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ELSON
GRAMMAR SCHOOL LITERATURE
BOOK FOUR
BY
WILLIAM H. ELSON
SUPERINTENDENT OF SCHOOLS, CLEVELAND, OHIO
AND
CHRISTINE KECK
PRINCIPAL OF SIGSBEE SCHOOL, GRAND RAPIDS, MICH.
1912
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PART I--Famous Rides, Selections from Shakespeare and other Poets, and
Studies in Rhythm.
FAMOUS RIDES:
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE, Henry W. Longfellow
THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG, Henry W. Longfellow
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALAKLAVA, Alfred, Lord Tennyson
THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN, William Cowper
HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX, Robert Browning
INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP, Robert Browning
HERVE RIEL, Robert Browning
STUDIES IN RHYTHM:
THE BUGLE SONG, Alfred, Lord Tennyson
THE BROOK, Alfred, Lord Tennyson
SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE, Sidney Lanier
THE CATARACT OF LODORE, Robert Southey
THE BELLS, Edgar Allan Poe
ANNABEL LEE, Edgar Allan Poe
OPPORTUNITY, Edward Rowland Sill
NATURE:
TO A WATERFOWL, William Cullen Bryant
THE SKYLARK, James Hogg
TO A SKYLARK, Percy Bysshe Shelley
THE CLOUD, Percy Bysshe Shelley
APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN, Lord Byron
STORIES:
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB, Lord Byron
THE EVE BEFORE WATERLOO, Lord Byron
SONG OF THE GREEK BARD, Lord Byron
MARCO BOZZARIS, Fitz-Greene Halleck
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE, Charles Wolfe
ABSALOM, Nathaniel Parker Wills
LOCHINVAR, Sir Walter Scott
PARTING OF MARMION AND DOUGLAS, Sir Walter Scott
FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT, Robert Burns
SELECTIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE:
MERCY, The Merchant of Venice
THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN, As You Like It
POLONIUS'S ADVICE, Hamlet
MAN, Hamlet
HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY, Hamlet
REPUTATION, Othello
WOLSEY AND CROMWELL, King Henry VIII
CASSIO AND IAGO, Othello
PART II--Great American Authors
WASHINGTON IRVING
RIP VAN WINKLE
THE VOYAGE
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
THE GREAT STONE FACE
MY VISIT TO NIAGARA
EDGAR ALLAN POE
A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROeM
THE RAVEN
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
EVANGELINE: A TALE OF ACADIE
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
SNOW-BOUND
THE SHIP BUILDERS
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS
THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; OR THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY"
OLD IRONSIDES
THE BOYS
THE LAST LEAF
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL
YUSSOUF
SIDNEY LANIER
THE MARSHES OF GLYNN
PART III--Patriotic Selections
REGULUS BEFORE THE ROMAN SENATE, Epes Sargent
THE RETURN OF REGULUS, Elijah Kellogg
SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS, Elijah Kellogg
MERIT BEFORE BIRTH, Sallust
RIENZI'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS, Mary Russell Mitford
EMMET'S VINDICATION Robert Emmet
KING PHILLIP TO THE WHITE SETTLER, Edward Everett
THE CAPTURE OF QUEBEC, Francis Parkman
ENGLAND AND HER COLONIES, Edmund Burke
THE WAY TO WEALTH, Benjamin Franklin
SPEECH ON A RESOLUTION TO PUT VIRGINIA INTO A STATE OF DEFENCE, Patrick Henry
THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY, Edward Everett Hale
LOVE OF COUNTRY, Sir Walter Scott
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, Charles Phillips
THE TRUE GRANDEUR OF NATIONS, Charles Sumner
THE EVILS OF WAR, Henry Clay
PEACE, THE POLICY OF A NATION, John C. Calhoun
THE FIRST SETTLEMENT OF NEW ENGLAND, Daniel Webster
SUPPOSED SPEECH OF JOHN ADAMS, Daniel Webster
SOUTH CAROLINA AND THE UNION, Robert Hayne
REPLY TO HAYNE, Daniel Webster
DEDICATION SPEECH AT GETTYSBURG, Abraham Lincoln
LINCOLN, THE GREAT COMMONER, Edwin Markham
O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN, Walt Whitman
FAREWELL ADDRESS, George Washington
THE MEMORY OF OUR FATHERS, Henry Ward Beecher
THE AMERICAN FLAG, J. R. Drake
WARREN'S ADDRESS AT THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL, John Pierpont
COLUMBUS, Joaquin Miller RECESSIONAL--A VICTORIAN, Rudyard Kipling
A DEFINITION OF A GENTLEMAN, Cardinal Newman
COURSE OF READING
In the ELSON READERS selections are grouped according to theme or
authorship. This arrangement, however, is not intended to fix an order for
reading in class; its purpose is to emphasise classification, facilitate
comparison, and enable pupils to appreciate similarities and contrasts in
the treatment of like themes by different authors.
To give variety, to meet the interests at different seasons and festivals,
and to go from prose to poetry and from long to short selections, a
carefully planned order of reading should be followed. Such an order of
reading calls for a full consideration of all the factors mentioned above.
The Course here offered meets these ends but may easily be varied to fit
local conditions.
FIRST HALF-YEAR
BIOGRAPHY OF HAWTHORNE
THE GREAT STONE FACE
MY VISIT TO NIAGARA
THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN
HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS
INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP
HERVE RIEL
COLUMBUS (COLUMBUS'S BIRTHDAY, OCT. 12)
SUPPOSED SPEECH OF JOHN ADAMS
SPEECH OF RESOLUTION TO PUT VIRGINIA INTO A STATE OF DEFENCE
THE EVE BEFORE WATERLOO
THE BUGLE SONG
BIOGRAPHY OF HOLMES
THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS
THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE
OLD IRONSIDES
THE BOYS
THE LAST LEAF
MERIT BEFORE BIRTH
WEBSTER-HAYNE DEBATE
THE BROOK
THE SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE
THE CATARACT OF LODORE
BIOGRAPHY OF POE
A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROeM
THE RAVEN
ANNABEL LEE
THE BELLS
BIOGRAPHY OF WHITTIER (WHITTIER'S BIRTHDAY, DEC. 17)
SNOW-BOUND (WHITTIER'S BIRTHDAY, DEC. 17)
THE SHIP-BUILDERS (WHITTIER'S BIRTHDAY, DEC. 17)
REGULUS BEFORE THE ROMAN SENATE
THE RETURN OF REGULUS
SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS
THE WAY TO WEALTH (FRANKLIN'S BIRTHDAY, JAN, 17)
EMMET'S VINDICATION
MARCO BOZZARIS
RIENZI'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS
BIOGRAPHY OF LANIER (LANIER'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 3)
THE MARSHES OF GLYNN (LANIER'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 3)
SECOND HALF-YEAR
LOVE OF COUNTRY
WARREN'S ADDRESS
PEACE, THE POLICY OF A NATION
THE AMERICAN FLAG (LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 12)
LINCOLN, THE GREAT COMMONER (LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 12)
DEDICATION SPEECH (LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 12)
O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN (WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 22)
FAREWELL ADDRESS (WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 22)
BIOGRAPHY OF LOWELL (LOWELL'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 22)
THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL (LOWELL'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 22)
YUSSOUF (LOWELL'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 22)
BIOGRAPHY OF LONGFELLOW (LONGFELLOW'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 27)
EVANGELINE (LONGFELLOW'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 27)
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP (LONGFELLOW'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 27)
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE
THE EVILS OF WAR
BIOGRAPHY OF IRVING (IRVING'S BIRTHDAY, APRIL 3)
RIP VAN WINKLE (IRVING'S BIRTHDAY, APRIL 3)
THE VOYAGE (IRVING'S BIRTHDAY, APRIL 3)
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE (APRIL 19)
THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE
SELECTIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE (SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHDAY, APRIL 23)
TO A WATER FOWL
THE SKYLARK
TO A SKYLARK (SPRING AND ARBOR DAY)
THE CLOUD
APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN
ABSALOM
LOCHINVAR
PARTING OF MARMION AND DOUGLAS
FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT
KING PHILIP TO THE WHITE SETTLER
THE CAPTURE OF QUEBEC
ENGLAND AND HER COLONIES
THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY
OPPORTUNITY
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB
SONG OF THE GREEK BARD
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
THE TRUE GRANDEUR OF NATIONS
THE MEMORY OF OUR FATHERS
THE RECESSIONAL
INTRODUCTION
This book is designed to furnish reading material of choice literary and
dramatic quality. The selections for the most part are those that have
stood the test of time and are acknowledged masterpieces. The groupings
into the separate parts will aid both teachers and pupils in the
classification of the material, indicating at a glance the range and
variety of the literature included.
Part One deals with poetry, and it is believed the poems offered in this
group are unsurpassed. No effort on the teacher's part will be needed to
arouse the enthusiasm of pupils who read the series of famous rides with
which this group opens. The thrill of delight which children feel as they
read of "A hurry of hoofs in a village street," or "Charging an army while
all the world wondered," may lead to the stronger and more enduring
emotions of patriotism and devotion. "John Gilpin's Ride," which has
furnished amusement for generations of old and young, finds a place here.
The rhythmic movement of these poems makes a natural transition to those
selections especially designed as studies in rhythm. The series of nature
poems and selections from Shakespeare complete a group of choice literary
creations. Part Two is given to a study of the great American authors, and
no apology is needed either for the choice of material or for the
prominence given to this group. It is especially suited to parallel and
supplement the work of this grade in American history. Part Three contains
patriotic selections and some of the great orations. These are lofty and
inspiring in style, within the grasp of the pupils, and are especially
helpful in developing power of expression.
It is not expected that the order of selections will be followed. On the
contrary, each teacher will follow the order which will best suit her own
plans and purposes. While there is much material in the book that will
re-enforce lessons in history, geography, and nature study, yet it is not
for this that these selections should be studied, but rather for the
pleasure that comes from reading beautiful thoughts beautifully expressed.
The reading lesson should therefore be a study of literature, and it should
lead the children to find beauty of thought and imagery, fitness in figures
of speech, and delicate shades of meaning in words. Literature is an art,
and the chief aim of the reading lesson is to discover and interpret its
art qualities. In this way children learn how to read books and are enabled
to appreciate the literary treasures of the race. The business of the
reading book is to furnish the best available material for this purpose.
It is worth while to make a thorough study of a few well-chosen selections.
Through the power gained in this way children are enabled to interpret and
enjoy other selections without the aid of the teacher. If the class work is
for the most part of the intensive kind, the pupils will read the remaining
lessons alone for sheer pleasure, which is at once the secret and goal of
good teaching in literature. Moreover, they will exercise a discriminating
taste and judgment in their choice of reading matter. To love good
literature, to find pleasure in reading it and to gain power to choose it
with discrimination are the supreme ends to be attained by the reading
lesson. For this reason, some selections should be read many times for the
pleasure they give the children. In music the teacher sometimes calls for
expressions of preference among songs: "What song shall we sing, children?"
So in reading, "What selection shall we read?" is a good question for the
teacher to ask frequently. Thus children come to make familiar friends of
some of the stories and poems, and find genuine enjoyment in reading these
again and again.
Good results may also be obtained by assigning to a pupil a particular
lesson which he is expected to prepare. On a given day he will read to the
class the selection assigned to him. The orations are especially suited to
this mode of treatment. The pupil who can read one selection well has gone
a long way toward being a good reader. The teacher who said to her pupils,
"I shall read to you tomorrow," recognized this truth and knew the value of
an occasional exercise of that kind. Good pedagogy approves of a judicious
use of methods of imitation in teaching reading.
The biographies are intended to acquaint the children with the personal
characteristics and lives of the authors, making them more interesting and
real to the children, giving them the human touch and incidentally
furnishing helpful data for interpreting their writings. In this
connection, the authors have, by permission, drawn freely from Professor
Newcomer's English and American Literatures. "Helps to Study" include
questions and notes designed to stimulate inquiry on the part of pupils and
to suggest fruitful lines of study. Only a few points are suggested, to
indicate the way, and no attempt is made to cover the ground adequately;
this remains for the teacher to do.
While placing emphasis primarily on the thought-getting process the
formalities of thought-giving must not be overlooked. The technique of
reading, though always subordinate and secondary to the mastery of the
thought, nevertheless claims constant and careful attention. Good reading
requires clear enunciation and correct pronunciation and these can be
secured only when the teacher steadily insists upon them. The increase of
foreign elements in our school population and the influence of these upon
clearness and accuracy of speech furnish added reason for attention to
these details. Special drill exercises should be given and the habit of
using the dictionary freely should be firmly established in pupils. The
ready use of the dictionary and other reference books for pronunciation and
meaning of words, for historical and mythical allusions should be steadily
cultivated. Without doubt much of the reading accepted in the public
schools is seriously deficient in these particulars. The art of good
reading can be cultivated by judicious training and the school should spare
no pains to realize this result.
Professor Clark, in his book on "How to Teach Reading," sets forth the four
elements of vocal expression--Time, Pitch, Quality and Force. We quote a
few of the sentences from his treatment of each of these elementary topics.
