section 47 of England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. The world's story volume 10 England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales edited by Eva March-Tappan. Section 47 Benjamin Disraeli 1804-1881 by L. F. Jennings. Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beckinsfield, was born in 1804. Before he was 22 years of age he had become well known as a writer, but his ambition was political and he had succeeded in entering Parliament. He manifested such talent and ability that he was made chancellor of the Exchequer and in 1868 premier. He soon lost this office, but returned to power in 1974 and for four years his strong will skillfully guided the foreign policy of Great Britain. In 1881 he died. Disraeli was a thoroughgoing imperialist, the champion of the aristocracy. Nevertheless in practice he was liberal and when so far as to urge establishing the Church of Rome and Ireland, besides advocating several almost revolutionary reforms in England. He was a brilliant orator, always clear and dignified and witty with all. The editor. There is no more difficult body of men to lead in the world than those who constitute the House of Commons, and when it has fallen to Mr. Disraeli's lot to lead them he has done it with incomparable tact.  This is Mr. Gladstone's method of managing his fellow members, and it pard the accounts for the success with which he turns a majority for him into a majority against him. Mr. Disraeli, on the other hand, deals patiently with the House, humours it in its fits of petulance or anger, and often recalls it to a sense of its duty by a few words of good humour to it in remonstrance. Once when he had suffered a great defeat and the House was wildly with excitement, and everybody looked to him for a violent speech, he rose calmly and said, I think the best thing is always to put a good face upon a disagreeable state of affairs, and take that sensible view which may be taken even of them as distressing and adverse occurrences if you have a command over your temper and your head. In the same way his trenchant replies to attacks on himself or his party are always free from benevolence, while at the same time they pierce the tenderest points of his antagonists. He fastens some epithet upon a man which sticks to him for the remainder of his life. Mr. Horseman will always be the superior person of the House of Commons. No one who sees Mr. Peripher's hope, who I used to make a speech, will forget his Batavian grace. Lord Salisbury will be remembered for his power of spontaneous aversion. Mr. Low is the inspired schoolboy. When Mr. Gladstone prefers to disestablish the Irish Church, after supporting the cause of church and state all his life, Mr. Disrandy had the opportunity of pointing out a real case of inconsistency, and he did not fail to use it. He taunted the liberal leader, with endeavouring to reverse the solemn uniments of the nation at day-days notice, and with having come forward like a thieve in a night, to make the enormous sacrifice of all the convictions of his life. His sketch of the eternal Irish difficulty is worth reading, even though it suffers much through being detached from a great speech. I never liked the immigration from Ireland. I have deplored it. I know that the finest elements of political power are men, and therefore I have not sympathised with the political economists who would substitute entirely for men and animals of a lower organisation. I am not conscious that I have ever been deficient in sympathy for the Irish people. They have engaged in qualities which I think every man who has any heart must respect. But I must say, nothing surprises me more than the general conduct of the Irish people on the subject of sentimental grievances. They are brave, lively, very imaginative, and therefore very sanguine. We are going about the world announcing that they are a conquered race. They do appear to me the most extraordinary people in the universe. Every one of us, nations and individuals, is said to have a skeleton in the house. I hope I have not. If I had, I would turn the key upon him. But why do they go about ostentatiously declaring themselves to be a conquered race? If they really were a conquered race, they are not the people who ought to announce it. It is the conquerors from whom we should learn the fact, for it is not the conquered who go about the world and announce their shame and humiliation. Cheers! But I entirely deny that the Irish are a conquered race. I deny that they are more a conquered race than the people of any other nation. Therefore, I cannot see that there is any real ground for the doleful tone in which they complain that they are the most disgraced of men, and make that the foundation for the most unreasonable requests. Ireland is not one with more conquered than England. They are always telling us that the Normans conquered Ireland. Well, I have heard. The Normans conquered England too. Laughter. And the only difference between the two conquests is that while the conquest of Ireland was only partial, that of England was complete. Renewed laughter. Then they tell us that a long time ago, there was that dreadful conquest by Cromwell, when Cromwell not only conquered but plundered the people. But Cromwell conquered England. Great laughter. He conquered the House of Commons. Renewed laughter. He ordered that both be taken away in consequence of which an honourable member, I believe, of very advanced little opinions, the other night proposed that we should raise a statue to his memory. Laughter. Cheers. Well, sir, then we are told that the Dutch conquered Ireland. But, unfortunately, they conquered England too. They marched from Devonshire to London through the mid-stir-grumbling population. But the Irish fought like gentlemen for their sovereign, and there was no disgrace in the battle of the boy, nor does any shey attach the conduct of those who were defeated. Hear, hear. I wish I could say as much for the conduct of the English leaders at that time. Hear, hear.  Laughter. Lightness and deity often appear in Mr. Disraeli's speeches when all things seem to be going against him. It is his courage and unfailing good humour which make him many personal friends, even among his bitter political foes. If a man is doomed to be beaten, it is well to see him taking his punishment with a serene countenance and a cheerful air. Throughout the long and stormy period during which Mr. Disraeli was compelled to remain in the cold shade of opposition, he never betrayed signs of a failing heart. The determined and the persevering, as he says in Lothair, need never despair of gaining their object in this world, and this principle is the keynote to his own life. He allied himself very early with a declining party, and he has remained steadfast to it, who almost unexampled vicissitudes. There was a grudge against it in the minds of the people, and he never had a chance of taking up a popular question. All the food on the tree felt the liberals. Nothing would have been more natural according to the ordinary behaviour of men than for Mr. Disraeli to have broken down during his long and arduous struggle against a victorious party. He had sat for fifteen years in Parliament before the smallest prospect appeared of his enjoying the solace of office. His party was scattered, demoralised, and cast down. It had no policy before it. Its former long lease of power had rendered the people tired of it, and it had fallen out of accord with the spirit of the age. Younger men and younger ideas were needed in it. Mr. Disraeli was abundantly able to supply ideas, but the very sound of the words change or progress scared the country party. They distrusted the unknown man who was at their head in the lower house. He was much too clever for them.  That was decidedly un-English. He had written in newspapers and could not tell the weight of a bullet by pinching it in the rear. Nothing much worse could be said of a man. The old squires looked to scorns at the young man with a Hebrew type of face, who suddenly appeared among them. He had no land, and no money, no family, and no titled kinsfolk. To move a stubborn, inert mass such as the Tory party then was, might have defied the strength of twenty men. The task fell to the adventurer, and he had to address himself to it while the party was in deep adversity. The lot of a leader in opposition is, at the best, never an enviable one. His followers are eager for office, and if he cannot bring them to the desired haven, they will approach him for his want of capacity and enterprise. If he makes a dash at power and fails, they accuse him of foolhardiness and stupidity. Anybody that will say might have seen that failure was inevitable, though they may all the time have been inciting him to make the attempt. If he goes fast, he is hot-brained. If he is slow, he is faint-hearted. Misty Disraeli tried hard for years to bring his party out of the Slav despond, and was resisted chiefly by that party itself. It was not until 1852 that he was first called to office as Chancellor of the Exchequer. Twice afterwards he was compelled to take the same post, with a minority at his back. At length, still greater responsibilities were pressed upon him. In the early part of 1868, Lord Derby, under whom Mr. Disraeli had so often served, found his health rapidly declining. He retired from office, and Mr. Disraeli received the commands of the Queen to form a cabinet. When he went down to the House of Commons on the night of March 5, 1868, everybody expected a memorable speech. The House was crowded, and the new Premier was vehemently cheered as he passed to Westminster Hall. In the House itself he was received with equal warmth. The gallows were filled with people eager to hear the great speech. But Mr. Disraeli does not care to surprise people, at least not in the way they expect. He delivered a short and modest address, and instantly applied himself to the practical work of the House, work which few Prime Ministers have ever managed so well. The interest felt by the public in his accession to power was not unnatural. Since Mr. Disraeli had entered Parliament more than thirty years before, only fine men had succeeded in climbing before him to the chief place in the country. Peel, Abedin, Russell, Palmerston and Derby. He had beaten his rival Gladstone in the race. Many great men had come and gone during those thirty years, and missed the chief mark. Sir George Cornwall Lewis, Sir James Graham, Arthur Buller, the Duke of Newcastle were men of great influence and abilities. But the unknown member whose faith was that all things in his life will fall to those who wait and persevere, achieved the distinction which they failed to reach. He had fought out his struggle with a grand courage which would alone render him a man memorable in history. He set himself to accomplish his purpose, not in a feverish or impulsive spirit, but with a heroic patience and indomitable endurance, and a splendid self-reliance which enabled him to face all antagonists, to rise again and again from repeated reverses and blows, to mock at all difficulties and finally to vanquish every obstacle which was thrust in his path. He had no intimate friends, outside very small circle of men with whom he has been acting for years. He began as a soldier-man in the Waste of London, with the chances of success incalculably against him. He sought no help from outside. He paid court to no man, and what must be the strangest thing of all to aspiring politicians? To no newspaper.  