To you and yours, deliberated not,

Nor paused at peril, but humanely brave,
Fought on your side against such fearful odds.
Have you yet learnt of him whom we should thank?
Whom call the saviour of Lord Randolph's life?
Lord Ran. I ask'd that question, and he answer'd

not:

But I must know who my deliverer is.

[To the Stranger. Norval. A low-born man, of parentage obscure, Who nought can boast, but his desire to be

A soldier, and to gain a name in arms.

Lord Ran. Whoe'er thou art, thy spirit is ennobled By the great King of kings; thou art ordain'd And stamp'd a hero by the sovereign hand Of nature! Blush not, flower of modesty, As well as valour, to declare thy birth.

Norv. My name is Norval: on the Grampian hills
My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain,
Whose constant cares were to increase his store,
And keep his only son, myself, at home.
For I had heard of battles, and I long'd
To follow to the field some warlike lord;

And Heav'n soon granted what my sire denied.
This moon, which rose last night round as my shield,
Had not yet fill'd her horns, when, by her light,
A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills,

Rush'd like a torrent down upon the vale,

Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled
For safety, and for succour. I alone,

With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows,
Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd

The road he took then hasted to my friends;
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men,
I met advancing. The pursuit I led,

Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe.

We fought, and conquer'd. Ere a sword was drawn,
An arrow from my bow had pierced their chief,
Who wore that day the arms which now I wear.

Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd

The shepherd's slothful life and having heard
That our good king had summon'd his bold peers
To lead their warriors to the Carron side,

I left my father's house, and took with me
A chosen servant to conduct my steps:

Yon trembling coward, who forsook his master.
Journeying with this intent, I pass'd these towers,
And, heaven-directed, came this day to do
The happy deed that gilds my humble name.

Lord Ran. He is as wise as brave: was ever tale
With such a gallant modesty rehearsed?
My brave deliv'rer, thou shalt enter now
A nobler list, and, in a monarch's sight,
Contend with princes for the prize of fame.
I will present thee to our Scottish king,
Whose valiant spirit ever valour loved.
Ha! my Matilda! wherefore starts that tear?
Lady Ran. I cannot say; for various affections,
And strangely mingled, in my bosom swell:
Yet each of them may well command a tear.

I joy that thou art safe; and I admire

Him, and his fortunes, who hath wrought thy safety;

Yea, as my mind predicts, with thine his own.
Obscure and friendless, he the army sought;
Bent upon peril, in the range of death

Resolved to hunt for fame, and with his sword
To gain distinction which his birth denied.
In this attempt unknown he might have perish'd,
And gain'd, with all his valour, but oblivion.
Now graced by thee, his virtue serves no more
Beneath despair. The soldier now of hope,
He stands conspicuous; fame and great renown
Are brought within the compass of his sword.
On this my mind reflected whilst you spoke,
And bless'd the wonder-working hand of Heaven.
Lord Ran. Pious and grateful ever are thy
thoughts!

My deeds shall follow, where thou point'st the way. Next to myself, and equal to Glenalvon,

In honour and command shall Norval be.

Norv. I know not how to thank you: rude I am In speech and manners: never till this hour Stood I in such a presence: yet, my lord,

There's something in my breast which makes me bold

To say, that Norval ne'er will shame thy favour.
Lady Ran. I will be sworn thou wilt not.

shalt be

Thou

My knight; and ever as thou didst to-day,
With happy valour guard the life of Randolph.
Lord Ran. Well hast thou spoke. Let me forbid
reply.
[To Norval.
We are thy debtors still; thy high desert
O'ertops our gratitude. I must proceed,
As was at first intended, to the camp;
Some of my train, I see, are speeding hither,
Impatient, doubtless, of their lord's delay.
Go with me, Norval, and thine eyes shall see
The chosen warriors of thy native land,
Who languish for the fight, and beat the air
With brandish'd swords.

Norv Let us be gone, my lord.

K

I

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

JOSEPH ADDISON.

AM always very well pleased with a country Sunday, and think, if keeping holy the seventh day were only a human institution, it would be the best method that could have been thought of for the polishing and civilising of mankind. It is certain the country people would soon degenerate into a kind of savages and barbarians, were there not such frequent returns of a stated time, in which the whole village meet together with their best faces, and in their cleanliest habits, to converse with one another upon indifferent subjects, hear their duties explained to them, and join together in adoration of the Supreme Being. Sunday clears away the rust of the whole week, not only as it refreshes in their minds the notions of religion, but as it puts both the sexes upon appearing in their most agreeable forms, and exerting all such qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the eye of the village. A country fellow distinguishes himself as much in the churchyard, as a citizen does upon the 'Change, the whole parish politics being generally discussed in that place, either after sermon or before the bell rings.

My friend Sir Roger, being a good churchman, has beautified the inside of his church with several texts of his own choosing he has likewise given a handsome pulpit-cloth, and railed in the communion table at his own expense. He has often told me, that at his coming to his estate, he found his parishioners very irregular; and that in order to make them kneel and join in the responses, he gave every one of them a hassock and a Common Prayer Book: and at the same time employed an itinerant singing master, who goes about the country for that purpose, to instruct them lightly in the tunes of the Psalms: upon which they

now very much value themselves, and indeed outdo most of the country churches that I have ever heard.

As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he keeps them in very good order, and will suffer nobody to sleep in it besides himself; for if by chance he has been surprised into a short nap at sermon, upon recovering out of it he stands up and looks about him, and, if he sees anybody else nodding, either wakes them himself, or sends his servants to them. Several other of the old knight's particularities break out upon these occasions: sometimes he will be lengthening out a verse in the singing Psalms, half a minute after the rest of the congregation have done with it; sometimes, when he is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pronounces amen three or four times to the same prayer; and sometimes stands up when everybody else is upon their knees, to count the congregation, or see if any of his tenants are missing.

I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old friend, in the midst of the service, calling out to one John Matthews to mind what he was about, and not disturb the congregation. This John Matthews, it seems, is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at that time was kicking his heels for his diversion. This authority of the knight, though exerted in that odd manner which accompanies him in all circumstances of life, has a very good effect upon the parishioners, who are not polite enough to see anything ridiculous in his behaviour; besides that the general good sense and worthiness of his character make his friends observe these little singularities as foils that rather set off than blemish his good qualities.

As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes to stir till Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The knight walks down from his seat in the chancel between a double row of his tenants, that stand bowing to him on each side: and every now and then inquires how such a one's wife, or mother, or son, or father do,