"I. TIME. Time, then, refers to the rate of vocal movement. It may be fast,
or moderate, or slow, according to the amount of what may be called the
collateral thinking accompanying the reading, of any given passage. To put
it another way: a phrase is read slowly because it means much; because the
thought is large, sublime, deep. The collateral thinking may be revealed by
an expansive paraphrase. For instance, in the lines
"Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note
As his corse to the rampart we hurried,"
_why_ do we read slowly? The paraphrase answers the question. It was
midnight. There lay our beloved leader, who should have been borne in
triumphal procession to his last resting place. Bells should have tolled,
cannon thundered, and thousands should have followed his bier. But now,
alas, by night, by stealth, without even a single drum tap, in fear and
dread, we crept breathless to the rampart. This, or any one of a hundred
other paraphrases, will suffice to render the vocal movement slow. And so
it is with all slow time. Let it be remembered that a profound or sublime
thought may be uttered in fast time; but that when we dwell upon that
thought, when we hold it before the mind, the time must necessarily be
slow. If a child read too rapidly, it is because his mind is not
sufficiently occupied with the thought; if he read too slowly, it is
because he does not get the words; or because he is temperamentally slow;
or because, and this is the most likely explanation, he is making too much
of a small idea. To tell him to read fast or slow is but to make him
affected, and, incidentally, even if unconsciously, to impress upon him
that reading is a matter of mechanics, and not of thought-getting and
thought-giving."
"II. PITCH. By Pitch is meant everything that has to do with the acuteness
or gravity of the tone--in other words, with keys, melodies, inflections
and modulations. When we say of one that he speaks in a high key, we should
be understood as meaning that his pitch is prevailingly high; and that the
reverse is true when we say of one that he speaks in a low key. While it is
true that the key differs in individuals, yet experience shows that within
a note or two, we all use the same keys in expressing the same states of
minds. The question for us is, what determines the key? It can be set down
as a fixed principle, that controlled mental states are expressed by low
keys, while the high keys are the manifestation of the less controlled
mental conditions. Drills in inflections as such are of very little value,
and potentially very harmful. Most pupils have no difficulty in making
proper inflections, so that for them class drills are time wasted; for
those whose reading is monotonous, because of lack of melodic variety, the
best drills are those which teach them to make a careful analysis of the
sentences, and those which awaken them to the necessity of impressing the
thought upon others. We have learned that when a pupil has the proper
motive in mind and is desirous of conveying his intention to another, a
certain melody will always manifest that intention. The melody, then, is
the criterion of the pupil's purpose. The moment a pupil loses sight of a
phrase and its relation to the other phrases, that moment his melody
betrays him."
"III. QUALITY. Quality manifests emotional states. By Quality we mean that
subtle element in the voice by which is expressed at one time tenderness,
at another harshness, at another awe, and so on through the whole gamut of
feeling. The teacher now knows that emotion affects the quality of tone.
Let him then use this knowledge as he has learned to use his knowledge of
the other criteria. We recognize instinctively the qualities that express
sorrow, tenderness, joy, and the other states of feeling. When the proper
quality does not appear it is because the child has no feeling, or the
wrong feeling, generally the former. There is but one way to correct the
expression, i. e., by stimulating the imagination."
"IV. FORCE. Force manifests the degree of mental energy. When we speak in a
loud voice, there is much energy; when softly, there is little. Do not tell
the child to read louder. If you do, you will get loudness--that awful
grating schoolboy loudness--without a particle of expression in it. Many a
child reads well, but is bashful. When we tell him to read louder, he
braces himself for the effort and kills the quality, which is the finer
breath and spirit of oral expression, and gives us a purely physical
thing--force. Put your weak-voiced readers on the platform; let them face
the class and talk to you, seated in the middle of the room, and you will
get all the force you need. On the whole, we have too much force, rather
than too little. Let the teacher learn that we want quality, not quantity,
and our statement of the mental action behind force will be of much benefit
in creating the proper conditions."
To discriminating teachers it will be apparent that this book is not the
usual school reader. On the contrary it differs widely from this in the
cultural value of the selections, in the classification and arrangement of
material, in the variety of interest to which it appeals, and in the
abundance of classic literature from American authors which it contains. It
aims to furnish the best in poetry and prose to be found in the literature
of the English-speaking race and to furnish it in abundance. If these
familiar old selections, long accepted as among the best in literature,
shall be the means of cultivating in pupils a taste for good reading, the
book will have fulfilled its purpose.
For permission to use valuable selections from their lists, acknowledgment
is due to Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin and Company, Charles Scribner's Sons,
and The Whitaker and Ray Company.
Grateful acknowledgment is also made to those teachers who have given
valuable suggestions and criticisms in the compilation of this book.
THE AUTHORS.
April, 1909.
* * * * *
"We live in deeds, not years, in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial."
PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.
PART I.
FAMOUS RIDES, SELECTIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE AND OTHER POETS, AND STUDIES IN
RHYTHM
* * * * *
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five:
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend: "If the British march
By land or sea from the town tonight,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
Of the North Church tower, as a signal-light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm."
Then he said "good night," and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where, swinging wide at her moorings, lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war:
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon, like a prison-bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack-door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still,
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely, and spectral, and sombre, and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height,
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!
A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of the steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village-clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river-fog
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village-clock
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village-clock
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning-breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British regulars fired and fled,--
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,--
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,--
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight-message of Paul Revere.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
What message did Paul Revere bear?
Read an account of the battle of Lexington and observe how nearly this poem
is true to history.
Who were John Hancock and Samuel Adams?
What does the second stanza tell you? The seventh stanza?
Does this poem call your attention chiefly to the horse, the rider, or the
message?
Sketch a map locating Boston, Charlestown, Medford, Lexington, Concord.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"the fate of a nation was riding that night"
"gaze at him with a spectral glare"
"the spark struck out by that steed in his flight
kindled the land into flame with its heat"
"sombre"
"red-coats"
"fearless and fleet"
* * * * *
THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet,
His chestnut steed with four white feet,
Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou,
Son of the road and bandit chief,
Seeking refuge and relief,
Up the mountain pathway flew.
Such was the Kyrat's wondrous speed,
Never yet could any steed
Reach the dust-cloud in his course.
More than maiden, more than wife,
More than gold and next to life
Roushan the Robber loved his horse.
In the land that lies beyond
Erzeroum and Trebizond,
Garden-girt, his fortress stood;
Plundered khan, or caravan
Journeying north from Koordistan,
Gave him wealth and wine and food.
Seven hundred and fourscore
Men at arms his livery wore,
Did his bidding night and day;
Now, through regions all unknown,
He was wandering, lost, alone,
Seeking, without guide, his way.
Suddenly the pathway ends,
Sheer the precipice descends,
Loud the torrent roars unseen;
Thirty feet from side to side
Yawns the chasm; on air must ride
He who crosses this ravine.
Following close in his pursuit,
At the precipice's foot
Reyhan the Arab of Orfah
Halted with his hundred men,
Shouting upward from the glen,
"La Illah ilia Allah!"
Gently Roushan Beg caressed
Kyrat's forehead, neck and breast;
Kissed him upon both his eyes,
Sang to him in his wild way,
As upon the topmost spray
Sings a bird before it flies.
"O my Kyrat, O my steed,
Bound and slender as a reed,
Carry me this peril through!
Satin housings shall be thine,
Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine,
O thou soul of Kurroglou!
"Soft thy skin as silken skein,
Soft as woman's hair thy mane,
Tender are thine eyes and true;
All thy hoofs like ivory shine,
Polished bright; O life of mine,
Leap, and rescue Kurroglou!"
Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet,
Drew together his four white feet,
Paused a moment on the verge,
Measured with his eye the space,
And into the air's embrace
Leaped as leaps the ocean surge.
As the ocean surge o'er sand
Bears a swimmer safe to land,
Kyrat safe his rider bore;
Rattling down the deep abyss
Fragments of the precipice
Rolled like pebbles on a shore.
Roushan's tasseled cap of red
Trembled not upon his head;
Careless sat he and upright;
Neither hand nor bridle shook,
Nor his head he turned to look,
As he galloped out of sight.
Flash of harness in the air,
Seen a moment, like the glare
Of a sword drawn from its sheath;
Thus the phantom horseman passed,
And the shadow that he cast
Leaped the cataract underneath.
Reyhan the Arab held his breath
While this vision of life and death
Passed above him. "Allahu!"
Cried he. "In all Koordistan
Lives there not so brave a man
As this Robber Kurroglou!"
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
What does the first stanza tell?
The second?
What is the purpose of the fifth stanza?
What comparison is found in the seventh stanza? In the eighth? In the
ninth?
What do we mean by "figure of speech?" Illustrate.
State in your own words the thought in the eleventh stanza.
In next to the last stanza give the meaning of the last three lines.
What lesson of heroism does this poem give you?
Whom should you call the hero of this tale?
Who is Allah? Where is Koordistan?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"phantom"
"verge"
"caravan"
"abyss"
"garden-girt"
"cataract"
* * * * *
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALAKLAVA
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd;
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade!
Oh the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical and Historical: Alfred Tennyson was born in that memorable
birth year, 1809, which brought into the world a company of the greatest
men of the century, including Darwin, Gladstone, Lincoln, Poe, Chopin, and
Mendelssohn. He was one of twelve children who lived together a healthful
life of study and sport. Gathering the other children about him he held
them captive with his stories of knightly deeds--tales drawn partly from
his reading and partly from his fertile fancy. They lived again the
thrilling life of joust and tournament. Past the house in the village of
Somersby, in Lincolnshire, where his father was rector, flowed a brook, in
all probability the brook that came "from haunts of coot and hern... to
bicker down a valley." He was a student at Cambridge, where he met and
became deeply attached to Arthur Henry Hallam, whose death not long
afterward inspired the poem "In Memoriam." In 1850, upon Wordsworth's
death, Tennyson was made poet laureate and the poem commemorating the
heroic charge at Balaklava in 1854, "The Charge of the Light Brigade,"
shows how he adorned this office. In 1884 the queen raised him to the
peerage, and from that time he was known as Lord Tennyson. He lived as much
in retirement as was possible, part of the time making his home in the Isle
of Wight. He died in 1892 and was buried in the Poets' Corner in
Westminster Abbey.
The event which this poem describes occurred at Balaklava in the Crimea,
October 25th, 1854. Of six hundred seven men only about one hundred fifty
survived. The order to charge, bearing the signature of Lord Lucan, was
delivered by Captain Nolan to the Earl of Cardigan, who was in command of
the "Light Brigade." Nolan was killed in the charge while Cardigan
survived. The death of Nolan made it impossible to determine whether the
signature to the order was genuine or forged.
It was in this war that Florence Nightingale rendered such noble service as
hospital nurse. She arrived at Balaklava ten days after this charge.
Notes and Questions.
On your map find Balaklava on the Black Sea.
What nation attacked the Russians?
What was the significance of Sevastopol?
What is a brigade? A light brigade?
What is meant by "charging an army"?
Who had "blundered"?
What lines tell you that obedience is the first duty of the soldier?
What line tells you how vain and hopeless was this charge?
How does the poem impress you?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"Valley of Death"
"half a league"
"the mouth of Hell"
"the jaws of Death"
"dismay'd"
"volley'd and thunder'd"
* * * * *
THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN
WILLIAM COWPER
John Gilpin was a citizen
Of credit and renown,
A trainband captain eke was he
Of famous London town.
John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,
"Though wedded we have been
These twice ten tedious years, yet we
No holiday have seen.
"Tomorrow is our wedding day,
And we will then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton,
All in a chaise and pair
"My sister, and my sister's child,
Myself, and children three,
Will fill the chaise, so you must ride
On horseback after we."
He soon replied, "I do admire
Of womankind but one,
And you are she, my dearest dear,
Therefore, it shall be done.
"I am a linen-draper bold,
As all the world doth know,
And my good friend, the calender,
Will lend his horse to go."
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said:
And for that wine is dear,
We will be furnished with our own,
Which is both bright and clear."
John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;
O'erjoyed was he to find
That, though on pleasure she was bent,
She had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was brought,
But yet was not allowed
To drive up to the door, lest all
Should say that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaise was stayed,
Where they did all get in;
Six precious souls, and all agog
To dash through thick and thin.
Smack went the whip, 'round went the wheels,
Were never folks so glad;
The stones did rattle underneath
As if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin at his horse's side
Seized fast the flowing mane,
And up he got, in haste to ride,
But soon came down again;
For saddle-tree scarce reached had he,
His journey to begin,
When, turning round his head, he saw
Three customers come in.
So down he came; for loss of time,
Although it grieved him sore,
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,
Would trouble him much more.
'Twas long before the customers
Were suited to their mind,
When Betty screaming came down stairs,--
"The wine is left behind!"
"Good lack!" quoth he, "yet bring it me,
My leathern belt likewise,
In which I bear my trusty sword
When I do exercise."
Now Mrs. Gilpin, careful soul,
Had two stone bottles found,
To hold the liquor that she loved,
And keep it safe and sound.
Each bottle had a curling ear,
Through which the belt he drew,
And hung a bottle on each side,
To make his balance true.
Then, over all, that he might be
Equipped from top to toe,
His long red cloak, well brushed and
He manfully did throw.
Now see him mounted once again,
Upon his nimble steed,
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones
With caution and good heed.
But finding soon a smoother road
Beneath his well-shod feet,
The snorting beast began to trot,
Which galled him in his seat.
So "Fair and softly" John he cried,
But John he cried in vain;
That trot became a gallop soon,
In spite of curb and rein.
So stooping down, as needs he must
Who cannot sit upright,
He grasped the mane with both his hands,
And eke with all his might.
His horse, which never in that sort
Had handled been before,
What thing upon his back had got
Did wonder more and more.
Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;
Away went hat and wig;
He little dreamed when he set out
Of running such a rig.
The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,
Like streamer long and gay,
Till, loop and button failing both,
At last it flew away.
Then might all people well discern,
The bottles he had slung;
A bottle swinging at each side,
As hath been said or sung.
The dogs did bark, the children screamed,
Up flew the windows all,
And every soul cried out, "Well done!"
As loud as he could bawl.