Not the least of those prejudices was that which related to the race from which he sprang. His family traced its descent from the pure Sephardian stock. They were Hebrews of the Hebrews. For two generations, at least, they had been Christians, but still the favourite toward level of Mr. Disraeli was founded on his Jewish origin. These reproaches, as usual, he met with defiance. So far from repudiating his race, he has always gloried in it. He fought its battles in the House of Commons, and him fell the honour of completing the removal of Jewish disabilities. He succeeded in gaining for Jews the right to sit in the House of Commons, and he has done more to break down the unjust prejudice against them than any man of his generation. He has made people at last understand they do not insult him by calling him a Jew. They only pay him a compliment. Section 48 Gladstone's Fight for Home Rule, 1893, from the Atlantic Monthly William E. Whart, Gladstone, 1809 through 1898, was the son of a wealthy merchant of Liverpool. He entered Parliament at the age of 23, the follower of Sir Robert Peale, and rose from one position to another. From the beginning he manifested unusual ability and finance. He professed Tory principles, but in 1866 he supported Lord Russell's bill for the extension of suffrage and the redistribution of seats in the House of Commons. In 1867 he became the leader of the Liberal Party. The following year he was made Prime Minister. He succeeded in bringing about the disestablishment of the Irish Church and in winning some measure of reform in the Irish land system. He was made Premier four times. In 1894 he gave up political office and in 1898 he died. Gladstone's only rival was Disraeli, but Disraeli's sparkling oratory was more than balanced by Gladstone's solid principles. Disraeli was ambitious and ready to adopt new standards that promised preferment. Gladstone changed his opinions more than once in the course of his career, but never to win a personal success. His place in history is that of a reformer in finance and a defender of the rights of the English people of all classes. The editor. And now came the part of Mr. Gladstone's public life which brought both his statesmanship and his character most seriously and most bitterly into dispute. Called again for the third time to be Prime Minister of England. He accepted the great office virtually at the hands of the Irish party without who support it could not be held. And with it he accepted their program of home rule for Ireland. The wisdom of Mr. Gladstone's course is more questionable than the sincerity of it. The subject on that side is too large for this article, yet a few words must be said. In his first plan submitted to parliament on the 8th of April 1886 he proposed to give Ireland a distinct legislature with substantial independence in the control of its domestic affairs, but to silence its voice in the larger affairs of the United Kingdom by taking its representation in the imperial parliament entirely away. The liberal party was broken by the startling proposition. 85 of its members say seated and joined the conservatives to defeat the bill. Mr. Gladstone appealed by dissolution and was beaten in the country overwhelmingly. The seceding liberals taken the name of Unionists formed a coalition with the conservatives in a ministry which held the government under Lord Salisbury for six years until the parliament expired. Then Mr. Gladstone still full of vigor and firm in his resolution to give home rule to Ireland renewed his appeal to the people. The elections of 1892 went against him in England, but favorably in Scotland and Wales and strongly favorable in Ireland of course. Without the Irish members he would be heavily outvoted in the House. With them he had a majority of 42. On this dubious verdict he undertook his fourth ministry and brought forward his second home rule bill. It was radically different from the first in plan giving Ireland 80 members in the House of Commons at London with no vote there on matters affecting Great Britain alone and a domestic legislature of two houses that doubled. The Commons passed the bill and the Lords as expected threw it out. Mr. Gladstone saw the uselessness of a dissolution or a vegetation against the peers. It went stoutly through other business of the session to the end and even to April of the following year then he resigned. He had finished his political career. In these home rule measures Mr. Gladstone had set his hand for the first time to an important undertaking of constructive statesmanship and the verdict must be that he was not equal to it. His life work has been in reforming statesmanship in that he has had no peer. He has been we may say the greatest of those peaceful revolutionists who lift and carry nations forward out of old conditions into new who reconcile their institutions with advancing time and make them participants in the progress of the world. But this reparative work most useful perhaps that true statesmanship can do wins commonly less of the admiration of mankind than the framing of political systems and the building of states. Bismarck and Kavor among Gladstone's contemporaries are more than likely to rank above him in present and in future opinion as belonging to an order of statesmanship that is superior in its kind. The justice of that opinion is far from sure. It turns mostly upon a question of weight and moral qualities that are widely opposed but the fact of it is to be recognized and so too is the fact that when Gladstone attempted a serious work of constructive statesmanship he failed a grievous ending for so great and so noble a career. It ought to have been ended for him in the serene contentment of some crowning success in no procession of noisy triumph but by some flowers drew in a beautiful way he should have gone to his retirement with a happily satisfied heart. He had done so much for England, for Britain, for Ireland. It labored so long so hopefully so valiantly so hard he had struck without favor or fear at so many wrongs. He had remembered so faithfully the whole people and born so calmly the selfish resentments of a selfish class. He had warmed the very heart of the world so often with his generous enthusiasm. He had been for half a century so inspiring a figure in the eyes of all mankind so chivalrous and standing for right. One feels that there might fitly have been a trooping of all the people of British race to say hail and farewell to him when he went out of public life. Gladstone's place in English history will be high and it will be quite a part for many other. He will have no near companionship in his fame. It will be, we think, in eminence beside the moral qualities more than to intellectual powers. The very sincerity that his enemies have denied to him will be counted perhaps the loftiest of his claims. It will be seen that few men of brilliant gifts and great ambitions have sought with his earnestness for the right in which they did or have stood with his courage by what they found it to be. When he braved the scorn and anger of the church, which has always been more to him than to most of its priests, and challenged by the same act his own past in order to do justice to the people of another creed, and when he made a righteous peace with the boars in the face of a storm of English wrath, he rose to a greatness in character that will be measured in future time with clearer eyes than now. The persuasive witchery of his eloquence will be poorly understood by generations to come. It is not found in the word, the phrase, the argument, or the thought. It came from the most part from the spirit that warmed the breath of a man, sounded in his voice, looked out of his eyes. It was personal to him, largely drawn from the moral qualities that seemed to be his greater distinction. No man of his day has had such power of persuasion as he. It may not be too both to say that no man of any time has surpassed him in that power. Yet he was never logically strong. His argumentative writings, the most carefully and deliberately composed, show defects of reasoning that are marked from controversy with an antagonist like Professor Huxley, he was sure to come with wounds. Yet his masterful influence over minds of every class is a certain fact. It was once said by somebody that Gladstone could persuade anybody to anything, himself included, and no doubt the epigram carries a significant truth. Fashion a man fondly and largely, and make him to be tensely strong in every part of his whole nature, but inject a little, barely a little, excess on the moral and emotional side, a little more of feeling with pressure of conscience behind it than logical judgment can quite control. We shall have the persuasive man who is over persuasive sometimes to himself. On the great scale, as in Gladstone, it produces a rare and splendid power for the kind of work he had to do, a rare and splendid character for the delight and admiration of mankind. They kept him in the strength and beauty of youth till he died. It did more, for he was younger in spirit, younger in the generosity and hospitalities of his mind when his work was finished than when it began. He, at least in this questioning nineteenth century, found wellsprings of faith in both God and man, and drank of them to the end. End of Section 48. Section 49 of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Thomas Peter. The World Story Volume 10. England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. Edited by Eva March Tabin. Section 49. The Latest English Revolution. 1911. From the Outlook. In 1906, the Liberals came into power. This party is opposed to continuing the special privileges which place political power in the hands of powerful families and classes. In 1911, it brought about what had been called the Bloodless Revolution. That is, the taking from the House of Lords of the power to veto a bill passed in three successive sessions by the House of Commons. The Editor. What has really happened is that the House of Lords can no longer interpose a veto to the will of the people, as expressed by the House of Commons. Although, in order to make effective any expression of that will in opposition to the wish of the peers, the House of Commons must pass any measure three separate times, covering a period of not less than two years, which seems to be far enough from permitting the government a majority to exercise a snap judgment as the result of sudden popular excitement. The thing that impressed the spectator as most significant during the nearly three weeks which intervened between the formal announcement of the Prime Minister that the royal prerogative would be invoked and needful, and the passage of the Parliament bill by a majority of 17 in the House of Lords was that the people of England did not seem to care a wrap about the real revolution that was going on. No one on the streets was talking about it. There were no gatherings to discuss it, except here and there, a conference between peers of varying views. The tram cars, the barber shops, the hotel lobbies, the smoking rooms were as thematic and uninterested as though the matter of mending or ending had been settled long before, as in effect it had been at the last two popular elections when excitement had not been wanting. The people had decided and having commissioned their elected rulers to act for them, they had gone about their business of farming and trading with the confidence entirely calm and perhaps a little grim that the work would be efficiently accomplished. The humour of the closing drama was supplied with a bluff and venerable Lord Halsbury, who at the age of more than four score years flung his gauntlet