés delivered
the share belonging to the Crown to the royal officers; assigning
them one of the strongest horses, and a guard of Castilian sol-
diers, to transport it. Still, much of the treasure, belonging both
to the Crown and to individuals, was necessarily abandoned, from
the want of adequate means of conveyance. The metal lay scat-
tered in shining heaps along the floor, exciting the cupidity of
the soldiers. "Take what you will of it," said Cortés to his
men. "Better you should have it than these Mexican hounds.
But be careful not to overload yourselves. He travels safest in
the dark night who travels lightest. " His own more wary fol-
lowers took heed to his counsel,- helping themselves to a few
articles of least bulk, though it might be of greatest value. But
the troops of Narvaez, pining for riches of which they had heard
so much and hitherto seen so little, showed no such discretion.
To them it seemed as if the very mines of Mexico were turned
up before them; and rushing on the treacherous spoil, they
greedily loaded themselves with as much of it, not merely as
they could accommodate about their persons, but as they could
stow away in wallets, boxes, or any other means of conveyance
at their disposal.


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WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT
11773
Cortés next arranged the order of march. The van, composed
of two hundred Spanish foot, he placed under the command of
the valiant Gonzalo de Sandoval, supported by Diego de Ordaz,
Francisco de Lujo, and about twenty other cavaliers. The rear-
guard, constituting the strength of the infantry, was intrusted
to Pedro de Alvarado and Velasquez de Leon. The general him-
self took charge of the "battle," or centre, in which went the
baggage, some of the heavy guns,-most of which, however,
remained in the rear, the treasure, and the prisoners. These
consisted of a son and two daughters of Montezuma, Cacama the
deposed lord of Tezcuco, and several other nobles, whom Cortés
retained as important pledges in his future negotiations with the
The Tlascalans were distributed pretty equally among
enemy.
the three divisions; and Cortés had under his immediate com-
mand a hundred picked soldiers, his own veterans most attached
to his service, who, with Cristóval de Olid, Francisco de Morla,
Alonso de Avila, and two or three other cavaliers, formed a
select corps, to act wherever occasion might require.
The general had already superintended the construction of a
portable bridge to be laid over the open canals in the causeway.
This was given in charge to an officer named Magarino, with
forty soldiers under his orders, all pledged to defend the passage
to the last extremity. The bridge was to be taken up when the
entire army had crossed one of the breaches, and transported to
the next. There were three of these openings in the causeway,
and most fortunate would it have been for the expedition if the
foresight of the commander had provided the same number of
bridges. But the labor would have been great, and time was
short.
―――――――
At midnight the troops were under arms, in readiness for
the march. Mass was performed by Father Olmedo, who invoked
the protection of the Almighty through the awful perils of the
night. The gates were thrown open; and on the first of July,
1520, the Spaniards for the last time sallied forth from the walls
of the ancient fortress, the scene of so much suffering and such
indomitable courage.
The night was cloudy; and a drizzling rain, which fell without
intermission, added to the obscurity. The great square before
the palace was deserted, as indeed it had been since the fall of
Montezuma. Steadily, and as noiselessly as possible, the Span-
iards held their way along the great street of Tlacopan, which so


## p. 11774 (#404) ##########################################

11774
WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT
lately had resounded with the tumult of battle. All was now
hushed in silence; and they were only reminded of the past by
the occasional presence of some solitary corpse, or a dark heap
of the slain, which too plainly told where the strife had been hot-
test. As they passed along the lanes and alleys which opened
into the great street, or looked down the canals, whose polished
surface gleamed with a sort of ebon lustre through the obscur-
ity of night, they easily fancied that they discerned the shadowy
forms of their foe lurking in ambush and ready to spring on
them.
But it was only fancy; and the city slept undisturbed
even by the prolonged echoes of the tramp of the horses and the
hoarse rumbling of the artillery and baggage trains. At length a
lighter space beyond the dusky line of buildings showed the van
of the army that it was emerging on the open causeway. They
might well have congratulated themselves on having thus escaped
the dangers of an assault in the city itself, and that a brief time
would place them in comparative safety on the opposite shore.
But the Mexicans were not all asleep.
As the Spaniards drew near the spot where the street opened
on the causeway, and were preparing to lay the portable bridge
across the uncovered breach which now met their eyes, several
Indian sentinels who had been stationed at this, as at the other
approaches to the city, took the alarm and fled, rousing their
countrymen by their cries. The priests, keeping their night-
watch on the summit of the teocallis, instantly caught the tidings
and sounded their shells, while the huge drum in the desolate
temple of the war-god sent forth those solemn tones, which,
heard only in seasons of calamity, vibrated through every corner
of the capital. The Spaniards saw that no time was to be lost.
The bridge was brought forward and fitted with all possible ex-
pedition. Sandoval was the first to try its strength; and riding
across, was followed by his little body of chivalry,—his infantry
and Tlascalan allies, who formed the first division of the army.
Then came Cortés and his squadrons, with the baggage, ammu-
nition wagons, and a part of the artillery. But before they had
time to defile across the narrow passage, a gathering sound
was heard, like that of a mighty forest agitated by the winds.
It grew louder and louder, while on the dark waters of the
lake was heard a plashing noise, as of many oars. Then came
a few stones and arrows striking at random among the hurry-
ing troops. They fell every moment faster and more furious,