Away went Gilpin--who but he?
His fame soon spread around;
"He carries weight, he rides a race!
'Tis for a thousand pound!"
And still, as fast as he drew near,
'Twas wonderful to view,
How in a trice the turnpike men
Their gates wide open threw.
And now, as he went bowing down
His reeking head full low,
The bottles twain behind his back
Were shattered at a blow.
Down ran the wine into the road,
Most piteous to be seen,
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke
As they had basted been.
But still he seemed to carry weight,
With leathern girdle braced;
For all might see the bottle necks
Still dangling at his waist.
Thus all through merry Islington
These gambols he did play,
Until he came unto the wash
Of Edmonton so gay;
And there he threw the wash about
On both sides of the way,
Just like unto a trundling mop,
Or a wild goose at play.
At Edmonton his loving wife
From the balcony spied
Her tender husband, wondering much
To see how he did ride.
"Stop, stop, John Gilpin! Here's the house!"
They all at once did cry;
"The dinner waits and we are tired."
Said Gilpin, "So am I!"
But yet his horse was not a whit
Inclined to tarry there;
For why? his owner had a house
Full ten miles off, at Ware.
So like an arrow swift he flew,
Shot by an archer strong;
So did he fly--which brings me to
The middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin, out of breath,
And sore against his will,
Till, at his friend the calender's,
His horse at last stood still.
The calender, amazed to see
His neighbor in such trim,
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,
And thus accosted him:
"What news? what news? your tidings tell;
Tell me you must and shall;
Say why bareheaded you are come,
Or why you come at all?"
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,
And loved a timely joke;
And thus unto the calender,
In merry guise, he spoke:
"I came because your horse would come;
And, if I well forbode,
My hat and wig will soon be here:--
They are upon the road."
The calender, right glad to find
His friend in merry pin,
Returned him not a single word,
But to the house went in;
Whence straight he came with hat and wig;
A wig that flowed behind,
A hat not much the worse for wear,
Each comely in its kind.
He held them up and in his turn
Thus showed his ready wit:
"My head is twice as big as yours,
They, therefore, needs must fit.
But let me scrape the dirt away
That hangs upon your face;
And stop and eat, for well you may
Be in a hungry case."
Said John, "It is my wedding day,
And all the world would stare,
If wife should dine at Edmonton
And I should dine at Ware."
So, turning to his horse, he said,
"I am in haste to dine;
'Twas for your pleasure you came here,
You shall go back for mine."
Ah! luckless speech and bootless boast,
For which he paid full dear;
For while he spake, a braying ass
Did sing most loud and clear;
Whereat his horse did snort, as he
Had heard a lion roar,
And galloped off with all his might,
As he had done before.
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went Gilpin's hat and wig:
He lost them sooner than at first;
For why?--they were too big.
Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting down
Into the country far away,
She pulled out half a crown;
And thus unto the youth she said,
That drove them to the Bell,
"This shall be yours when you bring back
My husband safe and well."
The youth did ride, and soon did meet
John coming back amain;
Whom in a trice he tried to stop
By catching at his rein;
But not performing what he meant
And gladly would have done,
The frightened steed he frighted more,
And made him faster run.
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went postboy at his heels,
The postboy's horse right glad to miss
The lumbering of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the road,
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
With postboy scampering in the rear,
They raised the hue and cry;--
"Stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman!"
Not one of them was mute;
And all and each that passed that way
Did join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike gates again
Flew open in short space;
The toll-men thinking as before,
That Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did, and won it too,
For he got first to town;
Nor stopped till where he had got up
He did again get down.
Now let us sing "Long Live the King,"
And Gilpin, long live he;
And when he next doth ride abroad
May I be there to see!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical: William Cowper, 1731-1800, was a famous English poet. His
poems range from religious to humorous subjects.
Notes and Questions.
What was the occasion of the ride?
What tells you that the linen-draper lived over his shop?
Which stanza is most amusing?
Why did people think John Gilpin rode for a wager?
Edmonton--a suburb of London.
The Bell--the Inn.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"calender"
"eke"
"chaise and pair"
"frugal"
"gambols"
"trainband"
"repair"
"he carries weight"
"for that wine is dear"
"turnpike"
"basted"
"bootless boast"
"the postboy's horse right glad to miss the lumbering of the wheels"
* * * * *
HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX
ROBERT BROWNING
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;
"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through;
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Dueffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"
At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.
By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,
We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem, a dome-spire sprang white,
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"
"How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.
Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is--friends flocking round
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical and Historical: Robert Browning was born in a suburb of London
in 1812. His four grandparents were respectively of English, German,
Scotch, and Creole birth. After his marriage with the poet, Elizabeth
Barrett, he lived in Italy, where in the old palace Casa Guidi, in
Florence, they spent years of rare companionship and happiness. After her
death he returned to England, but spent most of his summers abroad. On the
Grand Canal, in Venice, the gondoliers point out a palace where at his
son's home, Browning died in 1889. He was buried in the Poets' Corner,
Westminster Abbey.
Browning's poems are not easy to read, because he condenses so much into a
word or phrase and he often leaves large gaps to be filled in by the
reader's imagination. Any one can make selections of lines and even entire
poems from Tennyson, Poe, Southey, and Lanier, in which the poet has
created for us verbal music and beauty. Browning, however, is not so much
concerned with this side of poetry as he is with portraying correctly the
varied emotions of the human soul.
"Love in the largest sense, as the divine principle working through all
nature, is at the very center of Browning's creed. His is the heartiest,
happiest, most beautiful poetic voice that his age has read. He stands
apart from most others of his kind and age in the positiveness of his
religious faith, a faith that is based upon a conviction of the conquering
universality of love and self-sacrifice."
"How They Brought the Good News" is without historical basis; the ride
occurred only in the imagination of the poet. The inspiration came from
Browning's longing for a horseback gallop over the English downs.
Notes and Questions.
Find Ghent and Aix la Chapelle on your map.
What was probably the nature of the "good news" carried by the messengers?
How many messengers were there?
What makes you think so?
What does the fifth stanza tell you?
What tells you the praise given Roland?
The rhythm suggests the gallop of the horses. In which lines is this
suggestion most marked?
Indicate the rhythmic movement.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"postern"
"pique"
"askance"
"burgesses"
"stirrup"
"twilight"
"haunches"
"holster"
"Good speed! cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew"
"With resolute shoulders each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray"
* * * * *
INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP
ROBERT BROWNING
You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:
A mile or so away,
On a little mound, Napoleon
Stood on our storming-day;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.
Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans
That soar, to earth may fall,
Let once my army-leader, Lannes,
Waver at yonder wall,"--
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew
Until he reached the mound.
Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect
By just his horse's mane, a boy:
You hardly could suspect--
(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through)
You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.
"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace,
We've got you Ratisbon!
The marshal's in the market-place,
And you'll be there anon
To see your flag-bird flap his vans
Where I, to heart's desire,
Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans
Soared up again like fire.
The chiefs eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother eagle's eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes:
"You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride
Touched to the quick, he said:
"I'm killed, sire!" And his chief beside,
Smiling, the boy fell dead.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
On your map find Ratisbon on the Danube River.
What picture have you of Napoleon from reading this poem?
What word used figuratively tells you of the rider's speed?
Tell the story of the boy rider.
What was the mission of the boy who rode alone?
Was his heroism greater because he was alone?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"stormed"
"soar"
"prone"
"waver"
"battery-smokes"
"vans"
"sheathes"
"film"
* * * * *
HERVE RIEL
ROBERT BROWNING
On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,
Did the English fight the French--woe to France!
And the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue,
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,
Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance,
With the English fleet in view.
'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase;
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;
Close on him fled, great and small,
Twenty-two good ships in all;
And they signalled to the place,
"Help the winners of a race!
Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick--or, quicker still,
Here's the English can and will!"
Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board;
"Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they:
"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and
scored,--
Shall the "Formidable" here, with her twelve and eighty guns,
Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way,
Trust to enter--where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons,
And with flow at full beside?
Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide.
Reach the mooring? Rather say,
While rock stands or water runs,
Not a ship will leave the bay!"
Then was called a council straight.
Brief and bitter the debate:
"Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow
All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,
For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!"
(Ended Damfreville his speech).
"Not a minute more to wait!
Let the captains all and each
Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!
France must undergo her fate.
"Give the word!" But no such word
Was ever spoke or heard:
For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck, amid all these,--
A captain? a lieutenant? a mate,--first, second, third?
No such man of mark, and meet
With his betters to compete!
But a simple Breton sailor, pressed by Tourville for the fleet,
A poor coasting-pilot, he,---Herve Riel, the Croisickese.
And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cried Herve Riel.
"Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues?
Talk to me of rocks and shoals?--me, who took the soundings, tell
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell,
'Twixt the offing here and Greve, where the river disembogues?
Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for?
Morn and eve, night and day,
Have I piloted your bay,
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor.
Burn the fleet, and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues!
Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me, there's way!
Only let me lead the line,
Have the biggest ship to steer,
Get this _Formidable_ clear,
Make the others follow mine,
And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well,
Right to Solidor past Greve,
And there lay them safe and sound;
And if one ship misbehave,--
Keel so much as grate the ground,
Why, I've nothing but my life,--here's my head!" cries Herve Riel.
Not a minute more to wait.
"Steer us in, then, small and great!
Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief.
Captains, give the sailor place!
He is Admiral, in brief.
Still the north-wind, by God's grace!
See the noble fellow's face
As the big ship, with a bound,
Clears the entry like a hound,
Keeps the passage, as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound!
See, safe thro' shoal and rock,
How they follow in a flock,
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,
Not a spar that comes to grief!
The peril, see, is past.
All are harbored to the last,
And just as Herve Riel hollas "Anchor!" sure as fate,
Up the English come,--too late!
So, the storm subsides to calm:
They see the green trees wave
On the heights o'erlooking Greve.
Hearts that bled are stanched with balm.
"Just our rapture to enhance,
Let the English rake the bay,
Gnash their teeth and glare askance
As they cannonade away!
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!"
How hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance!
Out burst all with one accord,
"This is paradise for hell!
Let France, let France's king,
Thank the man that did the thing!"
What a shout, and all one word,
"Herve Riel!"
As he stepped in front once more;
Not a symptom of surprise
In the frank blue Breton eyes,--
Just the same man as before.
Then said Damfreville, "My friend,
I must speak out at the end,
Though I find the speaking hard;
Praise is deeper than the lips;
You have saved the king his ships;
You must name your own reward.
Faith, our sun was near eclipse!
Demand whate'er you will,
France remains your debtor still.
Ask to heart's content, and have! or my name's not Damfreville."
Then a beam of fun outbroke
On the bearded mouth that spoke,
As the honest heart laughed through
Those frank eyes of Breton blue:--
"Since I needs must say my say,
Since on board the duty's done,
And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run!
Since 'tis ask and have, I may--
Since the others go ashore--
Come! A good whole holiday!
Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!"
That he asked and that he got,--nothing more.
Name and deed alike are lost:
Not a pillar nor a post
In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;
Not a head in white and black
On a single fishing-smack,
In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack
All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell.
Go to Paris: rank on rank
Search the heroes flung pell-mell
On the Louvre, face and flank!
You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel.
So, for better and for worse, Herve Riel, accept my verse!
In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more
Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
Find on your map: Saint Malo, le Croisic (St. Croisic), Plymouth Sound,
Paris.
What forfeit did Herve Riel propose in case he failed to pilot the ships
safely in?
What ships were seeking harbor?
Who were the "porpoises" and who the "sharks"?
What reward did he claim?
What comparison is found in the first stanza?
What do stanzas three and four tell?
In what way is the hero's memory perpetuated?
The rhythm gives spirit to the poem. Which lines or stanzas are most
spirited?
What line gives the key-note to Herve Riel's character?
Contrast Herve Riel with the local pilots.
Saint Malo--noted for its high tides.
Rance--name of a river.
The Hogue--a cape on the French coast.
Malouins--residents of Saint Malo.
Tourville--the French admiral.
Greve--name given the beach.
Solidor--the old fortress.
Belle Aurore--the dawn.
Croisickese--inhabitants of Croisie.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"Worse than fifty Hogues"
"Clears the entry like a hound"
"Just the same man as before"
"He is Admiral, in brief"
"Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound"
"Search the heroes flung pell-mell on the Louvre, face and flank"
"pressed"
"disembogues"
"rampired"
"bore the bell"
* * * * *
THE BUGLE SONG (From "The Princess")
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits, old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying;
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O, hark! O, hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O, sweet and far from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elfland, faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying;
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O, love, they die in yon rich sky;
They faint on hill or field or river.
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying;
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
Why does the poet use "splendor" instead of "sun-set," and "summits"
instead of "mountains"?
Line 2--What is meant by "old in story"?
Line 3--Why does the poet use "shakes"?
Line l3--To what does "they" relate?
Line l5--Explain.
Line l5--Why does the poet use "roll"?
Line l6--They "die" and "faint" while "our echoes" "roll" and "grow." Note
that "grow" is the important word.
Note the refrain and the changes in its use; in the first stanza--the
bugle; in the second--the echo; in the third--the spiritual echo.
Point out lines that have rhyme within themselves.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"wild echoes"
"cliff and scar"
"horns of Elfland"
"rich sky"
"purple glens"
* * * * *
THE BROOK
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges,
Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles;
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling.
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery water-break
Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeams dance
Against my sandy shallows,
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars,
I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
These stanzas are part of a longer poem called "The Brook."
In this poem Tennyson personifies the brook. Why?
In what lines do the words and the rhythm suggest the sound of the brook?
Which lines do this most successfully?