into the arena, called about a hundred peers who declined to follow the prudent council of the Unionist leader Lord Lansdown and announced that, as for himself and his followers, they would never yield, even if the House of Lords were swamped by five hundred newly created liberal peers and its ancient conservative prestige abolished forever. These fighting lords came to be known as the die-hards and sometimes as the ditchers from their desire to occupy the last ditch in their demise, while the peers who followed Lord Lansdown in recognizing and advance their defeat and proposed to abstain from voting on the final division were called hedgers. The real tragedy of the event seems to have been the disappointment of the 500 liberal candidates for the peerage who had, it is understood, been carefully chosen and of course were at least tacitly pledged to the liberal program for so large a number of ambitious men with equally ambitious wives and daughters to get so near that height of privilege and have their aspirations dashed to earth implies an aggregate of disappointments that cannot be contemplated without a shutter. End of section 49. This recording is in the public domain. Section 50 of England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales. This is a Libervox recording. All Libervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit Libervox.org. The World's Story Volume 10. England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales. Edited by Eva March Tappan. Section 50. Coronation of George V. 1911. By Sydney Brooks. A grey, windy day and nonetheless British for being so. All London pouring Abbey Woods. The cars and the underground trains splashed with the unwanted blaze of animals, generals and privy councillors uniforms. Hordes of sightseers with luncheon bags and baskets. Much tripping over swords and earnest gazing at gold braid and scarlet tunics and silk knee-breaches. A militar and a festive, interconsequential talk as the train speeds on. The whole of Victoria Street, one solid mass of motors, pier's coaches, taxi cabs and booms, each with its vision of nodding plumes and gleaming jewels and resplendent masculinity within. The Abbey, as one draws near it, greyer, more venerable and reposeful than one has ever known it, is a fit hearthstone for a world-wide race. A glimpse of stands and tears, multitudinously crowded, of garlands, poles, bunting, and glittering emblems, of windows and roofs, a lyre with faces. Then, the turning into Dean's Yard, usually the quietest of all the little havens in which London abounds, but now bustling and brilliant, with troops and guests and officials, women in court dresses with gorgeous trains carried over the arms, naval and military men, judges and officers of the court, and so into the cloisters, till I am directed for the entrance I want, and mount up and up and around and around the 700-year-old corkscrewy stone staircase, till I am drawn to an arch by a courteous and bespangled usher, and find myself in the South Triforium, 60 feet or so, above the nave. It is eight o'clock, the royal guests are not due to leave Buckingham Palace till nine thirty, and the king and queen will not reach the Abbey before eleven, so there's plenty of time to look around. The Triforium itself is mainly given up to journalists, but among them are not a few army and navy officers and their wives, for whom seats could not be found elsewhere, and also a gathering of white-roped scholars from Westminster school, come to assert the historic privilege of acclaiming the king. One wonders about, sampling one coin of advantage out or another, and finding each different and each superb. The arch nears to the western door by which the royal guests, the princes and princesses of the blood-royal, and their majesties, are to enter later on, and through which already is pouring a stream of peers and pierses, offers perhaps the best view of all. Craning over its edge and looking down on the floor below and up the whole length of the Abbey, what does one see? What will be the sign that will greet the king and queen on their entrance? First, a rich blue Worcester carpet, stretching along the vista to the carven height of the quail-screen, on which amassed the orchestra and trumpeters, round the scarlet conspicuous robes, the Sofretic bridge, the conductor. On either side of the carpet runs a wide border of softer, blueed gray, up to the edge of the partitions, three feet or so in height, but wall off the seats from the Abbey floor. The partitions are hung with silver procade, heavily stamped with patterns in royal blue. Behind them, row upon row, tier upon tier, ascend the seats, their straight lines of pale blue, merging exquisitely with the somber gray of the walls and arches. Even at this early hour they are well filled, and every movement sees a new arrival. We'll look down on a rippling sea of colour. Abmoles in golden blue coats, over white breeches and stockings. Army officers in scarlet and gold. Scottish chieftains in flowing dark green tartans. The mayors of the great cities in scarlet cloaks, edged with miniver and hung with gold badges. Here a jumble of shimmering hues, a great glittering splash, so it resolves itself under opera glasses into oriental potentates, with flashing turbans and ropes of jewels. There the earl marshals' officers showing people to their places, with crimson gold tipped staves, and mingling with all the white plumes of the women and their dresses of white or softish blue or heliotrope or pink or lightest green. Medals and ribbons and orders and clasps and jewels, to englop at one, only the yellow-gray pillars of the abbey, and the buzz-bit grenadiers who alternate with the omen of the guard, seem motionless. All else goes billowing and sparkling in long harmonies of shade and light. No stage effect ever began to compare with this. Eyes and brain ache with the ever-moving gorgeousness of it all. Stroke follows upon stroke. Gem is added to gem. One watches a pierce, coronet in hand, moving with the splendid grace up the nave and through the arch of the choir-screen, her crimson, fan-shaped train, edged with ermine, spreading like seriously behind her, or borne by a page all exquisite in cream and gold and ruffles and longsword, or a prelate in scarlet and lawn, or an Indian visitor, a walking column of jewels, or an ambassador ablaze with stars, or a judge in full glory of weight and scarlet mantle, or a knight in a brilliant cloak of his order. They enter not in twos or threes, but in dozens, till for sheer relief, when is forced to rest one's eyes on the arching roof of the abbey and its cool and tranquil vistas. The morbid distinguished among them, and those higher in rank, pass, as I said, under the arch of the choir-screen that spans the nave, beneath the orchestra and the royal trumpeters, or to sound the fanfares on silver trumpets, and to stand out gorgeously in their murray and gold. The screen makes an excellent break, as one's eyes sweeps up the length of the abbey. But those who are to the westward of it, perhaps half the total number present, find that it blocks their view of the coronation ceremonies, and except the entrance of the guests and the processions, they can see little or nothing of all that makes up the splendour of the occasion. But being in the triforium, with a libidive movement, I can pass to a point beyond the choir-screen, to the very angle, indeed, of the nave and transept. Look down on the altar, the thrones, the coronation's chair, the very scene of the king's sacred. Just beyond the screen are the choir stalls, soon to be occupied by the royal guests and representatives in their suites. Above them are tiers upon tiers of seats. Then come the transepts, the north being occupied by the pierses, and the south by the piers, and above them both run vast galleries up to the level of the triforium itself for members of parliament and their wives. Beyond the transept, one's eye travels over galleries splashed with the red of judges, the blue and white of admirals, the scarlet and gold of army officers, interspersed with the gleam of women's necks and arms, the shimmer of their dresses, and the flash of jewels, past the royal boxes reserved for the kings and queens, and for queen and exodras, private friends, till they rest on the glitter and cream and gold of the altar, laden with the sacred vessels. In the space between the two transepts, called the theatre, stand the two thrones, and crimps and damask facing the altar, and set on a dios, the king has been to the right, the queens to the left, and lower down. A few yards further on, still facing the altar, is the historic chairs and headwood, the coronation seat of centuries of English kings. To the right of it, at some little distance, almost indeed under the shadow of an arch, stand two recognition chairs, facing northwards, with fold-stools in soft light blue before them. Down from the altar, over the blue carpet, ripples the sheen of magnificent Persian rugs. One has not time to take in even one half the values of the general setting before the preliminaries begin. From St. Edward's Chapel, behind the sanctuary screen, the regalia brought forth, laid on the altar, are dedicated. A procession forms, hated by the trumpeters, followed by the choir, the sub-dean of Westminster, and the preponderers in their crimson robes. Outbursts the splendid hymn, O God, our help in ages past! And with slow ecclesiastical pomp, the regalia are borne down the nave and into the tapestry of Annex, there to await the coming of the king and queen. Hardly are they deposited before the royal guests arrive. To name them would be to simply give a list of all the reigning families and of all the nations on earth. Nothing that has gone before equals the splendor of their approach, as, headed by the German crown prince and princess, they sweep up the nave in a perfusion of varied magnificence, a flowing, opalescent stream of dancing lights, and take their places in the choir stalls. No sooner are they seated thaned the Blair of Silver trumpets, and preceded by persuivance in medieval bravery. The prince of Wales enters, a wholesome, unaffected boyish figure, in the mantle of the garter, bearing a vast, plumed hat. He is escorted to a seat in the south troncept, just in front of the pier's benches.  