## p. 11775 (#405) ##########################################

WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT
11775
till they thickened into a terrible tempest; while the very heav-
ens were rent with the yells and war-cries of myriads of com-
batants, who seemed all at once to be swarming over land and
lake!
The Spaniards pushed steadily on through this arrowy sleet;
though the barbarians, dashing their canoes against the sides of
the causeway, clambered up and broke in upon their ranks. But
the Christians, anxious only to make their escape, declined all
combat except for self-preservation. The cavaliers, spurring for-
ward their steeds, shook off their assailants and rode over their
prostrate bodies; while the men on foot, with their good swords
or the butts of their pieces, drove them headlong again down the
sides of the dike.
But the advance of several thousand men, marching probably
on a front of not more than fifteen or twenty abreast, necessarily
required much time; and the leading files had already reached
the second breach in the causeway before those in the rear had
entirely traversed the first. Here they halted, as they had no
means of effecting a passage; smarting all the while under un-
intermitting volleys from the enemy, who were clustered thick
on the waters around this second opening. Sorely distressed, the
vanguard sent repeated messages to the rear to demand the
portable bridge. At length the last of the army had crossed;
and Margarino and his sturdy followers endeavored to raise the
ponderous framework. But it stuck fast in the sides of the dike.
In vain they strained every nerve. The weight of so many men
and horses, and above all of the heavy artillery, had wedged the
timbers so firmly in the stones and earth that it was beyond
their power to dislodge them. Still they labored amidst a tor-
rent of missiles, until, many of them slain, and all wounded,
they were obliged to abandon the attempt.
The tidings soon spread from man to man; and no sooner
was their dreadful import comprehended than a cry of despair
arose, which for a moment drowned all the noise of conflict. All
means of retreat were cut off. Scarcely hope was left. The
only hope was in such desperate exertions as each could make
for himself. Order and subordination were at an end. Intense
danger produced intense selfishness. Each thought only of his
own life. Pressing forward, he trampled down the weak and the
wounded, heedless whether it were friend or foe. The leading
files, urged on by the rear, were crowded on the brink of the


## p. 11776 (#406) ##########################################

11776
WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT
gulf. Sandoval, Ordaz, and the other cavaliers dashed into the
water. Some succeeded in swimming their horses across; oth-
ers failed; and some who reached the opposite bank, being over-
turned in the ascent, rolled headlong with their steeds into the
lake. The infantry followed pell-mell, heaped promiscuously on
one another, frequently pierced by the shafts or struck down by
the war-clubs of the Aztecs; while many an unfortunate victim
was dragged half stunned on board their canoes, to be reserved
for a protracted but more dreadful death.
The carnage raged fearfully along the length of the cause-
way. Its shadowy bulk presented a mark of sufficient distinct-
ness for the enemy's missiles, which often prostrated their own.
countrymen in the blind fury of the tempest. Those nearest the
dike, running their canoes alongside with a force that shattered
them to pieces, leaped on the land, and grappled with the Christ-
ians until both came rolling down the side of the causeway
together. But the Aztec fell among his friends, while his antag-
onist was borne away in triumph to the sacrifice. The struggle
was long and deadly. The Mexicans were recognized by their
white cotton tunics, which showed faint through the darkness.
Above the combatants rose a wild and discordant clamor, in
which horrid shouts of vengeance were mingled with groans of
agony, with invocations of the saints and the blessed Virgin, and
with the screams of women; for there were several women, both
natives and Spaniards, who had accompanied the Christian camp.
Among these, one named Maria de Estrada is particularly noticed
for the courage she displayed, battling with broadsword and tar-
get like the stanchest of the warriors.
The opening in the causeway, meanwhile, was filled up with
the wreck of matter which had been forced into it,- ammunition
wagons, heavy guns, bales of rich stuffs scattered over the waters,
chests of solid ingots, and bodies of men and horses,-till over
this dismal ruin a passage was gradually formed, by which those
in the rear were enabled to clamber to the other side. Cortés, it
is said, found a place that was fordable; where, halting, with the
water up to his saddle-girths, he endeavored to check the con-
fusion, and lead his followers by a safer path to the opposite
bank. But his voice was lost in the wild uproar; and finally,
hurrying on with the tide, he pressed forwards with a few trusty
cavaliers who remained near his person, to the van; but not be-
fore he had seen his favorite page, Juan de Salazar, struck down


## p. 11777 (#407) ##########################################

WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT
11777
a corpse by his side. Here he found Sandoval and his com-
panions, halting before the third and last breach, endeavoring to
cheer on their followers to surmount it. But their resolution fal-
tered. It was wide and deep; though the passage was not so
closely beset by the enemy as the preceding ones. The cavaliers
again set the example by plunging into the water. Horse and
foot followed as they could, some swimming, others with dying
grasp clinging to the manes and tails of the struggling animals.
Those fared best, as the general had predicted, who traveled
lightest; and many were the unfortunate wretches who, weighed
down by the fatal gold which they loved so well, were buried
with it in the salt floods of the lake. Cortés, with his gallant
comrades Olid, Morla, Sandoval, and some few others, still kept
in the advance, leading his broken remnant off the fatal cause-
way. The din of battle lessened in the distance; when the
rumor reached them that the rear-guard would be wholly over-
whelmed without speedy relief. It seemed almost an act of
desperation; but the generous hearts of the Spanish cavaliers did
not stop to calculate danger when the cry for succor reached
them. Turning their horses' bridles, they galloped back to the
theatre of action, worked their way through the press, swam
the canal, and placed themselves in the thick of the mêlée on the
opposite bank.
waters.
The first gray of the morning was now coming over the
It showed the hideous confusion of the scene which had
been shrouded in the obscurity of night. The dark masses of
combatants, stretching along the dike, were seen struggling for
mastery, until the very causeway on which they stood appeared
to tremble, and reel to and fro, as if shaken by an earthquake;
while the bosom of the lake, as far as the eye could reach, was
darkened by canoes crowded with warriors, whose spears and
bludgeons, armed with blades of "volcanic glass," gleamed in the
morning light.
The cavaliers found Alvarado unhorsed, and defending himself
with a poor handful of followers against an overwhelming tide of
the enemy.