Point out words that seem to you especially appropriate in giving the
thought.
Where in the poem do we find a meaning for the following lines:
"Oh! of all the songs sung
No songs are so sweet
As the songs with refrains
Which repeat and repeat."
How does the repetition of "chatter" influence the melody of the first line
in the sixth stanza?
How does it affect the thought?
Find another place in the poem where an expression is repeated.
Was this done for the sake of the rhythm, or the thought, or for both?
Alliteration is the repetition of the same letter or sound at the beginning
of two or more words in close succession.
Find lines in which alliteration is used e. g. "sudden sally," "field and
fallow," etc. What does this add to the poem?
Indicate the rhythm of the first four lines by placing them in these
curves:
________ ________ ________ ________
/ \/ \/ \/ \
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"coot and hern" (heron)
"bicker"
"thorps"
"fairy foreland"
"willow weed and mallow"
"grayling"
"water-break"
"covers"
"brambly"
"shingly bars"
"eddying"
"fallow"
"babble"
"cresses"
"brimming"
"sharps and trebles"
"skimming swallows"
"netted sunbeams"
* * * * *
SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE
SIDNEY LANIER
Out of the hills of Habersham,
Down the valleys of Hall,
I hurry amain to reach the plain,
Run the rapid and leap the fall;
Split at the rock and together again,
Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,
And flee from folly on every side
With a lover's pain to attain the plain
Far from the hills of Habersham,
Far from the valleys of Hall.
All down the hills of Habersham,
All through the valleys of Hall,
The rushes cried, "Abide, abide,"
The wilful water-weeds held me thrall,
The laving laurel turned my tide,
The ferns and the fondling grass said, "Stay,"
The dewberry dipped for to work delay,
And the little reeds sighed, "Abide, abide,"
Here in the hills of Habersham,
Here in the valleys of Hall.
High o'er the hills of Habersham,
Veiling the valleys of Hall,
The hickory told me manifold
Fair tales of shade; the poplar tall
Wrought me her shadowy self to hold;
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,
Said: "Pass not so cold, these manifold
Deep shades of the hills of Habersham,
These glades in the valleys of Hall."
And oft in the hills of Habersham,
And oft in the valleys of Hall,
The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook stone
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl;
And many a luminous jewel lone
(Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,
Ruby, garnet, or amethyst)
Made lures with the lights of streaming stone
In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,
In the beds of the valleys of Hall.
But oh! not the hills of Habersham,
And oh! not the valleys of Hall
Avail; I am fain for to water the plain.
Downward the voices of Duty call;
Downward to toil and be mixed with the main.
The dry fields burn and the mills are to turn,
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,
And the lordly main from beyond the plain
Calls o'er the hills of Habersham,
Calls through the valleys of Hall.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical and Historical: The South has given us two most melodious
singers, Poe and Lanier. When only nineteen Sidney Lanier enlisted in the
Confederate army, and the close of the war found him broken in health, with
little else in the world than a brave wife and a brave heart. When his
health permitted he played the flute in an orchestra in Baltimore. The
rhythm, the rhyme and the melodious words of his poetry all show him the
passionate lover of music that he was. Among his prose writings, "The Boy's
Froissart" and "The Boy's King Arthur" are of especial interest to young
readers.
Notes and Questions.
Find the Chattahoochee river on your map with its source in the "hills of
Habersham" and its course through the "valleys of Hall."
Compare this poem with Tennyson's "The Brook."
What is peculiar in the phrases: "run the rapid," "flee from folly,"
"wilful waterweeds," "loving laurel," etc.
Find alliteration in other lines.
What is added to the poem by alliteration?
Notice the rhythm in the third line of the first stanza.
What is the peculiarity of the eighth line of the first stanza?
Find lines in the other stanzas which contain rhymes. Notice the last word
in each of these lines. What two things have you found out?
Lanier believed that poetry is a kind of music. Does the rhythm in this
poem sustain this definition?
Point out lines that are especially musical and pleasing.
Habersham, Hall--Counties in northern Georgia.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"laving laurel"
"fondling grass"
"friendly brawl"
"made lures"
"lordly main"
"run the rapid"
"leap the fall"
"hurry amain"
"veiling the valleys"
"flickering meaning"
"the mills are to turn"
"I am fain for to water the plain"
* * * * *
THE CATARACT OF LODORE
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
"How does the water
Come down at Lodore?"
My little boy asked me
Thus, once on a time;
And, moreover, he tasked me
To tell him in rhyme.
Anon at the word,
There first came one daughter,
And then came another,
To second and third
The request of their brother,
And to hear how the water
Comes down at Lodore,
With its rush and its roar,
As many a time
They had seen it before.
So I told them in rhyme--
For of rhymes I had store;
And 'twas my vocation
For their recreation
That so I should sing;
Because I was Laureate
To them and the king.
From its sources, which well
In the tarn on the fell;
From its fountains
In the mountains,
Its rills and its gills;
Through moss and through brake,
It runs and it creeps
For a while, till it sleeps
In its own little lake.
And thence, at departing,
Awakening and starting,
It runs through the reeds,
And away it proceeds,
Through meadow and glade,
In sun and in shade,
And through the wood shelter,
Among crags in its flurry,
Helter-skelter,
Hurry-skurry.
Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Now smoking and frothing
In tumult and wrath in,
Till, in this rapid race
On which it is bent,
It reaches the place
Of its steep descent.
The cataract strong
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging,
As if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among;
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,
Around and around
With endless rebound;
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in;
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying, and deafening the ear with its sound,
Collecting, projecting,
Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dinning and spinning,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning,
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And thundering and floundering;
Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And chattering and battering and shattering;
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling, and toiling and boiling,
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping.
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending,
All at once, and all o'er, with a mighty uproar:
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical: Robert Southey, 1774-1843, was a great English poet. In 1813
he was made poet laureate.
Notes and Questions.
Who was "laureate"? What is it to be "laureate"?
Who was the king to whom Southey was poet-laureate?
To whom beside the king does he say he is laureate?
What do you think he means by this?
Find this cataract on your map (Derwent River in Cumberland). What is a
cataract? Have you ever seen one?
Find changes in rhythm as the stream advances.
Where in the poem does Southey first use lines in which two words rhyme? In
which three words rhyme?
Why does the poet use all these rhymes?
Compare the first and second stanzas as to rate.
Point out lines that are especially pleasing to you.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"cataract"
"tarn"
"brake"
"glade"
"helter-skelter"
"hurry-skurry"
"vocation"
"recreation"
"fell"
* * * * *
THE BELLS
EDGAR ALLAN POE
Hear the sledges with the bells--
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding-bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
Hear the loud alarum bells--
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,
Now--now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells--
Of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
Hear the tolling of the bells--
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people--ah, the people--
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone--
They are neither man nor woman--
They are neither brute nor human--
They are Ghouls;
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls,
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells--
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells--
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells--
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells--
Bells, bells, bells--
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical and Historical: Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston on January
19th, 1809. Both his parents were members of a theatrical troupe then
playing in Boston. He was left an orphan at the age of three years, and was
adopted by a wealthy Virginia planter and by him educated in England and
elsewhere. Owing to his erratic habits, Poe's foster-father disowned him,
and after that life for him was a constant battle with poverty. His prose
tales abound in adventure, allegory, and the supernatural. His poetry is
full of imagery, beauty, and melody.
Notes and Questions.
What kinds of bells does the poet seek to reproduce the sound of?
Which bells has he described best?
Point out words particularly suited to express the sound they describe.
Which lines are especially musical and pleasing?
What can you say of the fire-bells of today?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"euphony"
"tintinnabulation"
"expostulation"
"Runic"
"crystalline"
"palpitating"
* * * * *
ANNABEL LEE
EDGAR ALLAN POE
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me--
Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we--
Of many far wiser than we--
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling,--my darling,--my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
Like "The Bells," this poem is musical and the words are chosen with
reference to this quality.
Notice that the repetition of the word "many" adds to the music of the
first line.
Find other lines in which a word is repeated for the sake of melody.
Find lines in which rhymes occur.
Mention lines that are especially pleasing to you.
What reason is given for the death of Annabel Lee?
Why did the angels "covet" and "envy" the lovers?
How strong was this love?
Why does not the lover feel separated from Annabel Lee?
Do you like this poem? Why?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"winged seraphs"
"sounding sea"
"sepulchre"
"highborn kinsmen"
"coveted"
"envying"
* * * * *
OPPORTUNITY
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL
This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:--
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.
A craven hung along the battle's edge,
And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel--
That blue blade that the king's son bears,--but this
Blunt thing--!" he snapt and flung it from his hand,
And lowering crept away and left the field.
Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead,
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout
Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,
And saved a great cause that heroic day.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical: Edward Rowland Sill was born in Connecticut in 1841. He
graduated at Yale and lived most of his life in California, being for some
years professor of English language and literature at the State University.
Sill was a true poet, but the whole of his literary output is contained in
two slender volumes. His poems are noted for their compressed thought. The
selection here given shows this quality.
Notes and Questions.
What do you learn from this poem?
Where was the craven when he decided his sword was useless?
What word shows that he was there of his own choice?
What kind of sword had the craven?
What words tell you that he was greatly needed in the thick of the
conflict?
What kind of sword had the king's son?
How long did the king's son look at the discarded sword before using it?
If the battle represents life, and the craven and the king's son are types
of the people in the world, what do you think the swords represent?
Why is this poem called "Opportunity"?
Can you think of another title which might be given to it?
Such a story as this is called an allegory.
"furious"--What is a furious battle?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"craven"
"bestead"
"hung along the battle's edge"
"shocked"
"hemmed by foes"
* * * * *
TO A WATERFOWL
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far through their rosy depths dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-side?
There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,--
The desert and illimitable air,--
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend
Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou'rt gone; the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone
Will lead my steps aright.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical and Historical: William Cullen Bryant was born in 1794 in
Western Massachusetts. His education was carried on in the district school.
At home he had the use of an exceptionally fine library, for that period,
and he made the most of its opportunities. In 1816 he secured a license to
practice law, and journeyed on foot to Plainfield, Mass., to look for a
place to open an office. He felt forlorn and desolate, and the world seemed
big and cold. In this mood, while pausing on his way to contemplate the
beauty of the sunset, he saw a solitary bird wing its way along the
horizon. He watched it until it was lost in the distance. Then he pursued
his journey with new courage and on arriving at the place where he was to
stop for the night, he sat down and wrote this beautiful poem of faith and
hope.
Notes and Questions.
What lines tell you the time of day?
Which stanza do you like best? Why?
What lines give you the most beautiful picture?
What does the poet learn from the waterfowl?
Note that the rhythm gives the impression of the bird's flight.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"thy solitary way"
"rosy depths"
"thin atmosphere"
"the fowler's eye"
"long way"
"welcome land"
"that toil shall end"
"tread alone"
"boundless sky"
"last steps of day"
"certain flight"
"lone wandering but not lost"
"chafed ocean-side"
"pathless coast"
"the abyss of heaven hath swallowed up thy form"
* * * * *
THE SKYLARK
JAMES HOGG.
Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling place,--
O to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay and loud,
Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth,
O'er fell and fountain sheen,
O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!
Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
HELPS TO STUDY.
James Hogg was born in Ettrick, Scotland, in 1770, and was known as "the
Ettrick Shepherd," because he followed the occupation of a shepherd until
he was thirty. The beautiful selection here given was doubtless inspired by
the poet's early communion with Nature.
Notes and Questions.
From this poem what can you tell of the home of the skylark? Of its nature?
Why is the lark called an emblem of happiness? Name something that might be
called an emblem of strength; of sorrow.
What pictures do the following words make to you: "wilderness," "moor,"
"lea," "fell," "heather-bloom"?
What is the "red streamer that heralds the day"?
What does the word "dewy" suggest as to the habits of the bird?
What do "matin" and "gloaming" signify?
In the poem what tells you the nest is near the ground?
Why is "downy" used to describe "cloud"?
What makes lines 13 and 14 so musical?
Indicate the rhythm of the first six lines by writing them in groups as
shown in the following curves:
___________ _____________
/ \/ \
Bird of the wil-der-ness
* * * * *
TO A SKYLARK
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run;
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven,
In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen,--but yet I hear thy shrill delight,
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear
Until we hardly see--we feel that it is there.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when Night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflowed.
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a Poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love,--which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it give
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves:
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Bain-awakened flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth surpass,
Teach us, Sprite or Bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine;
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus Hymeneal,
Or triumphal chaunt,
Matched with thine, would be all
But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields or waves or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be;
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee;
Thou lovest--but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream--
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not;
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scorn
Hate and pride and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then--as I am listening now.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical and Historical: Percy Bysshe Shelley was born in 1792. He was
an English poet who traveled much in Europe, and found Italy especially to
his liking. His life was short and full of storm and stress, although he
never allowed his personal sufferings to embitter his spirit. While only
thirty, on a pleasure cruise off the coast of Italy, he was drowned.
"To a Skylark" and "The Cloud" are rare poems because of their wonderful
harmony of sound.
The skylark is found in northern Europe. It is noted for its lofty flights
and wonderful song. Note that Shelley, Wordsworth, and James Hogg have all
written poems about the skylark.
Notes and Questions.
What country is the home of these poets? What does this fact suggest to
you?
Explain the simile in the fifth stanza. In the sixth.
In the seventh stanza what two words are contrasted?
Note the four comparisons--stanzas eight, nine, ten and eleven. Which do
you like best? Why?
In line 86 emphasize the first word and explain the stanza.
In line 95 emphasize the fifth word and explain the stanza.
In line 96 to end, what does Shelley say would be the result if a poet
could feel such joy as the little bird seems to feel?