He is kept for a while, quite busy. His three brothers and his sister, and after them a long train of princes and princesses of the blood royal, each with an attendant, page, or officer, or lady in waiting, make their obeisance on their way to the royal boxes. It is the last of the preliminaries before the arrival of the king and queen. Every seat is taken. The whole massed effect of statelyness and brilliance is at its highest point. All Europe, America, Africa, and the Orient, four hundred millions of British subjects, and the best of English beauty, valor, and worth, are represented there in those valiant seven thousand personages, awaiting the coming of the king and queen. They come at last, on here is the booming of the guns, the faint echo of cheering without. There is not today the feeling of anxious tension, that there was nine years ago, when no one knew where the king Edward could stand the strain of the long and arduous ceremony. But there is the universal emotion of expectancy, fed by all that has gone before, and charged, with a sense of the full significance of an occasion that is a religious right and a political sacrament, as well as a spectacular pageant. All eyes and ears are turned to the west door. Slowly the procession enters. First the Abbey Beedle, in robes of silk and blue. Then the Ten Chaplains in Ordinary Scarlet, hooded. After them the Domestic Chaplains, the Sacrest, bearing the cost of Westminster, followed by more Iglesiastics. Then the Persuivance, all gold and Murray. And the Officers of the Orders of Nighthood, in bantles of glimmering hues, heralds in blaze and coats. Household officials, great nobles, bearing the standards of the British Dominians, India, Ireland, Scotland, England, and the United Kingdom. Lord Lansdowne, holding aloft the Royal Standard. The Four Knights of the Order of the Gods are appointed to hold the canopy for the king's alointing. Great political dignitaries. Chancellors and Lord Chaplains. The Archbishop of Canterbury. More Persuivance. The Bearers of the Queen's Regalia. And then the Queen herself. Pale and tense with emotion, but splendidly dignified. Her stupendous train, worn by eight ladies in snowy white, followed by double-dazzling lines of attendant retinue. It is an incomparable moment, as the procession flashes onwards, and the organ and choir burst into the noble anthem. I was glad when they said unto me, We will go into the house of the Lord. And the Westminster boys fling out their greeting. Viva Regina Maria. Viva, viva, viva! There is a pause off but a moment, and the final procession enters the abbey. One watches the passing of the King's Regalia with a certain impatience, even though Lord Roberts and Lord Kitchener are among the Sword Bearers. And the Golden Orb and the Scepter with the Darwin St. Edward's Crown are among the Precious Treasures. At last, firm and upright, in his crimson robe of state, flanked by two bishops and an array of gentlemen at arms, followed by his train-bearers in red and white, attended by a glowing company of officials and yeoman of the guard, comes the King. While the anthem swells to its second movement, and the vivats of the Westminster boys crash out again, the service begins at once, that unique and noble service, a tissue of medieval mysticism, chivalry, feudalism, ecclesiasticism and politics, bending the sacred and the secular into a pact between the King and his God, and the people and their sovereign. The anointing with oil, the solemn benedictions, many times multiplied, the investiture of the sovereign with quasi-sacredotal robes, delivery to him of the regalia with prayers and injunctions, make it, in certain aspects, predominantly an ecclesiastical ceremony. On the other hand, the fourfold recognition with which the service opens, and which the Archbishop, turning to the four points of the compass, asks the people whether they are willing to do their homage and service to the King. Recalls the time when monarchy was elective, or rested on the fortunes of war, and the administration of the oath emphasizes its secular and political side. Then again, the touching of the King's heels with golden spurs, the girding on of the sword, the presentation of the glove, and the homage of the bishops, princes and peers, recall the ideas and practices of feudalism and chivalry. And the whole of this curious service, except the recognition, is embedded in the communion service of the Church of England, at which King and Queen themselves devoutly communicate. Is this amazing and yet moving medley, written in the noblest language, and with no part of it that does not bear the seal and warrant of the centuries? Destined, I wonder, in the quick moving times that lie ahead, to be the enduring form which the covenant between the English monarch and his people is destined to assume? But there is scant leisure or inclination for such questionings, while the service itself proceeds, while one's ears and mind and heart are filled and stirred by the chanting of the litany, while beneath one's eyes the solemn coronation oath is administered, and the King is seen to kiss the Bible and sign the roll, while the full, highest of English noblemen, whole, a gleaming canopy of gold over his head, and the Archbishop anoints him, while the chivalric investiture is in progress, and while, when the crowning is accomplished, the peers with a blinding, simultaneous movement put on their coronets, and God save the King, resounds through the abbey, and the trumpets blare, and far off one hears the canon thundering the glad tidings to the world. Each one of these separate ceremonies has its unforgettable moments, when everything that color, music, the utmost splendor of costume, and of language, and the solemnities and mysteries of religion can do to flood the emotions and dazzle and begar the senses, is done with superb and compelling effect. The passage of the regalia from throne to altar, the assumption of the emblems of simple power, the first moment when the crowned and anointed King turns round to face his subjects, the helping of the King onto his throne, in reminiscence of the days when the monarch was lifted shield high for his people to see, the thrilling flavor of a thousand years of kingship in the words and acts of homage, the coming and going of magnificent dignitaries with emblems whose significance is woven with the earliest annals of English nationality, the unrobing of the monarch at this moment in obedience to hallowed forms, his investment at that moment still in accordance with traditions and meanings that were ancient 500 years ago, the bowings and dealings, the prayers and oblations, the crowning of the Queen, and the culminating scene when King and Queen are bishops near the altar rails to receive the communion, while the tremendous words of the arrogant service roll in beauty through the listening abbey. These are episodes that must surely, in their union of the deepest messages, with the most gorgeous pageants, stay printed on the mind forever. It is over, the benediction has been pronounced, the tedium is ringing out, the King and Queen have passed into St Edward's chapel behind the altar. In a few moments they reappear, the processions are reformed, the Queen bearing in her right hand her scepter and the cross, and in her left the ivory rod with the dove and wearing her crown passes through the choir and down to the west door, the central and most imposing figure in a long line of beauty and splendour. Two minutes later the King, wearing the imperial crown, in his right hand the scepter with the cross, emblem of kingly power and justice, in his left hand the orb, follows in the midst of his retinue. The organ peels, God save the King, and cheer after cheer breaks from the brilliant ranks of guests and spectators. Without a hitch, and with every circumstance of historic pomp, the great ceremony is consummated, and as we leave the abbey, we are born to our ears, the thunderous cheers of the multitude without, acclaiming their crowned and anointed sovereigns. Section 51 Of England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya Scotland, Part I Ballads and Legends of Early Scotland Historical Note At the time of the Roman occupation of Britain, Scotland was inhabited by Celtic tribes, chiefly Picts, so wild and savage, that in spite of expeditions and fortifications, they remained unconquered. Not many years after the Romans had left Britain forever, the Scots, a people from Northern Ireland, invaded the north of Scotland, and settled on the western coast. These are the folk who showed themselves the strongest race, and who gave the country its name. They also gave it its religion, for St. Colomba and other missionaries from Ireland made their abode on the Isle of Iona, and preached the Christian faith in the land. In the ninth century, the country north of the fourth and the Clyde was ruled by one king, a Scot, and was called Albon. A century later its name had become Scotland. Not all strangers came with such peaceful intent as St. Colomba and his companions, for the horrors of Danish invasions continued from the ninth century to the eleventh, and to this day there is more Scandinavian blood in the lowlands of Scotland than in any other part of Great Britain. Even in the 13th century a bold attempt was made by the Norse, but Alexander III was so successful at the Battle of Larks, that King Harkon was glad to start for home with his damaged vessels. This ended the invasions of the Northmen. A treaty was made by the two rulers, and three years later the daughter of the King of Scotland married the son of the King of Norway. The child of this marriage, the little Princess Margaret, became Queen of Scotland on the death of Alexander III, but on the way to her kingdom she died. End of Section 51. This recording is in the public domain. Section 52 of England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. The World's Story Volume 10. England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales. Edited by Evermarch Tappan. Section 52. Legends of Saint Columba, 563, by Adam Nan, 9th abbot of the Ionian Monastery. Saint Columba is said to have been born in Ireland, and to have come in 563 with 12 companions to the island of Iona. There he and his brethren built huts for themselves, and also a little church. Around the tiny settlement they raised a wall of turf. But these earnest men were not satisfied to live quietly in their own houses, and before long Columba was some of his followers set out to see Brood, King of the Picts, who lived near where Invernus now stands, to tell him about the Christian faith and try to persuade him to accept it. They were successful and the Picts became Christians. A large monastery was built on Iona, and the island was regarded as a so holy place, that for a long while the bodies of the kings of Ireland, Scotland and even Denmark were brought there for burial, the editor. How Saint Columba Overcame the Druid Broicon On a certain day Broicon, whilst conversing with the saint, said to him, Tell me Columba, when doth thou propose to set sail? The saint replied, I intend to begin my voyage after three days, if God permits me, and preserves my life. Broicon said, On the contrary, thou shalt not be able, for I can make the winds unfavorable for thy voyage, and cause a great darkness to envelop you in its shade. Upon this the saint observed, the almighty power of God ruleeth all things, and in his name, and under his guiding providence, all our movements are directed. What more need I say, that same day the saint, accompanied by a large number of followers, went to the long lake of the River Nessa, Loch Ness, as he had determined. Then the Druids began to exalt, seeing that it had become very dark, and that the wind was very violent on contrary. Our Columba, therefore, seeing that the sea was violently agitated, and that the wind was most unfavorable for his voyage, called on Christ the Lord, and embarked in his small boat. And whilst the sailors hesitated, he the more confidently ordered them to raise the sails against the wind. No sooner was this order executed, while the whole crowd was looking on, than the vessel ran against the wind with extraordinary speed. And after a short time, the wind, which his or two had been against them, weirred round to help them on their voyage, to the intense astonishment of all. And thus, throughout the remainder of that day, the light breeze continued most favorable, and the skiff of the blessed man was carried safely to the wished-for-haven. Saint Columba and the White Horse In the end of this same week, that is, on the day of the Sabbath, the venerable man and his pious attendant, Diremeet, went to bless the barn, which was near at hand. When the saint had entered it and blessed it, and two heaps of winnowed corn that were in it, he gave expression to his thanks in these words, saying, I heartily congratulate my