If we had no dark days do you think we could appreciate the bright days?
If we had no sadness could we appreciate the songs of gladness?
If Shelley had never experienced sadness could he have written this
beautiful poem of gladness?
Explain the following:
"There is no music in the life
That sounds with empty laughter wholly;
There's not a string attuned to mirth
But has its chord in melancholy."
What does the skylark mean to Shelley?
If we think only of being happy shall we be very helpful to others?
Make a list of all the names he gives the skylark.
Enumerate the expressions Shelley uses in characterizing the song.
Which stanza do you like best? Why?
"wert" rhymes with heart. (In England the sound is broad, er=aer).
"even"--a contraction of evening.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"profuse strains"
"panted forth"
"heavy-winged thieves"
"unpremeditated art"
"rain of melody"
"harmonious madness"
"shrill delight"
"flood of rapture"
"float and run"
"rains out"
"triumphant chaunt"
"scattering unbeholden"
* * * * *
THE CLOUD
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noon-day dreams;
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast,
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers,
Lightning, my pilot, sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,--
It struggles and howls by fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The spirit he loves remains;
And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning-star shines dead,
As on the jag of a mountain-crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle, alit, one moment may sit,
In the light of its golden wings.
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardors of rest and love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed Maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her, and peer!
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent of sea,
Sun-beam proof, I hang like a roof,
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-colored bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,
While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I can not die.
For after the rain, when, with never a stain,
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a sprite from the gloom, like a ghost from the tomb,
I rise and unbuild it again.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
In this poem Shelley personifies the Cloud. Why?
What does the second stanza mean to you?
The third stanza relates to the sun; what comparisons are made?
What comparisons are found in the fourth stanza?
Read the last stanza and tell what lesson the poem teaches. What line tells
you?
What pictures do you get from the fifth stanza?
Which stanza is most musical and pleasing?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"sanguine sunrise"
"pavilion of heaven"
"reel and swim"
"meteor eyes"
"caverns of rain"
"million-colored bow"
"burning plumes"
"fleece-like floor"
"sphere-fire"
"orbed maiden"
"wind-built tent"
"cenotaph"
* * * * *
APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN (From "Childe Harold," Canto IV.)
LORD BYRON
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar;
I love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin--his control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths, with bubbling groan--
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
His steps are not upon thy paths--thy fields
Are not a spoil for him--thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray,
And howling to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth: there let him lay.
The armaments which thunder-strike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war:
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
Thy shores are empires changed in all save thee--
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters washed them power while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts; not so thou;
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play.
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow:
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed--in breeze or gale or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime--
The image of Eternity--the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers--they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror--'twas a pleasing fear;
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane--as I do here.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical and Historical: George Gordon Byron was born in London the
year before the outbreak of the French Revolution. At the age of ten, upon
the death of his grand-uncle he became Lord Byron. He traveled extensively
through Europe, spending much time in Italy. At Pisa he formed a warm
friendship for the poet Shelley. So deeply was he moved by his impulses
toward liberty and freedom that in the summer of 1823 he left Genoa with a
supply of arms, medicines, and money to aid the Greeks in their struggle
for independence. In the following year he became commander-in-chief at
Missolonghi, but he died of a fever before he had an opportunity to
actually engage in battle. Hearing the news, the boy Tennyson, dreaming at
Somersby on poetic greatness, crept away to weep and carve upon sandstone
the words, "Byron is dead."
Notes and Questions.
In the first stanza why "pathless woods" and "lonely shore"?
In the second and third stanzas Byron contrasts the ocean and the earth in
their relation to man.
Line 12--What two words require emphasis?
Line 13--With what is "watery plain" contrasted?
Line 14--With what is "thy" contrasted?
Line 22--What word requires emphasis?
In the fourth stanza what contrast does Byron make?
What does the fifth stanza tell? The sixth?
Which stanza do you like best? Why?
Which lines are the most beautiful?
"The Invincible Armada"--an immense Spanish fleet consisting of one hundred
thirty vessels, sailed from Corunna in 1588 and attacked the English fleet
but suffered defeat. This event furnished Southey the inspiration for a
poem, "The Spanish Armada."
"Trafalgar"--one of Lord Nelson's great sea-fights, occurring off Cape
Trafalgar on the coast of Spain in 1805. Here he defeated the combined
fleets of France and Spain, but was himself killed.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"unknelled"
"uncoffined"
"unknown"
"playful spray"
"oak leviathans"
"yeast of waves"
"These are thy toys"
"The Armada's pride"
"spoils of Trafalgar"
"rock-built"
"glasses itself"
"fathomless"
* * * * *
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB LORD BYRON
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath flown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And their idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Historical: Sennacherib was King of Assyria. His army invaded Judea and
besieged Jerusalem but was overthrown; 185,000 of his men were destroyed in
a single night. Sennacherib returned in haste with the remnant to his own
country. For the Bible story of this event read 2 Kings XIX. 6-36.
Notes and Questions.
Find Assyria and Galilee on your map.
Note the development:
1. Brilliant outset of the Assyrian cavalry.
2. Their summer changes to winter.
3. The angel turns their sleep into death.
4. The steed and the rider.
5. The mourning.
6. Their idols powerless to help them.
7. Their religion broken down.
8. Their power "melted like snow."
What two comparisons are found in the first stanza?
Note the movement and rhythm.
Point out the fitness of the two similes in the second stanza.
Find a comparison in the sixth stanza.
"Ashur"--Assyria.
"Baal"--the sun-god worshipped by the Assyrians.
Indicate the rhythm of the four lines of the second stanza by writing them
in groups under curves as on page 47:
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"cohorts"
"sheen"
"host"
"unsmote"
"idols are broke" (broken)
"purple and gold"
"withered and strown"
"rock-beating surf"
* * * * *
THE EVE BEFORE WATERLOO (From "Childe Harold," Canto III.)
LORD BYRON
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men.
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell.
But, hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear, it?--No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street.
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet!
But, hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! arm! it is--it is the cannon's opening roar!
Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! They come! they come!"
And wild and high the "Cameron's Gathering" rose!
The war note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard--and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring which instills
The stirring memory of a thousand years,
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave--alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valor, rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, shall molder cold and low.
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay;
The midnight brought the signal sound of strife--
The morn, the marshaling in arms--the day,
Battle's magnificently stern array!
The thunderclouds close o'er it, which when rent
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Historical: On the evening of June 15, 1815, the Duchess of Richmond gave a
ball at Brussels. Wellington's officers, at his request, were present, his
purpose being to conceal the near approach of battle. Napoleon, the leader
of the French army, was the military genius of the age; Wellington, the
leader of the English forces, had, Tennyson tells us, "gained a hundred
fights nor ever lost an English gun." These two great generals now met for
the first time. The event was of supreme interest to all the world. The
engagement that followed next day was fought at Quatre Bras; the great
battle of Waterloo took place June 18th, Sunday. Read Thackeray's "Vanity
Fair" for description of this night in Brussels. This is a great martial
poem--the greatest inspired by this event.
Note the movement of the poem. The revelry, the beauty and the chivalry,
the music and the merry-making, the alarm, the hurrying to and fro, the
gathering tears, the mounting in hot haste, the whispering with white lips,
the Scotch music, the green leaves of Ardennes, the closing scene.
Notes and Questions.
Find Belgium's capital on your map; also Waterloo, twelve miles away.
What does the first stanza tell? The second stanza?
Note the differences between the fourth and fifth stanzas.
The sixth stanza describes the Scottish martial music--What purpose does
this stanza serve in the poem?
Which lines do you like best? Why?
Which is the most beautiful stanza?
What words seem to be especially appropriate?
Note the rhythm and the change in movement. "Cameron's Gathering"--The
Cameron Highlander's call to arms. "Lochiel"--Donald Cameron of Lochiel was
a famous highland chieftain. Read the poem "Lochiel's Warning."
"Albyn"--name given poetically to northern Scotland, the Highland region.
"Pibroch"--martial music upon the bagpipe.
"Evan's, Donald's fame"--Evan Cameron (another Lochiel) and his grandson,
Donald, were famous Highland chiefs.
"Ardennes"--Arden, a forest on the Meuse river between Brussels and
Waterloo, called Arden by Shakespeare in "As You Like It."
"car"--a cart.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"voluptuous swell"
"rising knell"
"glowing hours"
"opening roar"
"terror dumb"
"noon of night"
"stirring memory"
"revelry"
"chivalry"
"mustering squadron"
"clattering car"
"pouring forward"
"impetuous speed"
"unreturning brave"
"rolling on the foe"
"magnificently stern"
"clansman"
"inanimate"
"verdure"
"blent"
* * * * *
SONG OF THE GREEK BARD (From "Don Juan," Canto-III.)
LORD BYRON
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest."
The mountains look on Marathon--
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dreamed that Greece might still be free:
For, standing on the Persian's grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.
A king sat on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And ships by thousands lay below,
And men in nations;--all were his!
He counted them at break of day--
And when the sun set, where were they?
And where are they? and where art thou
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now--
The heroic bosom beats no more.
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?
'Tis something in the dearth of fame,
Though linked among a fettered race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blush--for Greece a tear.
Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush?--Our fathers bled.
Earth, render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae!
What, silent still? and silent all?
Ah, no; the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, "Let one living head,
But one, arise--we come, we come!"
'Tis but the living who are dumb.
In vain--in vain: strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call--
How answers each bold bacchanal!
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet--
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave--
Think you he meant them for a slave?
The tyrant of the Chersonese
Was freedom's best and bravest friend;
That tyrant was Miltiades!
O that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind!
Such chains as his were sure to bind.
Trust not for freedom to the Franks--
They have a king who buys and sells--
In native swords and native ranks
The only hope of courage dwells;
But Turkish force and Latin fraud
Would break your shield, however broad.
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die;
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine--
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Historical: The decline of Greece is the theme of this poem. Byron
represents a Greek poet as contrasting ancient and modern Greece, showing
that, in modern Greece, "all except their sun is set."
Notes and Questions.
What does the first stanza tell?
What are "the arts of war and peace"?
What nation is meant by the Franks?
"I could not deem myself a slave." Why?
Line 19--relates to Xerxes.
Lines 23, 24. Explain these lines,
Explain lines 67, 70.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"Sappho"
"Delos"
"Phoebus"
"Marathon"
"Persian's grave"
"Salamis"
"eternal summer"
"rocky brow"
"voiceless shore"
"heroic lay"
"fettered race"
"dearth of fame"
"Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae"
* * * * *
MARCO BOZZARIS
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK
At midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power.
In dreams, through camp and court he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;
In dreams, his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring;
Then pressed that monarch's throne--a king:
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden-bird.
At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood,
On old Plataea's day:
And now there breathed that haunted air,
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arms to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.
An hour passed on--the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last:
He woke--to hear his sentries shriek,
"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"
He woke--to die mid flames and smoke,
And shout and groan, and sabre-stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band:
"Strike!--till the last armed foe expires;
Strike!--for your altars and your fires;
Strike!--for the green graves of your sires;
God--and your native land!"
They fought--like brave men, long and well;
They piled the ground with Moslem slain;
They conquered--but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile, when rang their proud--"Hurrah,"
And the red field was won:
Then saw in death his eyelids close,
Calmly as to a night's response,
Like flowers at set of sun.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Bozzaris! with, the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee--there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime.
We tell thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's--
One of the few, the immortal names
That were not born to die.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical and Historical: Fitz-Greene Halleck was born in Connecticut,
July 8, 1790, and died November 19, 1867. Of his poems, "Marco Bozzaris" is
probably the best known. Marco Bozzaris, leader of the Greek revolution,
was, killed August 20, 1823, in an attack upon the Turks near Missolonghi,
a Greek town. His last words were: "To die for liberty is a pleasure, not a
pain."
Notes and Questions.
Over whom did the Turk dream he gained a victory?
What might be the "trophies of a conqueror"?
Upon whom would a monarch confer the privilege of wearing his signet ring?
Trace the successive steps by which the Turk in his dream rises to the
summit of his ambition.
What other "immortal names" do you know?
"Suliote"--natives of Suli, a mountainous district in Albania (European
Turkey).
"Plataea's day" refers to the victory of the Greeks over the Persians on
this field 479 B. C.
"Moslem"--Mohammedans--name given the Turks.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"tried blades"
"haunted air"
"storied brave"
* * * * *
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
CHARLES WOLFE
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
At his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spike not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow.
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Charles Wolfe, a British clergyman, was born at Dublin, December 14, 1791,
and died at Cork, February 21, 1823. His poem, "The Burial of Sir John
Moore," is the only one of his works now widely read.
Historical: Sir John Moore, an English general, was killed (January 16,
1809) in an engagement between the English and the army of Napoleon at
Corunna, in Spain. In accordance with an expressed wish, he was buried at
night on the battlefield. In St. Paul's Cathedral, London, a monument was
erected to his memory, and a stone also marks the spot where he was buried
on the ramparts, at Corunna. Note that it was from this port that the
Spanish Armada sailed.
Notes and Questions.
Who tells the story of the poem?
What is the narrator's feeling for Sir John Moore? How do you know?
What impressions of Sir John Moore do you get from reading this poem?
Which stanza or stanzas do you like best? Why?
Select the lines that seem to you most beautiful and memorize them.
Which is the greater memorial, a monument of stone or bronze, or such a
poem as this? Why?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"corse"
"upbraid"
"rampart"
"random"
"bayonets"
"sullenly"
"shroud"
"rock"
"spirit"
"struggling"
"Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot"
"The struggling moonbeam"
"We bitterly thought of the morrow"
* * * * *
ABSALOM
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS
The waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low
On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still,
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse.
The reeds bent down the stream; the willow leaves,
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,
Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems,
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse,
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And leaned in graceful attitudes to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashioned for a happier world!
King David's limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem; and now he stood,
With his faint people, for a little rest,
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gathered round him on the fresh green bank,
And spoke their kindly words; and as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bowed his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh, when the heart is full--when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor, common words of courtesy
Are such an empty mockery--how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He prayed for Israel; and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those
Whose love had been his shield; and his deep tones.
Grew tremulous. But oh! for Absalom--
For his estranged, misguided Absalom--
The proud, bright being who had burst away
In all his princely beauty, to defy
The heart that cherished him--for him he poured,
In agony that would not be controlled,
Strong supplication, and forgave him there,
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.
The pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straightened for the grave; and as the folds
Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed
The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
Were floating round the tassels as they swayed
To the admitted air, as glossy now
As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing
The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters.
His helm was at his feet; his banner, soiled
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,
Reversed, beside him; and the jeweled hilt,
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow.
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,
Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he feared the slumberer might stir.
A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade
As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form
Of David entered, and he gave command,
In a low tone, to his few followers,
And left him with his dead. The King stood still
Till the last echo died; then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:
"Alas, my noble boy, that thou shouldst die!
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom?
"Cold is thy brow, my son, and I am chill
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee!
How I was wont to feel my pulses thrill,
Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee,
And hear thy sweet '_My father!_' from these dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!
"But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung--
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come
To meet me, Absalom!
"And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!
It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!
"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee;
And thy dark sin! Oh, I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My lost boy, Absalom!"
He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child; then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently, and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Nathaniel Parker Willis was born in Maine in 1806. He was a graduate of
Yale and was an early contributor to various periodicals, including the
"Youths' Companion," which magazine had been founded by his father. The
selection here given is regarded as the poet's masterpiece.
Historical: Absalom, the son of David, King of Israel, rebelled against his
father. David sent his army to put down the rebellion, but said to his
captains, "Deal gently for my sake with the young man, even with Absalom."
In spite of this entreaty, Absalom was slain by Joab, a captain in David's
army. The first forty-one lines relate to events preceding the battle, the
remainder to events following the battle. Read 2 Samuel XVIII.
Notes and Questions.
Find the Jordan on your map.
Locate the Dead Sea; the wood of Ephraim where Absalom was killed.
Describe the picture you see when you read the first stanza.
What do we call such expressions as "Night's silvery veil"?
What is night's silvery veil?
"The willow leaves with a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, Forgot the
lifting winds"--What does this mean? Why "lulling tide"?
What flowers does the poet mean in the eighth line? Is the poet true to
nature in what he says of them? Show why.
Select two words or expressions that seem to you to be especially beautiful
or fit, and tell why. Do you like the selection? Why?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"waters slept"
"melting tenderness"
"fashioned for a happier world"
"lifting winds"
"mantling blush"
"straightened for the grave"
"estranged"
"breathing sleep"
"resistless eloquence"
"bruised reed"
"still proportions"
"Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade"
* * * * *
LOCHINVAR (From "Marmion.")
SIR WALTER SCOTT
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West,--
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And, save his good broadsword, he weapons had none,--
He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Esk river, where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,
'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor, craven bridegroom said never a word),
"O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"
"I long wooed your daughter,--my suit you denied;--
Love swells like the Selway, but ebbs like its tide;
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!"
The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,--
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,
And the bridemaidens whispered, "'Twere better, by far,
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near,
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode, and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical and Historical: Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh, in 1771.
He loved the romance of Scotland's history and legends. A collection of
legendary ballads, songs, and traditions, published by him early in life
met with such immediate success that it confirmed him in his resolution to
devote himself to literary pursuits. The two selections here given, are
taken from his second metrical romance, "Marmion." Later Scott turned his
attention to prose and became the creator of the historical novel, of which
"Ivanhoe," "Kenilworth," and "Woodstock" are conspicuous examples. He died
in 1832, and lies buried in one of the most beautiful ruins in Scotland,
Dryburgh Abbey.
Notes and Questions.
Find Esk River and Solway Firth on your map.
Scott describes the tides of Solway Firth in Chapter IV of his novel,
"Redgauntlet." Compare the rhythm with that in "How They Brought the Good
News."
What impression of Lochinvar do the opening stanzas give you?
What purpose does the fourth stanza serve?
Line 20--Explain this line.
Line 46--What was the result?
What picture does the sixth stanza give you?
Which stanza do you like best?
Which lines are most pleasing?
"galliard"--a gay dance.
"scaur"--steep bank of river.
"clan"--a group of related families.
Translate into your own words: "'They'll have fleet steeds that follow,'
quoth young Lochinvar."
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"laggard"
"brake"
"bar"
"charger"
"craven"
"bonnet and plume"
"dastard"
"gallant"
* * * * *
THE PARTING OF MARMION AND DOUGLAS (From "Marmion.")
SIR WALTER SCOTT
Not far advanced was morning day,
When Marmion did his troop array,
To Surrey's camp to ride;
He had safe conduct for his band,
Beneath the royal seal and hand,
And Douglas gave a guide.
The train from out the castle drew,
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:
"Though something I might 'plain," he said,
"Of cold respect to stranger guest,
Sent hither by your king's behest,
While in Tantallon's towers I staid;
Part we in friendship from your land,
And, noble Earl, receive my hand."
But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:
"My manors, halls, and bowers shall still
Be open, at my sovereign's will,
To each one whom he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
My castles are my king's alone,
From turret to foundation stone;
The hand of Douglas is his own;
And never shall, in friendly grasp,
The hand of such as Marmion clasp."
Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire;
And "This to me," he said;
"An 'twere not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
To cleave the Douglas' head!
And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer,
He, who does England's message here,
Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate:
And, Douglas, more, I tell thee here,
Even in thy pitch of pride--
Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near,
I tell thee, thou'rt defied!
And if thou said'st, I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,
Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"
On the Earl's cheek, the flush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age:
Fierce he broke forth; "And dar'st thou then
To beard the lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall?
And hopest thou hence unscathed to go?
No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!
Up draw-bridge, grooms,--what, warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall."
Lord Marmion turned,--well was his need,
And dashed the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung;
The ponderous grate behind him rung:
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars, descending, razed his plume.
The steed along the draw-bridge flies,
Just as it trembled on the rise;
Nor lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim;
And when Lord Marmion reached his band
He halts, and turns with clinched hand
And shout of loud defiance pours,
And shook his gauntlet at the towers.
"Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!"
But soon he reined his fury's pace:
"A royal messenger he came,
Though most unworthy of the name.
Saint Mary mend my fiery mood!
Old age ne'er cools the Douglas' blood;
I thought to slay him where he stood.
'Tis pity of him, too," he cried;
"Bold he can speak, and fairly ride--
I warrant him a warrior tried."
With this his mandate he recalls,
And slowly seeks his castle halls.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Historical: Marmion, an English nobleman, is sent as an envoy by Henry the
Eighth, King of England, to James the Fourth, King of Scotland. The two
countries are on the eve of war with each other. Arriving in Edinburgh,
Marmion is entrusted by King James to the care and hospitality of Douglas,
Earl of Angus, who, taking him to his castle at Tantallon, treats him with
the respect due his position as representative of the king, but at the same
time dislikes him. The war approaching, Marmion leaves to join the English
camp. This sketch describes the leave-taking.
Notes and Questions.
In what part of the castle does this conversation take place? What tells
you?
Where are Marmion's followers during this time? Where are Douglas's
soldiery and servants? What lines tell you?
Notice how simply Marmion reminds Douglas of the claim he had upon
hospitality, while in Scotland. Lines 9 to 12.
Note the claims that have always been allowed the stranger: "And stranger
is a holy name, Guidance and rest and food and fire, In vain he never must
require."
What part of Marmion's claim does Douglas recognize? Which lines show this?
What claim does Marmion make for one "who does England's message"?
What do we call one "who do England's message" at Washington?
Is this Marmion's personal pride or pride of country (patriotism)? Read the
lines in which Marmion's personal pride shows itself in resentment of
Douglas's insults.
What does Douglas forget when he threatens Marmion? Line 69.
Which man appears to greater advantage in this scene?
"train"--procession.
"'plain"--complain.
"Tantal'lon"--Douglas's castle.
"warder"--guard.
"peer"--equal.
"peer"--a nobleman.
"Saint Bride"--a saint belonging to the house of Douglas,
"rowel"--wheel of a spur.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"pitch of pride"
"ponderous grate"
"swarthy cheek"
"flush of rage"
"level brim"
"haughty peer"
"ire"
"vassals"
"gauntlet"
"unmeet"
"hold"
* * * * *
FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT
ROBERT BURNS
Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by;
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden-gray, an a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, and a' that;
The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,
His ribband, star, and a' that;
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.
A prince can make a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, and a' that;
Their dignities, and a' that;
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, and a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
It's comin' yet, for a' that,
That man to man, the warld o'er
Shall brothers be for a' that.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical: Robert Burns was born in Ayrshire, Scotland, in 1759. His
life was short and full of poverty and privation; but he saw poetry in all
the commonplace occurrences of every-day life. His sympathy went out to all
human kind and, as the above selection shows, he had a high regard for the
real worth of man.
Notes and Questions.
Does birth or station in life determine the man?
Lines 7, 8. Explain these lines.
Lines 29-40. What do these lines mean?
In the following what is omitted? Man's (27); It's (38); o'er (39).
Why did Burns use the word "coward-slave"?
Does the poet say a man is "king of men" because he is poor?
What makes a man a king among his fellowmen?
Scotch words and their English equivalents: a'--all; wha--who; gowd--gold;
hamely--homely; hodden--gray--coarse gray cloth; gie--give; sae--so;
birkie--clever fellow; ca'd--called; coof--dunce; aboon--above; guid--good;
maunna fa'--must not try; gree--prize.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"toils obscure"
"pith o' sense"
"guinea stamp"
"ribband"
"star"
"belted knight"
* * * * *
SELECTIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE
1. MERCY
MERCHANT OF VENICE, ACT IV., SCENE I.
The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings:
But mercy is above the sceptred sway:
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute of God himself:
And earthly power doth then show likest God's,
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore,
Jew, though justice be thy plea, consider this,--
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation; we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical and Historical: William Shakespeare, the greatest of English
poets, indeed one of the greatest of the world's poets, was born in 1564 at
Stratford-on-Avon. As a young man of twenty-two, after his marriage with
Anne Hathaway, he went up to London, where he became connected with
theaters, first, tradition says, by holding horses at the doors. The next
twenty years he spent in London as an actor, and in writing poems and
plays, later becoming a shareholder as well as an actor. The last ten years
of his life were spent at Stratford, where he died at the age of fifty-two.
This was the time of Queen Elizabeth and is known as the Elizabethan Age.
It was the age richest in genius of all kinds, but especially in the
creation of dramatic literature.
In the foregoing selection, Portia, disguised as a lawyer, makes this
famous speech in pleading the cause of Antonio against Shylock.
Notes
"strained"--restrained "shows"--is the emblem of
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"temporal power"
"sceptered sway"
"Earthly power doth then show likest
God's When mercy seasons justice"
* * * * *
2. THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN
AS YOU LIKE IT, ACT II, SCENE 7.
ALL the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;
Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the Justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,--
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes
"Mewling"--squalling.
"sudden"--impetuous.
"sans"--without.
"his"--its, which was just coming into use at this time.
"formal cut"--trim, near--not shaggy as that of the soldier's,
"wise saws"--wise sayings.
"modern instances"--everyday examples, illustrations.
"strange oaths"--soldiers are proverbially profane--probably satirical
reference to the affectation of foreign oaths by soldiers who have been
abroad.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
Comparisons:
"creeping like snail"
"sighing like furnace"
"bearded like the pard"
"eyes severe"
"woeful ballad"
"mere oblivion"
"Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth"
* * * * *
3. POLONIUS'S ADVICE
HAMLET, ACT I, SCENE 3.
Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar:
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in,
Bear it, that the opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice:
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy:
For the apparel oft proclaims the man.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be:
For loan oft loses both itself and friend;
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all,--to thine own self be true;
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
"unproportioned"--not worthy or fitting the occasion.
"familiar"--courteous, friendly.
"vulgar"-unduly familiar.
"their adoption tried"--tested by long acquaintance.
"dull thy palm"--lose discrimination.
"censure"--opinion.
"expressed in fancy"--loud, ostentatious.
"husbandry"--thrift.
Put in your own words:
"Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportioned thought his act."
"Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice."
"The apparel oft proclaims the man."
"Borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry."
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"hoops of steel"
* * * * *
4. MAN
HAMLET, ACT II, SCENE 2.
What a piece of work is man!
How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties!
In form and movement, how express and admirable!
In action, how like an angel! In apprehension, how like a god!
The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"express"
"paragon"
"infinite"
"apprehension"
* * * * *
5. HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY
HAMLET, ACT III, SCENE 1.
To be or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them. To die; to sleep;
No more; and, by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep;
To sleep? Perchance to dream! ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiseover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes
"coil"--turmoil.
"respect"--consideration.
"fardels"--burdens.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"shuffled off this mortal coil"
"puzzles the will"
"native hue of resolution"
"pale cast of thought"
"great pitch and moment"
* * * * *
6. REPUTATION
OTHELLO, ACT III, SCENE 3.
Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls:
Who steals my purse, steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he, that filches from me my good name,
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"immediate jewel of their souls"
"Who steals my purse steals trash"
* * * * *
7. WOLSEY AND CROMWELL
KING HENRY VIII, ACT III, SCENE 2.