beloved monks, that this year also, if I am obliged to depart from you, you will have a sufficient supply for the year. On hearing this, Diremeet, his attendant, began to feel sad and said, This year at this time, father, though very often vexed us by so frequently making mention of thy leaving us. But the saint replied to him, I have a little secret address to make to thee, and if thou wilt promise me faithfully, not to reveal it to anyone before my death, I shall be able to speak to thee with more freedom about my departure. When his attendant had on bended knees made the promise as the saint desired, the venerable man thus resumed his address. This day in the holy scriptures is called the Sabbath, which means rest, and this day is indeed a Sabbath to me, for it is the last day of my present laborious life, and on it I rest after the fatigues of my labours, and this night at midnight, which commences the solemn Lord's day I shall, according to the sayings of scripture, go the way of our fathers, for already my Lord, Jesus Christ, dinest to invite me, and to him I say in the middle of this night shall I depart at his invitation, for so it has been revealed to me by the Lord himself. The attendant hearing these sad words began to weep bitterly, and the saint endeavored to console him as well as he could. After this, the saint left the barn, and then going back to the monastery, rested halfway at a place, where a cross, which was afterwards erected, and is standing to this day, fixed into a millstone, maybe observed on the roadside. While the saint, as I have said, bowed down with old age, sat there to rest a little, behold, there came up to him a white back horse, the same, that used as a willing servant to carry the milk vessels from the co-shed to the monastery. It came up to the saint, and strangers say, laid its head on his bosom, inspired, I believe, by God to do so, as each animal is gifted with the knowledge of things, according to the will of the Creator, and knowing that its master was soon about to leave it, and that it would see him no more, began to utter plaintive cries, and like a human being, to shed copious tears on the saint's bosom, foaming and greatly wailing. The attendants seeing this began to drive the weeping mourner away, but the saint forbade him, saying, let it alone, as it is so fond of me, let it pour out its bitter grief into my bosom. Lo, though, as though art a man, and has the rational soul, canst know nothing of my departure hence, except what I myself have just told you, but to this brute beast, devoid of reason, the Creator himself has evidently in some way made it known that its master is going to leave it, and saying this, the saint blessed the workhorse which turned away from him in sadness, the stake which was blessed by the saint. At another time there came to St. Colomba a very poor peasant, who lived in the district which borders the shores of the Aporic Lake, Lochhubber. The blessed man, taking pity on the wretched man, who had not of air without to support his wife and family, gave him all the alms he could afford, and then said to him, poor man, take a branch from the neighboring wood and bring it to me quickly. The wretched man brought the wood as he was directed, and the saint, taking it in his own hand, sharpened it to a point like a stake, and blessing it gave it back to the destitute man, saying, preserves this stake with great care, and it, I believe, will never hurt men or cattle, but only wild beasts and fishes, and as long as though preserved this stake, though shall never be without abundance of venison in the house. The wretched beggar upon hearing this was greatly delighted, and returning home fixed the stake in a remote place, which was frequented by the wild beasts of the forest. And when that next night was passed, he went at early morning dawn to see the stake, and found a stag of great size that had fallen upon it and been transfixed by it. Why should I mention more instances? Not a day could pass, so the tradition goes, in which he did not find a stag, or hind, or some other wild beast fixed upon the stake, and his whole house being thus filled with the flesh of the wild beasts, he sold to his neighbors all that remained after his own family was supplied. But as in the case of Adam, the envy of the devil found out this miserable man also through his wife, who, not as prudent matron, but rather like one infatuated, thus spoke to her husband, removes the stake out of the earth, for if men or cattle perish on it, then though an eye and our children shall be put to death or led into captivity, to these words her husband replied, it will not be so, for when the holy man blessed the stake, he said, it would never injure men or cattle. Still the miserable man, after saying this, yielded to his wife, and taking the stake out of the earth, like a man deprived of his reason, brought it into the house and placed it against the wall. Soon after his house dog fell upon it and was killed, and on its death his wife said to him, one of the children will fall upon it and be killed. At these words of his wife, he removed the stake out of the house, and having carried it to a forest, placed it in the thickest brushwood, where, as he thought, no animal could be heard by it. But upon his return the following day, he found a row had fallen upon it and perished. He then took it away and concealed it by thrusting it under the water in the edge of the river, which may be called in Latin nigradia. On returning the next day, he found transfixed and still held by it a salmon of extraordinary size, which he was scarcely able by himself to take from the river and carry home. At the same time, he took the stake again back with him from the water, and placed it outside on the top of his house, where a crow, having soon after lighted, was instantly killed by the force of the fall. Upon this, the miserable man, yielding again to the advice of his foolish wife, took down the stake from the house top and, taking an axe, cut it in many pieces and threw them into the fire. Having thus deprived himself of this effectual means of alleviating his distress, he was again, as he deserved to be, reduced to beggary. End of Section 52. This recording is in the public domain. Section 53 of England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sonja as the narrator. Sandra Schmidt as the first witch. Devora Allen as the second witch. Monica is the third witch. Alan Mapstone as Macbeth. Thomas Peter as Benquo. Nemo as Ross. Todd as Angus. Jim Locke as Duncan. Sara Hale as Malcolm. Eva Davis as Lady Macbeth. Adrienne Stevens as Messenger. And April, 6090, as Filance. The World's Story, Volume 10. England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales. Edited by Eva March-Tappen. Section 53. The Murder of King Duncan. 1040. By William Shakespeare. The historical facts concerning Duncan and Macbeth are as follows. Duncan was king of Moray and Ross, but Macbeth's family, of which Macbeth was the head, also claimed the throne. Rebellion rose, and in battle King Duncan was defeated and slain. Macbeth became king of Scotland, and reigned 17 years. Then Duncan's son Malcolm raised an army of Scots and English and slew Macbeth, and so won back his father's crown. The editor. Act one, scene three. A heath near forest. Thunder. Enter the three witches. Where has there been, sister? Killing swine. Sister, revoke. A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap, and munched and munched and munched. Give me, quoth I. Roint the witch to rum-fed ronion cries. Her husband's to a lepogon, master of the tiger. But in a sieve I'll thither sail. And like a wret without a tail, I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do. I'll give thee a wind. Thou art kind. And I another. I myself have all the other. And the very ports they blow. All the quarters that they know, it's shipman's cart. I'll drain him dry as hay. Sleep shall neither night nor day hang upon his penthouse lid. He shall live a man forbid. Weary senites, nine times nine, shall he dwindle, peak and pine, though his bark cannot be lost. Yet it shall be tempest-chost. Look what I have. Show me, show me. Here I have a pilot's thumb. Rectus, homeward, he did come. Drums within. Drums! Drums! Nectus, come! The weird sister's hand in hand, possesses of the seal and land. Thus do you go about, about, thrice to dine, thrice to mine, thrice again to make up nine. Peace, the trumps hold up. Enter Macbeth and Banquo. So foul and fair a day, I have not seen. Her forests call to forests. What are these so withered and so wild in their attire that look not like the inhabitants of the earth, and yet aren't? Live you? Or are you ought that man may question? You seem to understand me, by each at once her chappy finger laying upon her skinny lips.  Speak, if you can. What are you? All hail Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Glames. All hail Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Codor. All hail Macbeth, that shalt be king hereafter. Good sir, why do you start, and seem to fear things that do sound so fair? To the witches. Hear the name of truth. Are ye fantastical, or that indeed which outwardly you show? My noble partner, ye greet with present grace and great prediction of noble having and of royal hope, that he seems rapt with all. To me, ye speak not. If ye can look into the seeds of time and see which grain will grow and which will not, speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear your favours nor your hate. Hail, hail, hail, lesser than Macbeth, and greater. Not so happy, yet much happier. Thou shalt get kinks, though there'll be none. So hail Macbeth and Banquo. Banquo and Macbeth all hail. Stay, you imperfect speakers. Tell me more. By Sinel's death I know I am Thane of Glames. But how of Kordor? The Thane of Kordor lives, a prosperous gentleman. And to be king stands not within the prospect of belief. No more than to be Kordor. Say, from whence you owe this strange intelligence, or why upon this blasted heath you stop our way with such prophetic greeting? Speak, I charge you. Witches vanish. The earth hath bubbles as the water has, and these are of them. Whither are they vanished? Into the air. And what seem corporal melted as breath into the wind? What they had stayed. What are such things here as we to speak about? Or have we eaten on the insane route that takes the reason prisoner? Your children shall be kings. You shall be king. And Thane of Kordor too. Whence it not so? To the self-sane tune and words. Who's here? Enter Ross and Angus. The king hath happily received, Macbeth, the news of thy success. And when he reads thy personal venture in the rebels' fight, his wonders and his praises do contend, which should be thine or his. Silence with that. In viewing or the rest of the self-same day, he finds thee in the stout Norwegian ranks, nothing afeared of what thyself dits make. Strange images of death. As thick as tail came post with post, and every one did bear thy praises in his kingdom's great defence, and poured them down before him. We are sent to give thee from our royal master thanks, only to herald thee into his sight, not pay thee. And for an earnest of a greater honour he bade me from him, call thee Thane of Kordor, in which addition hail most worthy Thane, for it is thine. Banquo aside. What can the devil speak true? The Thane of Kordor lives. Why do you dress me in borrowed robes? Who was the Thane lives yet, but under heavy judgement bears that life which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combined with those of Norway, or did line the rebel with hidden help and vantage, or that with both he laboured in his country's rack, I know not. But treason's capital, confessed and proved, have overthrown him. Macbeth aside. Glam's and Thane of Kordor. The greatest is behind. To Ross and Angus. Thanks for your pains. To Banquo. Do you not hope your children shall be kings, when those that gave the Thane of Kordor to me promise no less to them? That trusted home might yet incundle you unto the crown, besides the Thane of Kordor. That's just strange. And oftentimes to win us to our harm, the instruments of darkness tells us truths, win us with honest trifles to betray us in deepest consequence. Cousin's word, I pray you. Macbeth aside. Two truths are told, as happy prologues to the swelling act of the imperial theme. I thank you gentlemen. Aside. This supernatural soliciting cannot be ill, cannot be good. If ill, why hath it given me earnest of success, commencing in a truth? I'm Thane of Kordor. If good, why do I yield to that suggestion, whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, and make my seated heart knock at my ribs against the use of nature? Present fears are less than horrible imaginings. My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, shakes so my single state of man that function is smothered in some eyes, and nothing is but what is not. Look how our partners wrapped. Macbeth aside. If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me without my stir. New honours come upon him, like our strange garments, clave not to their mould but with the aid of use. Macbeth aside. Come what, come may. Time and the hour runs through the roughest day. Worthy Macbeth, we step on your leisure. Give me your favour. My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains are registered where every day I turn the leaf to read them. Let us toward the king. Think upon what is chance'd. And at more time, the interim having weighed it, let us speak our free hearts to each other. Very gladly. Till then enough. Come friends. Excellent. Scene four. Forest. The palace. Flourish. And a Duncan, Malcolm, Donald Bain, Lennox, and the Tendons. Is execution done on Carter or not those in commission yet returned? My liege, they are not yet come back. But I have spoke with one that saw him die, who did report that very frankly he confessed his treasons, implored your highness pardon, and set forth a deep repentance. Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it. He died as one that had been studded in his death to throw away the dearest thing he owed. It's where a careless trifle. There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face. He was a gentleman on whom I built an absolute trust. And the Macbeth, Banquo, Ross, and Angus. O worthy is cousin, the sin of my ingratitude even now was heavy on me. Thou art so far before that swiftest wind of recompense is slow to overtake thee. With thou hath less deserved that the proportion both of thanks and payment might have been mine. Only I have left to say more is thy due than more than all can pay. The service and the loyalty I owe in doing it pays itself. Your highness part is to receive our duties, and our duties are to your throne and state children and servants, which do but what they should by doing everything safe toward your love and honour. Welcome hither, I have begun to plant thee, and will labour to make thee full of growing. Noble Banquo, that has no less dessert, nor must be known no less to have done so, let me infold thee, and hold thee to my heart. There, if I grow of the harvest is your own. My plenty's joys, wanton and fullness seek to hide themselves, and drops of sorrow. Sons, kinsmen, thanes, and you whose places are the nearest, know we will establish our estate upon our eldest, Malcolm, whom we name hereafter, the Prince of Cumberland, which honour must not, unaccompanied, invest him only but signs of nobleness, like stars shall shine on all the servers. From hence do Inverness and bind us further to you. The rest is labour, which is not used for you. I'll be myself, the harbinger, and make joyful the hearing of my wife with your approach. So humbly take my leave. My worthy cauder. Make Beth aside. The Prince of Cumberland. That is a step on which I must fall down, or else or leap, for in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires, let not light see my black and deep desires. The eye wink at the hand, yet let that be which the eye fears when it is done, to see. Exit. True, worthy banquet is full, so valiant, and in his commendations I am fed. It is a banquet to me. Let's after him, whose care is gone before, to bid us welcome. It is a peerless kinsman. Flourish, exeunt. Scene five, Invenus, Macbeth's castle, and the Lady Macbeth reading a letter. Lady Macbeth reads, They met me in the day of success, and I have learned, by the perfectest report, they have more in them than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them further, they made themselves air into which they vanished. Whilst I stood wrapped in the wonder of it, came messives from the King who all hailed me, the Hane of Cador, by which title, before these weird sisters saluted me, and referred me to the coming line of time, with, Hail, King, that shall be! This if I thought good to deliver thee, my dearest partner of greatness, that thou mightst not lose the dues of rejoicing by being ignorant of what greatness is promissy, lay to thy heart and farewell. Glance, thou art, and Cador, and shall be with thou art promised, yet too high fear thy nature. It is too full of the milk of humankindness to catch the nearest way. Thou wits be great, art not without ambition, but without the illness should attend it, with thou wits highly, that wits thou wholly, wits not play false, and yet wits wrongly win. Thou dost have a great glom, that which cries, thus thou must do if thou have it, and that which rather thou dost fear to do, than wishes should be undone. High thee hither, that I may pour my spirits in thine ear, and chastise with the valor of my tongue, all that impedes thee from the golden round, which fate and metaphysical aid dost seem to have the crown with all. Enter a messenger. What is your tidings? The King comes here to-night. Thou art mad to see it. Is not thy master with him? Who words so would have informed for preparation? So please you, it is true, our Thane is coming. One of my fellows had the speed of him, who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more than would make up his message. Give him tending. He brings great news. Exit messenger. The raven himself is hoarse, that croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan under my battlements. Come, you spirits, the tent on mortal thoughts.   Stop up the access and passage to remorse, that no compunctious visitings of nature shake my fel purpose, nor keep peace between the effect and it. Come to my women's breasts, and take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers. Wherever in your sightless substances you wait on nature's mischief, come, thick knight, and pawl thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, that my keen knife seem not the wound it makes, nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark to cry, hold, hold. Enter Macbeth. Great glams, worthy condor, greater than both, by the all hail hereafter. My letters have transported me beyond this ignorant present, and I feel now the future in the instant. My dearest love, Duncan comes here tonight. And when goes hence? Tomorrow, as he purposes. Oh, never shall son that morrow see. Your face, my thane, is as a book, where men may read strange matters. To beguile the time, look like the time. Bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue. Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it. He that's coming must be provided for, and you shall put this night's great business into my dispatch, which shall to all our nights and days to come give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. We will speak further. Only look up clear. To alter favor, however, is to fear. Leave all the rest to me. Exeunt. Scene six, before Macbeth's castle. Her boys and torches, and the Duncan, Malcolm, Donald Bain, Banquo, Lannux, Macduff, Ross, Angus, and the Tendons. This castle hath our pleasant seat, the air, nimbly and sweetly recommends itself, and to our gentle senses. This guest of summer, the temple-hunting marthlet, does approve by his loved masonry. To the heavens' breath it smells wooingly here. No jottie-freeze, buttress nor coin of vantage, but this bird hath made his pendant bed and procreant cradle, where they most breed and hunt. I have observed the air is delicate. Enter Lady Macbeth. See, see, our honoured hostess. The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you how you shall big God yield us for your pains, and thank us for your trouble. All our service, in every point, twice done and then done double, were poor and single business to contend against those honours deep and broad, wherewith your majesty loads our house. For those of old and the late dignities heaped up to them, we rest your hermits. Where's the Thane of Carter? We coarsed him at the heels and had a purpose to be his purveyor, but he rides well and his great love sharp as his spur hath hoping to his home before us. Fare, noble hostess, we are your guest tonight. Your servants ever have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs and comped, to make their audit at your highness's pleasure, still to return your own. Give me your hand, conduct me to mine host. We love him highly, and shall continue our graces towards him by your leaves, hostess. Kissing her. Excellent. Scene 7. Corridor in Macbeth Castle. Hoboys and torches. Enter Sewell and diverse servants with dishes and service, and pass over the stage. Then enter Macbeth. If it were done when it is done, then to a well it were done quickly. If the assassination could trample up the consequence and catch with his sucess success, that but this blow might be the be all and the end all here, but here upon this bank and shoal of time we jump the life to come. But in these cases we still have judgment here, that we but teach bloody instructions which being taught return to plague the inventor. This even-handed justice commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice to our own lips. He's here in double trust. First as I am his kinsman and his subject, both strong against the deed. Then as his host, who should against his murderer, shut the door, not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan, have borne his faculties so meek, have been so clear in his great office, that his virtues will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued against the deep damnation of his taking off. And pity, like a naked newborn babe striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed upon the sightless couriers of the air, shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, that tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition, which or leaps itself and falls on the other. Enter Lady Macbeth. And now, what news? He has almost slept. Why have you left the chamber? Hath he asked for me? No, you're not he has. We will proceed no further in this business. He hath honoured me of late, and I have bought golden opinions from all sorts of people, which would be worn now in their newest gloss, not cast aside so soon. Was the hope drunk wherein you've dressed yourself, hath it slept since, and wakes it now, to look so green and pale at what it did so fraily? From this time such eye-account thy love, hath thou a fear to be the same