WOLSEY: Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: Today he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope; tomorrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And--when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening--nips his root;
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers, in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me, and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:
I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.--
Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And--when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of--say, I taught thee;
Say, Wolsey--that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor--
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:
By that sin fell the angels: how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty:
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not.
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,
Thy God's, and truth's; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the king;
And--Prithee, lead me in:
There take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny; 'tis the king's; my robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, is all
I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes
"This many summers"--this nineteen years.
"Like Lucifer"--See Isaiah XIV, 12.
"To play the woman"--to shed tears.
* * * * *
8. CASSIO AND IAGO
OTHELLO. ACT II. SCENE III.
_Iago_. What, are you hurt, lieutenant?
_Cassio_. Ay, past all surgery.
_Iago_. Marry, heaven forbid!
_Cas_. Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost my
reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is
bestial. My reputation, Iago, my reputation!
_Iago_. As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some bodily
wound; there is more sense in that than in reputation. Reputation is an
idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without
deserving: you have lost no reputation at all, unless you repute yourself
such a loser. What, man! there are ways to recover the general again: you
are but now cast in his mood, a punishment more in policy than in malice;
even so as one would beat his offenceless dog to affright an imperious
lion: sue to him again, and he's yours.
_Cas_. I will rather sue to be despised than to deceive so good a
commander with so slight, so drunken, and so indiscreet an officer. Drunk?
and speak parrot? and squabble? swagger? swear? and discourse fustian with
one's own shadow? O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to
be known by, let us call thee devil!
_Iago_. What was he that you followed with your sword? What had he
done to you?
_Cas_. I know not.
_Iago_. Is't possible?
_Cas_. I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly; a quarrel,
but nothing wherefore. O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths
to steal away their brains! that we should, with joy, pleasance, revel, and
applause, transform ourselves into beasts!
_Iago_. Why, but you are now well enough: how came you thus recovered?
_Cas_. It hath pleased the devil drunkenness to give place to the
devil wrath: one unperfectness shows me another, to make me frankly despise
myself.
_Iago_. Come, you are too severe a moraler: as the time, the place,
and the condition of this country stands, I could heartily wish this had
not befallen; but, since it is as it is, mend it for your own good.
_Cas_. I will ask him for my place again; he shall tell me I am a
drunkard! Had I as many mouths as Hydra, such an answer would stop them
all. To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast! O
strange! Every inordinate cup is unblessed and the ingredient is a devil.
_Iago_. Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be
well used: exclaim no more against it. And, good lieutenant, I think you
think I love you.
_Cas_. I have well approved it, sir. I drunk!
_Iago_. You or any man living may be drunk at a time, man. I'll tell
you what you shall do. Our general's wife is now the general: I may say so
in this respect, for that he hath devoted and given up himself to the
contemplation, mark, and denotement of her parts and graces: confess
yourself freely to her: importune her help to put you in your place again:
she is of so free, so kind, so apt, so blessed a disposition, she holds it
a vice in her goodness not to do more than she is requested: this broken
joint between you and her husband entreat her to splinter; and my fortunes
against any lay worth naming, this crack of your love shall grow stronger
than it was before.
_Cas_. You advise me well.
_Iago_. I protest in the sincerity of love and honest kindness.
_Cas_. I think it freely; and betimes in the morning I will beseech
the virtuous Desdemona to undertake for me: I am desperate of my fortunes
if they check me here.
_Iago_. You are in the right. Good night, lieutenant; I must to the
watch.
_Cas_. Good night, honest Iago.
HELPS TO STUDY. Notes
"marry"--an exclamation--indeed!
"cast"--dismissed.
"fustian"--empty phrasing,
"pleasance"--merriment.
"moraler"--moralizer
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"immortal part of myself"
"repute yourself"
"as many mouths as Hydra"
"crack of your love"
"false imposition"
"speak parrot"
"denotement"
"must to the watch"
* * * * *
PART II
SELECTIONS FROM GREAT AMERICAN AUTHORS
_"He cometh unto you with a tale which holdeth children from play and old
men from the chimney corner."_
--SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
* * * * *
WASHINGTON IRVING
"Washington's work is ended and the child shall be named after him," so
said the mother of Washington Irving at his birth in New York, April 3,
1783. When, six years later, all New York was enthusiastically greeting the
first President of the United States, a Scotch servant in the Irving family
followed the President into a shop with the youngest son of the family and
approaching him said, "Please, your honor, here's a bairn was named for
you." Washington, putting his hand upon the boy's head, gave him his
blessing. It seems eminently fitting that this boy, who became known as the
Father of American Letters, should write the biography of the man whose
name he bore, and whom we know as the Father of his Country.
New York was then the capital of the country, a city of about twenty-five
thousand inhabitants, small enough so that it was an easy matter for the
city boy to get into the country. New York itself retained many traces of
its Dutch origin, and upon its streets could be seen men from all parts of
the world. Here the boy grew up happy, seeing many sides of American life,
both in the city and in the country. He was fun-loving and social, and
could hardly be called a student. He greatly preferred "Robinson Crusoe"
and "Sinbad" to the construing of Latin. Best of all, he liked to go
exploring down to the water front to see the tall ships setting sail for
the other side of the world, or, as he grew older, up the Hudson and into
the Catskills, or to that very Sleepy Hollow which lives for us now because
of him. Irving liked people, and had many warm friends.
These three tastes--for people, for books, and for travel--his life was
destined to gratify. His health being delicate, he was sent abroad at
twenty-one, and the captain of the ship he sailed in, noting his fragile
appearance, said, "There's one who'll go overboard before we get across,"
but he happily proved a mistaken prophet. Irving not only survived the
voyage, but spent two years traveling in Italy, France, Sicily, and the
Netherlands. The romantic spirit strong within him eagerly absorbed
mediaeval history and tradition. "My native country was full of youthful
promise; Europe was rich in the accumulated treasures of age."
Upon his return home, Irving was admitted to the bar, but he never
seriously turned his attention to law. In 1809 he published "A History of
New York by Diedrich Knickerbocker." It was a humorous history of New
Amsterdam, a delicious mingling of sense and nonsense, over which Walter
Scott said his "sides were absolutely sore with laughing." While writing
this history a great sorrow touched his life--the death of a young girl to
whom he was deeply attached.
Ten years later, upon his second visit to Europe, Irving published "The
Sketch Book." It rapidly won favor both in England and America. Byron said
of it: "I know it by heart; at least there is not a passage that I cannot
refer to immediately." This second visit to Europe was to be a short
business trip, but as it chanced, it lasted seventeen years. The first five
years were spent in England. Later he went to Spain, and as a result of
this visit, we have a series of books dealing with Spanish history and
tradition--"The Alhambra," "The Conquest of Granada" and "The Life of
Columbus." During all these years and in all these places, he met and won
the regard of hosts of interesting people. Everyone praised his books, and
everyone liked the likable American, with his distinguished face and gentle
manners.
In 1832 Irving was gladly welcomed back to America, for many had feared
that his long absence might mean permanent residence abroad. The next ten
years were spent in his beautiful home, Sunnyside, at
Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson. Daniel Webster, Secretary of State, could find no
person more gratifying to the Spanish people, than the author of the "Life
of Columbus" and, in 1842, persuaded Irving to represent us at the Spanish
court. After four years, he returned to America and passed his time almost
exclusively in writing. The work which he finished just before his death,
in November, 1859, was the "Life of Washington." He was buried on a hill
overlooking the river and a portion of the Sleepy Hollow Valley.
Because of the ease and smoothness of his style, and his delicate sense of
form, Irving delighted his own and succeeding generations of both his
countrymen and his British cousins. All his work is pervaded by the strong
and winning personal quality that brought him the love and admiration of
all. Charles Dudley Warner says of him: "The author loved good women and
little children and a pure life; he had faith in his fellow-men, a kindly
sympathy with the lowest, without any subservience to the highest. His
books are wholesome, full of sweetness and charm, of humor without any
sting, of amusement without any stain; and their more solid qualities are
marred by neither pedantry nor pretension."
* * * * *
RIP VAN WINKLE
A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER
FROM "THE SKETCH BOOK," BY WASHINGTON IRVING
By Woden, God of Saxons,
From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday.
Truth is a thing that ever I will keep
Unto thylke day in which I creep into
My sepulchre.
--CARTWRIGHT.
The following tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich
Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in the
Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the descendants from its
primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie so much
among books as among men; for the former are lamentably scanty on his
favorite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their
wives, rich in that legendary lore so invaluable to true history. Whenever,
therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its
low-roofed farmhouse under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a
little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a
book worm. The result of all these researches was a history of the province
during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years
since. There have been various opinions as to the literary character of his
work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be.
Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little
questioned on its first appearance, but has since been completely
established; and it is now admitted into all historical collections, as a
book of unquestionable authority.
The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work, and now
that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory to say that
his time might have been much better employed in weightier labors. He,
however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way; and though it did now and
then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the
spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and
affection; yet his errors and follies are remembered "more in sorrow than
in anger," and it begins to be suspected that he never intended to injure
or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is
still held dear by many folk, whose good opinion is worth having;
particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint
his likeness on their new-year cakes; and have thus given him a chance for
immortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal, or a
Queen Anne's Farthing.
Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill
Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family,
and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height,
and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every
change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in
the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by
all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather
is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their
bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes when the rest of the
landscape is cloudless they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their
summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up
like a crown of glory.
At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the
light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among the
trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh
green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity,
having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists in the early time of the
province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter
Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there were some of the houses of
the original settlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow
bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts,
surmounted with weathercocks.
In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the
precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived many
years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a
simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a
descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous
days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort
Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of
his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured man; he
was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient henpecked husband. Indeed,
to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which
gained him such universal popularity; for those men are most apt to be
obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews
at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the
fiery furnace of domestic tribulation; and a curtain lecture is worth all
the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of patience and
long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects be
considered a tolerable blessing, and if so, rip Van Winkle was thrice
blessed.
Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the
village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all family
squabbles; and never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in
their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The
children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached.
He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly
kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and
Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a
troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a
thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at him
throughout the neighborhood.
The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion to all
kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity or
perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy
as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he
should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece
on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and
up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would
never refuse to assist a neighbor, even in the roughest toil, and was a
foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building
stone-fences; the women of the village, too, used to employ him to run
their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging
husbands would not do for them. In a word, Rip was ready to attend to
anybody's business but his own; but as to doing family duty, and keeping
his farm in order, he found it impossible.
In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was the most
pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country; everything about it
went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were
continually falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray or get among
the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere
else; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some
out-door work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled
away under his management, acre by acre, until there was little more left
than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the
worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood.
His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody.
His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit
the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen
trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of father's
cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with, one hand, as
a fine lady does her train in bad weather.
Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish,
well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown,
whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve
on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have
whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually
dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he
was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night her tongue was
incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to produce a
torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all
lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He
shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing.
This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife; so that he was
fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house--the only
side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband.
Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked as
his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness,
and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master's
going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an
honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the
woods--but what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting
terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house his crest
fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled between his legs, he
sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame
Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle he would fly
to the door with yelping precipitation.
Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled
on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only
edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long while he used to
console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual
club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village;
which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a
rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in
the shade through a long lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over village
gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have
been worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound discussions
that sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their
hands from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen to the
contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the school-master, a dapper
learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in
the dictionary; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events
some months after they had taken place.
The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a
patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he
took his seat from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid
the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the neighbors could
tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true
he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His
adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), perfectly
understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When anything that was
read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe
vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent and angry puffs; but when
pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in
light and placid clouds; and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and
letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head
in token of perfect approbation.
From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his
termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the
assemblage and call the members all to naught; nor was that august
personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this
terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her husband in
habits of idleness.
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only alternative,
to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his wife, was to take
gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat
himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with
Wolf, with whom he sympathized, as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. "Poor
Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never
mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by
thee!" Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and if
dogs can feel pity I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all
his heart.
In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously
scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill Mountains. He was
after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had
echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he
threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with
mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening
between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile
of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below
him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a
purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its
glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands.
On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, lonely,
and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs,
and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some
time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the
mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw
that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved
a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van
Winkle.
As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing,
"Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" He looked round, but could see nothing
but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his
fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard
the same cry ring through the still evening air: "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van
Winkle!"--at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low
growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen.
Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in
the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the
rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He
was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place;
but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of assistance,
he hastened down to yield it.
On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of the
stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick
bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch
fashion: a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist, several pair of breeches,
the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the
sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that
seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him
with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance,
Rip complied with his usual alacrity; and mutually relieving one another,
they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain
torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals
like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather
cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He
paused for a moment, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those
transient thunder-showers which often take place in mountain heights, he
proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small
amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of
which impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses
of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time Rip
and his companion had labored on in silence; for though the former marveled
greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild
mountain, yet there was something strange and incomprehensible about the
unknown, that inspired awe and checked familiarity.
On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented themselves.
On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking personages
playing at ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion; some
wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and
most of them had enormous breeches of similar style with that of the
guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar; one had a large beard, broad
face, and small piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist
entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off
with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and
colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old
gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet,
broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and
high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the
figures in an old Flemish painting in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the
village parson, which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the
settlement.
What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folks were
evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the
most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of
pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the
scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed
along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.
As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their
play, and stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and such
strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned within
him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents
of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the
company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in
profound silence, and then returned to their game.
By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no
eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of
the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was
soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another; and he
reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses were
overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he
fell into a deep sleep.