in thine own act and valor as thou art and desire? Wouldst thou have that, which thou esteemest the ornament of life, and live a coward in thine own esteem? Letting I dare not wait upon I would, like a poor cat in the adage. Pretty peace. I dare do all that may become a man, who dares do more is none. What beast was then, that made you break this enterprise to me? When you durst do it, then you were a man, and to be more than what you were. You would be so much more the man. Nor time, nor place did then it hear, and yet you would make both. They have made themselves, and that their fitness now does not make you. I have given sock, and know how tender it is to love the babe that milks me. I would, while it was smiling in my face, have plucked my nibble from his boneless gums, and dash the brains out, had I so sworn as you have done to this. If we should fail? We fail. But screw your courage to the sticking place, and we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep, where too the rather shall his day's hard journey soundly invite him. His two chamberlains will lie with wine and wassals, so convinced that memory, the water of the brain shall be of fume, and the receipt of reason and limb-back only. When in swineish sleep, the drench in nature's lies and the death, what cannot you and I perform upon the unguarded Duncan? What not put upon his spongy officers, who shall bear the guilt of our great quell? Bring forth men, children only, for thy undaunted metal should compose nothing but males. Will it not be received, when we have marked with blood those sleepy two of his own chamber, and use their very daggers, that they have done't? Who dares receive it other, as we shall make our griefs and clamour roll upon his death? I am settled, and bend up each corporal agent to this terrible feat. Away, and mock the time with fairest show, false face must hide what the false heart doth know. Excellent. Act two, scene one, caught within Macbeth's castle, and the Banquo and Fliens bearing a torch before him. How goes the night, boy? The moon is down, I have not heard the clock. And she goes down at twelve. I take it, tis later, sir. Hold, take my sword. There's husbandry in heaven, that candles are all out. Take thee that, too. A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, and yet I would not sleep. The merciful powers would strain on me, the cursed thoughts that nature gives way to and repose. Enter Macbeth and the servant with a torch. Giving my sword. Who's there? A friend. What, sir, not yet at rest? The king's abed? He hath been in unusual pleasure, and sent forth great largesse to your offices.  Being unprepared, our will became the servant to defect. Which else should free have wrought? As well. I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters. To you they have showed some truth. I think not of them. Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve, we would spend some time in words upon that business. If you would grant the time. At your kind's leisure. If you shall cleave to my consent, when tis, it shall make honour for you. So I lose none in seeking to augment it, but still keep my bosom franchise and allegiance clear. I shall be counseled. Good repose the while. Thanks, sir. The like to you. Excee and banquet and liens. Go, bid thy mistress. When my drink is ready, she strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. Excee's servant. Is this a dagger which I see before me? The handle toward my hand. Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Are thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight? Or art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from the heat-opressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable as this which now I draw. Thou marshallest me the way that I was going, and such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools of the other senses, or else worth all the rest. I see thee still, and on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, which was not so before. There's no such thing.   Now Witchcraft celebrates Palhecate's offerings, and withered murder, alarmed by his sentinel the wolf, whose howls his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, with tarquins ravishing strides, towards his design moves like a ghost. Thou shore and firm set earth, hear not my steps which way they walk, for fear the very stones praise of my whereabouts, and take the present horror from the time which now suits with it. Whilst I threat, he lives. Words to the heat of deeds, too cold breath gives. A bell rings. I go, and it is done. The bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is the knell that summons thee to heaven, or to hell. Exit. Scene two. Enter Lady Macbeth. That, which has made them drunk, have made me bold. What hath quenched them hath given me fire. Beeth, it was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman, which gives the sternest good night. He's about it. The doors are open, and the surfited grooms do mock their charge with snores.  Macbeth, within. Who's there? What ho? Oh, look, I'm afraid they have awaked, and is not done. The attempt, and not the deed confounds us. Huck, I laid their daggers ready. He could not miss them. Had he not resembled my father as he slept? I had done it. Enter Macbeth. My husband. I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise? I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry. Did you not speak? When? Now. As I descended? Hi. Park. Who lies in the second chamber? Donald Bane. Macbeth, looking on his hands. This is a sorry sight. A foolish thought to say a sorry sight. There's one did laugh in the sleep, and one cried murder, that they did wake each other. I stood and heard them, but they did say their prayers, and addressed them again to sleep. There are two lodged together. One cried, God bless us, and amen the other, as they had seen me with these hangman's hands, listening their fear. I could not say amen when they did say God bless us. Consider it not so deeply. But wherefore could I not pronounce amen? I had most need of blessing, and amen stuck in my throat. These deeds must not be thought of after these ways, so it will make us mad. Me thought, I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more. Macbeth doth murder sleep. The innocent sleep. Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care. The death of each day's life soars labor's banth. Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course. Chief nourisher in life's feast. What do you mean? Still it cried, sleep no more, to all the house. Glooms hath murdered sleep, and therefore cold ore shall sleep no more. Macbeth shall sleep no more. Who was it that thus cried?   Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They will slide there. Go carry them, and smear the sleepy glooms with blood. I'll go no more. I am afraid to think what I have done. Look upon it again, I dare not. In firm of purpose, give me the daggers, the sleeping and the dead are but his pictures, to see I have childhood that fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, I'll gild the faces of the glooms with all, for it must seem their guilt. Exit, knocking within. Whence is that knocking? How is it with me when every noise appalls me? What hands are here? They pluck out my eyes. Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous sea in Carnadine, making the green one red. Re-enter, Lady Macbeth. My hands are of your colour, but I shame to wear hearts so white. Knocking within. I hear knocking at the south entry. Retire us to our chamber. A little water clears us of this deed. How easy it is, then.  Knocking within. Huck, more knocking. Get on your nightgown less occasion call us, and show us to be watchers. Be not lost so poorly in your thoughts. To know my deed, to abes not to know myself. Knocking within. Wake, Duncan, with thy knocking. I would, though, cutst. Exit. End of Section 53. This recording is in the public domain. Section 54 of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. This is a Librebox recording. All Librebox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librebox.org. The World Story, Volume 10. England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. Edited by Eva March Tappan. Section 54. The Invasion of the Norseman. 1263. By Charles McKay. Hackon, King of Norway, called his men of might. Sea captains and Vikinga, his veterans in flight. And set sail for Scotland's coast with a well apparelled host. Full twenty thousand strong, when the summer days grew long, in the fairest fleet that ever the North Sea billows bore. To harry it, and pillage it, and hold it evermore. Mile on mile extended, over the ocean blue, sailed the ships of battle, white and fair to view. Running races on the sea, with their streamers waving free, from their saucy bowels all day, dashed up the scornful spray, and leaving far behind them in the darkness of the night, unborrowed from the firmament, long tracks of liquid light. Past the aisles of Shetland lay the monarch's path, round the aisles of Orkney, and the Cape of Wrath. Mid the islands of the West, that obeyed his high behest, the Lewis, and Ist, and Skye, and the countless aisles that lie between the wide Atlantic and Albion's mountains brown, and paid him homage duly, and fealty to his crown. Music and rejoicing followed on their way, drinking and carousing nightly till the day. Every sailor in the fleet felt his heart with pleasure beat, every soldier in the ships had a smile upon his lips. As he drank, and saw in fancy, wreaking sword and flaring brand, and the rapine, and the violence, and the carnage of the land. Not amid the mountains of the rugged North, would the mighty hackon send his legions forth. Not by Highland Block or Glen, would he land his eager men, not on banks of Morland's stream, or their thirsty swords to gleam. But further to the southward, from the rocks of Bear Argyle, to the sloping hills of Renfrew, and the grassy meads of Kyle. In the veils of Carrick, smiling by the sea, in the woods of Lenox, in the Lothians three, there was fatus all the year, there were sheep and fallow deer, there was mead to fill the horn, there were chai and there was corn, there was food for hungry Norsemen, with spoil to last them long, and lordly towers to revel in, with music and with song. Like scarts upon the wing, by the hope of plunder led, past the ships of hackon, with sails like pinion spread, but the tidings went before, to the inland from the shore, and from crag to mountain crag, at the terror of his flag, arose a cry of warning, and a voice of loud alarm, that called the startled multitudes to gather, and to arm. Every mountain summit had its heel fire bright, all Argyle air sunset crowned its heels with light, and from Moven to Kentire led the chain of signal fire, from Kentire to Cowell's coast blazed a warning of the host, of savage north invaders that to spoil and harry came, with their lust and with their hunger, with the sword and with the flame. Glen called out to mountain, mount to Moorland Brown, village called a village, town gave voice to town, and the bells in every tower rang the toxin hour by hour, till old and Eden heard, and the Lothians three was stirred, and sent their yeoman westward to struggle hand to hand, for their wives and for their children, for their homes and native land. Wives had no endearment for a laggard lord, maidens had no love looks and no kindly word, for the lover who was slow to march out against the foe, even maids themselves put on coats of mail and habergond, threw the snood off of the helmet, left the distaff for the spear, to die for the sake of Scotland, with a sire or lover dear. Young King Alexander marched his legions forth, from eastward to the westward, from southward to the north, high his flashing falchion gleamed, in his blue eye valor beamed, in his heart high courage glowed, as in pride of youth he rode, with the flower of Scotland's people to defend her sacred soil, and repel the Norse marauders that came down for blood and spoil. With him rode the coamon, groaned in battle's gray, with a thousand bullmen, ready for the fray, with a tongue to give command and a rough untiring hand, with a cheek in battle's guard and a soul to pity hard, when he drew his sword for battle and flung away the sheath, it was death to him who struggled in the comb of Monteith. And the Bishop of St Andrews, a priest but in his name, in his heart a soldier, with all his warriors came, and the stalwart Earl of Thith led his vassals to the strife, full a thousand fighting men, strong of hand and sharp of ken, and ready each to die at the bidding of his lord, but readyer still for Scotland to draw the avenging sword. For the northern mountains and his lox afar march the Earl of Cethedus, ready eye for war, with his pitch-brocks sounding shrill to its clansmen of the hill, and the Earl of March do wed, left his happy bridal bed at the first war cry of danger that broke upon his ears, and joined King Alexander, with twice a thousand spears. Thirsting for the conquest, eager for the fray, Harkon sailed by Aron at the dawn of day, but as up the Firth of Clyde he came proudly with the tide, rose a storm upon the deep, and with wild and fitful sweep, howled a loft amid the rigging, while the sun looked pale and wan, through the clouds and driving vapours as the tempest hurried on. To the ship of Harkon came his staunchest men, holders we know Ratho Hinkst and Innisfin. Omen Zul and Lok and Har each achieved in fierce in war, in the fray hand to hand, on the sea or on the land, loving fighting more than council, blazing torch than morning shine, the foremost in the battle, and the hindmost at the wine. Short was Hackland's council, and the signal flew, from captain on to captain, from crew again to crew. That by logs and noon of day they should land within the bay, and through all the ships there ran a rejoicing man with man, that the hour had come at last when the sword should leave its sheath, and the clothyard shaft its quiver for the revelry of death. Scotland's king was ready. Scotland's patriot men marshaled round their monarch from mountain, straff and glen, and from every height around seemed to issue from the ground thirty thousand men that day met the Norsemen in the bay, and fought, but not for pillage, nor for glory in the strife, but for God and for their country, for their freedom and their life. Loud the shock resounded on the battlefield, clink of sword and buckler, clang of spear and shield, were of arrows in the blast on their errand flying fast, and a shouting loud and high, and a shrill continuous cry, from either side arising as impetuous legions met, and the green fresh sword was trodden deep and dank and gory wet. Loud the voice of Hacken sounded mid the fray, Alexander's louder cheer the Scots that day, and the kings pressed on to meet through the arrow's thickest sleet, through the living and the dead, holding high the dauntless head to fight in single combat and to struggle hand to hand, for the glory of the battle and the mastery of the land. And the fierce Earl Coman sought the Norsemen har, the bishop's single ratho from the ranks of war, and the earls of margin of fife in the sharp contested strife fought with immeasurable in look, thrust for thrust and stroke for stroke, and the earl of Catherine's drill of the mighty Innisfin, back again into the ocean with a hundred of his men. Har fell wounded by the Coman's blade, ratho fell to seaward faint and sword is made, while Locke with mortal wound fell exhausted on the round, and Hinkst sat down to rest with a death-shaft in his breast, but a sudden panic seized the whole Norwegian foe, and they fled like flying dust when the Norland tempests blow. Down upon them swooping in their sudden rout came King Alexander with exulting shout, crying strike for Scotland's sake, and a bloody vengeance take for the incelth born too long, for the centuries of wrong, for the murder and the ravage they have done within our lands, down upon them Scottish hearts strike and spare not Scottish hands. Fighting, flying, struggling, with his scattered host, Haken saw despairing that the day was lost. Of his twenty thousand men not a third were left him then, the fearful tale to tale of the slaughter that befell, and Haken iron-hearted who had never wept before, with his hands his pale face covered, and sobbed upon the shore. Flying their pursuers, fate with powered lips, Haken and his captains staggered to their ships, an air nightfall many a one that had sailed when day begun, as if life were in her sides to defy the winds and tides. Was driven before the tempest, her tall mass snapped in twain, a helpless wreck on Arryn, nair to sail the seas again. Through the kiles storm-battered Haken led his way, by Kent iron-assly on to Coensay, and when dawned at the morning light not a vessel was in sight, but his own ship scutting by on the gloomy shore of sky, dismantled mid the hurricane that still around him blew, with danger all around him and a spirit broken crew. Thus he sailed Orkney, but by night nor day, to his men around him did one word betray, all the anguish of his heart, though at times a sudden start and a short uneasy pace, and the flushing of his face, shelled the grief and rage within him as he mourned with silent lips for his hope of conquest lost for his sailors and his ships. In the bay of Kirkwell sheltered from the gale his sad crew dropped their anchor and furrowed the tattered sail, and the king was let on shore weak and faint and spirits soar, seeing, heeding, knowing not but his own despairing thought, a thought of bitter shame that he had not died that day, with his face towards the mountains in the thickest of the fray. To his couch they led him once so bold and strong, and they watched beside him tenderly and long, but all human care was vain to relieve him of his pain.  End of Section Fifty-Four. This recording is in the Public Domain. Recording by Todd. England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales. Edited by Ava March Tappan. Section Fifty-Five. Sir Patrick Spence, An Old Ballad. It was planned to marry the little princess Margaret, the maid of Norway, to the son of Edward I of England, but she died on the voyage from Norway to Scotland. The following ballad may possibly be connected with this voyage. The editor. The king sits in Dunfermland town, drinking the blood red wine. Oh, where will I get a skeely skipper to sail this new ship of mine? A weapon spake and elden knight sat at the king's right knee. Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor that ever sailed the sea. Our king has written a broad letter and sealed it with his hand, and sent it to Sir Patrick Spence was walking on the strand. To Norway, to Norway, to Norway or the firm, the king's daughter in Norway, to his thumb on Bringerholm. The first word that Sir Patrick read, so loud, loud laugh at he. The next word that Sir Patrick read, the tear blinded his eye. Oh, who is this has done this deed, and told the king of me, to send us out at this time of the year, to sail upon the sea. Be it wind, be it wit, be it hail, be it sleet, our ship must sail the firm, the king's daughter in Norway, to his we must fetch her home. They hoisted their sails on Monday morning, with all the speed they may. They had landed in Norway upon a wooden stay. They hadn't been a week, a week in Norway but two. When that the lords in Norway began aloud to say, ye Scottishmen spend all our kings gold, and all our queen is fee.  For I brought as much white money as again my men and me, and I brought a half full good red gold out o'er the sea with me. Make ready, make ready, my merry men all, our good ship sails the morn. Now ever a lake my master dear, I fear a deadly storm. I saw the new moon, late Yesterene, with the old moon in her arm, and if we gain to see, master, a fear will come to harm. They had not sailed a league, a league, a league but barely three. When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, and girly grew the sea. The anchors break, and the top masts lap, it was sick a deadly storm, and the waves came o'er the broken ship, till all her sides were torn. O where will I get a good sailor, to take my helm in hand, till I can get up to the tall top mast, to see if I can spy land? O here am I, a sailor good, to take the helm in hand, till you go up to the tall top mast, but I fear you'll ne'er spy land. He had not gone a step, a step, a step but barely one, when a boat flew out of our goodly ship, and the salt sea it came in. Go fetch away by the silken clath, another of the twine, and wap them into our ship's side, and let not the sea come in. They fetched away by the silken clath, another of the twine, and they wap them round that good ship's side, but still the sea came in. O lath loth, where are good scots lords, to wit the corkeeled shun, but long o'er all the play was played, they wet their hats a boon. And money was the feather bid, that flattered on the firm, and money was the good lord's son, that never mare came home. The ladies rang their fingers white, the maidens tore their hair, all for the sake of their true loves, for them they'll see ne'er. O long, long, may the ladies sit, with their fans into their hand, before they see Sir Patrick Spence come sail into the strand. And long, long, may the maidens sit, with their gold combs in their hair, all waiting for their own dear loves, for them they'll see ne'er.  The first of England was asked to decide which one had the best right, and he seized the opportunity to declare himself suzerain of the kingdom. He gave the crown to John Baliel, but this new ruler was less obedient than Edward had expected, and therefore he was taken to England as a prisoner. Edward then subdued Scotland, as he thought. If the Scots had only been united, years of struggle and bloodshed might have been prevented. But while, as a whole, the folk of Scottish blood sought freedom from England, the Norman nobles, a powerful class, favored Edward. The first to raise the Scots against Edward was William Wallace, who led a popular uprising, and in the Battle of Stirling destroyed a strong English force. In 1298, Edward again invaded Scotland with a great army, and defeated Wallace at the Battle of Falkirk. Five years later Wallace was captured and executed. In 1306 the banner of revolt was again raised, this time by Robert Bruce, a distant heir to the throne of Scotland. He was at first unsuccessful, and was compelled to leave the country, but soon returned, and within two years had freed Scotland from English rule. In 1314 King Edward II invaded Scotland with a great army, but was totally defeated at the Battle of Benwickburn. Fourteen years later, after another unsuccessful invasion, England acknowledged Bruce as King of Scotland, and relinquished all claims to that country. End of section 56. This recording is in the public domain.


i will send the better in one day soccer blueprint to anyone who comments hashtag soccer on this video i will if you like this content check out the soccer success planner you can download it for free there's a link in the description below and for advanced training check out the online soccer academy