On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen the
old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes--it was a bright, sunny morning.
The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was
wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. "Surely," thought
Rip, "I have not slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences before
he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor--the mountain
ravine--the wild retreat among the rocks--the woe-begone party at
ninepins--the flagon--"Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!" thought
Rip--"what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?"
He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled
fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted
with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected
that the grave roisterers of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and,
having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had
disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge.
He whistled after him, and shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes
repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen.
He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and if he
met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk,
he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity.
"These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, "and if this
frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a
blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into
the glen; he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the
preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now
foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with
babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working
his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witchhazel, and
sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted their
coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his
path.
At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to
the amphitheatre; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks
presented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came tumbling
in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin, black from
the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to
a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered
by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry
tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their elevation,
seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to
be done? the morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of
his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet
his wife; but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his
head, shouldered the rusty fire-lock, and, with a heart full of trouble and
anxiety, turned his steps homeward.
As he approached the village he met a number of people, but none whom he
knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted
with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different
fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at him with
equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him,
invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture
induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he
found his beard had grown a foot long!
He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children
ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The
dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked
at him as he passed. The very village was altered; it was larger and more
populous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and
those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names
were over the doors--strange faces at the windows,--everything was strange.
His mind now misgave him; he began to doubt whether both he and the world
around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he
had left but the day before. There stood the Kaatskill Mountains--there ran
the silver Hudson at a distance--there was every hill and dale precisely as
it had always been--Rip was sorely perplexed--"That flagon last night,"
thought he, "has addled my poor head sadly!"
It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, which
he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill
voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay--the roof fallen
in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog
that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but
the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut
indeed--"My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten me!"
He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had always
kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This
desolateness overcame all his connubial fears--he called loudly for his
wife and children--the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice,
and then again all was silence.
He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn--but
it, too, was gone. A large, rickety wooden building stood in its place,
with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended with old hats and
petticoats, and over the door was painted, "The Union Hotel, by Jonathan
Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little
Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with something
on the top that looked like a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a
flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes--all this was
strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby
face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but
even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of
blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head
was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large
characters, GENERAL WASHINGTON.
There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip
recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a
busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed
phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas
Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering
clouds of tobacco-smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the
schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place
of these, a lean bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of hand
bills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of
citizens--elections--members of congress--liberty--Bunker's Hill--heroes of
seventy-six--and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the
bewildered Van Winkle.
The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled heard, his rusty
fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his
heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern-politicians. They crowded
round him, eying him from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator
bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired "on which side
he voted?" Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little
fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear,
"Whether he was Federal or Democrat?" Rip was equally at a loss to
comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a
sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right
and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van
Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes
and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an
austere tone, "what brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder
and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the
village?"--"Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor
quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God
bless him!"
Here a general shout burst from the bystanders--"A tory! a tory! a spy! a
refugee! hustle him! away with him!" It was with great difficulty that the
self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having assumed a
tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit what he
came there for, and whom he was seeking? The poor man humbly assured him
that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his
neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern.
"Well--who are they?--name them."
Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder?"
There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin,
piping voice: "Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these eighteen
years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all
about him, but that's rotten and gone too."
"Where's Brom Dutcher?"
"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he was
killed at the storming of Stony Point--others say he was drowned in a
squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know--he never came back
again."
"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?"
"He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and is now in
Congress."
Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and
friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled
him too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which
he could not understand: war--Congress--Stony Point; he had no courage to
ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, "Does nobody here
know Rip Van Winkle?"
"Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three, "Oh, to be sure! that's Rip
Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree."
Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up the
mountain: apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was
now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was
himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the
cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name?
"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm not myself--I'm somebody
else--that's me yonder--no--that's somebody else got into my shoes--I was
myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed
my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's
my name, or who I am!"
The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly,
and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper, also,
about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at
the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat
retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, comely
woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She
had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to
cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool; the old man won't hurt
you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice,
all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. "What is your name, my
good woman?" asked he.
"Judith Gardenier."
"And your father's name?"
"Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twenty years since he
went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since,--his
dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away
by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl."
Rip had but one question more to ask; and he put it with a faltering
voice:--
"Where's your mother?"
"Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a blood-vessel in a
fit of passion at a New England peddler."
There was a drop of comfort at least, in this intelligence. The honest man
could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in
his arms. "I am your father!" cried he--"Young Rip Van Winkle once--old Rip
Van Winkle now! Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?"
All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd,
put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment,
exclaimed, "Sure enough, it is Rip Van Winkle--it is himself! Welcome home
again, old neighbor--Why, where have you been these twenty long years?"
Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but
as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it; some were seen to
wink at each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks; and the
self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had
returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth and shook his
head--upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the
assemblage.
It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk,
who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the
historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the
province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well
versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He
recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most
satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down
from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill Mountains had always
been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great
Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind
of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon; being
permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a
guardian eye upon the river and the great city called by his name. That his
father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in
a hollow of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one summer
afternoon, the sound of their balls like distant peals of thunder.
To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more
important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to live
with her; she had a snug well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer
for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to
climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of
himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the
farm; but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to anything else but
his business.
Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of his former
cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time; and
preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon
grew into great favor. Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at
that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place once
more on the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the
patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times "before the
war." It was some time before he could get into the regular track of
gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had taken
place during his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war--that
the country had thrown off the yoke of old England--and that, instead of
being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen
of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of
states and empires made but little impression on him; but there was one
species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that
was--petticoat government. Happily that was at an end; he had got his neck
out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased,
without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was
mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up
his eyes, which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his
fate, or joy at his deliverance.
He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's
hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points every time he told
it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently awaked. It at
last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man,
woman, or child in the neighborhood but knew it by heart. Some always
pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of
his head, and that this was one point on which he always remained flighty.
The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full credit.
Even to this day they never hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon
about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their
game of ninepins; and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in the
neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a
quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon.
HELPS TO STUDY.
The three stages of the story are: The sleep, the return, the recognition.
Through them all personal identity remains.
Notes and Questions.
Rip Van Winkle--the man: his characteristics, habits, family.
The place: the village, the inn, the surroundings, the times.
The autumn ramble: the woods, the dog, the gun, the Hudson, the stranger,
the "ninepins" company, the flagon, the waking--the changed scenes.
The afternoon of the day, the afternoon of the year (autumn), and the
afternoon of life (old man) are chosen by the author.
What is the fitness in selecting a village near the mountains? Why choose a
village at all?
Note the civic progress of the people--the change from a royal dependency
to an independent republic.
Locate on the map the scene of this selection and tell the period in which
it occurred. Point out parts of the story that tell you when it happened.
Select descriptions in this selection that are especially pleasing.
Words and Phrases, for Discussion
"puzzled"
"peddler"
"self-important man"
"enormous"
"austere"
"vacant stupidity"
"fatigued"
"Tory"
"well-oiled disposition"
"grizzled"
"cocked hat"
"torrent of household eloquence"
"transient"
"ruby face"
"desolateness"
"gaping windows"
* * * * *
THE VOYAGE
From "The Sketch Book," by
WASHINGTON IRVING
Ships, ships, I will descrie you
Amidst the main,
I will come and try you,
What you are protecting,
And projecting,
What's your end and aim.
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading.
Another stays to keep his country from invading,
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading.
Halloo! my fancie, whither wilt thou go?
--OLD POEM.
To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to make is an
excellent preparative. The temporary absence of worldly scenes and
employments produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and
vivid impressions. The vast space of waters that separates the hemispheres
is like a blank page in existence. There is no gradual transition, by
which, as in Europe, the features and population of one country blend
almost imperceptibly with those of another. From the moment you lose sight
of the land you have left, all is vacancy until you step on the opposite
shore, and are launched at once into the bustle and novelties of another
world.
In traveling by land there is a continuity of scene and a connected
succession of persons and incidents, that carry on the story of life, and
lessen the effect of absence and separation. We drag, it is true, "a
lengthening chain," at each remove of our pilgrimage; but the chain is
unbroken: we can trace it back link by link; and we feel that the last
still grapples us to home. But a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It
makes us conscious of being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled
life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not
merely imaginary, but real, between us and our homes--a gulf subject to
tempest, and fear, and uncertainty, rendering distance palpable, and return
precarious.
Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the last blue line of my
native land fade away like a cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if I had
closed one volume of the world and its concerns, and had time for
meditation, before I opened another. That land, too, now vanishing from my
view, which contained all most dear to me in life; what vicissitudes might
occur in it--what changes might take place in me, before I should visit it
again! Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither he may be driven
by the uncertain currents of existence; or when he may return; or whether
it may ever be his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood?
I said that at sea all is vacancy; I should correct the expression. To one
given to day-dreaming, and fond of losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage
is full of subjects for meditation: but then they are the wonders of the
deep, and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from worldly
themes. I delighted to loll over the quarter-railing, or climb to the
maintop, of a calm day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom
of a summer's sea; to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering
above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, and people them with, a
creation of my own;--to watch the gentle undulating billows, rolling their
silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy shores.
There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe with which I
looked down from my giddy height, on the monsters of the deep at their
uncouth gambols. Shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship,
the grampus slowly heaving his huge form above the surface; or the ravenous
shark, darting, like a spectre, through the blue waters. My imagination
would conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery world beneath
me; of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys; of the shapeless
monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth; and of those
wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors.
Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, would be
another theme of idle speculation. How interesting this fragment of a
world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence! What a glorious
monument of human invention; which has in a manner triumphed over wind and
wave; has brought the ends of the world into communion; has established an
interchange of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of the north all
the luxuries of the south; has diffused the light of knowledge and the
charities of cultivated life; and has thus bound together those scattered
portions of the human race, between which nature seemed to have thrown an
insurmountable barrier.
We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a distance. At sea,
everything that breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse attracts
attention. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must have been
completely wrecked; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which
some of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their
being washed off by the waves. There was no trace by which the name of the
ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about for many
months; clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds
flaunted at its sides! But where, thought I, is the crew? Their struggle
has long been over--they have gone down amidst the roar of the
tempest--their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the deep. Silence,
oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the
story of their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship! what
prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home! How often has the
mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, to catch some
casual intelligence of this rover of the deep! How has expectation darkened
into anxiety--anxiety into dread--and dread into despair! Alas! not one
memento may ever return for love to cherish. All that may ever be known,
is, that she sailed from her port, "and was never heard of more!"
The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal anecdotes. This
was particularly the case in the evening, when the weather, which had
hitherto been fair, began to look wild and threatening, and gave
indications of one of those sudden storms which will sometimes break in
upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round the dull light of a
lamp in the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale
of shipwreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with a short one
related by the captain.
"As I was once sailing," said he, "in a fine stout ship across the banks of
Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs which prevail in those parts rendered
it impossible for us to see far ahead even in the daytime; but at night the
weather was so thick that we could not distinguish any object at twice the
length of the ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch
forward to look out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at
anchor on the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and we were
going at a great fate through the water. Suddenly the watch gave the alarm
of 'a sail ahead!'--it was scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She
was a small schooner, at anchor, with her broadside towards us. The crew
were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just
amidships. The force, the size, the weight of our vessel bore her down
below the waves; we passed over her and were hurried on our course. As the
crashing wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three
half-naked wretches rushing from her cabin; they just started from their
beds to be swallowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning cry
mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears swept us out of
all farther hearing. I shall never forget that cry! It was some time before
we could put the ship about, she was under such headway. We returned, as
nearly as we could guess, to the place where the smack had anchored. We
cruised about for several hours in the dense fog. We fired signal guns, and
listened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors: but all was
silent--we never saw or heard anything of them more."
I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my fine fancies. The
storm increased with the night. The sea was lashed into tremendous
confusion. There was a fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves, and broken
surges. Deep called unto deep. At times the black column of clouds overhead
seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning which quivered along the
foaming billows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The
thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed and
prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw the ship staggering and plunging
among these roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous that she regained her
balance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the water: her
bow was almost buried beneath the waves. Sometimes an impending surge
appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous movement of
the helm preserved her from the shock.
When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still followed me. The
whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded like funereal wailings.
The creaking of the masts, the straining and groaning of bulk-heads, as the
ship labored in the weltering sea, were frightful. As I heard the waves
rushing along the sides of the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed
as if Death were raging round this floating prison, seeking for his prey:
the mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him
entrance.
A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring breeze, soon put all
these dismal reflections to flight. It is impossible to resist the
gladdening influence of fine weather and fair wind at sea. When the ship is
decked out in all her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering gayly over
the curling waves, how lofty, how gallant she appears--how she seems to
lord it over the deep!
I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage, for with me it is
almost a continual reverie--but it is time to get to shore.
It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of "land!" was given
from the mast-head. None but those who have experienced it can form an idea
of the delicious throng of sensations which rush into an American's bosom,
when he first comes in sight of Europe. There is a volume of associations
with the very name. It is the land of promise, teeming with every thing of
which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years have
pondered.
From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all feverish excitement.
The ships of war, that prowled like guardian giants along the coast; the
headlands of Ireland, stretching out into the channel; the Welsh mountains,
towering into the clouds; all were objects of intense interest. As we
sailed up the Mersey I reconnoitred the shores with a telescope. My eye
dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green
grass plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and
the taper spire of a village church rising from the brow of a neighboring
hill--all were characteristic of England.
The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was enabled to come at
once to the pier. It was thronged with people; some, idle lookers-on,
others, eager expectants of friends or relatives. I could distinguish the
merchant to whom the ship was consigned. I knew him by his calculating brow
and restless air. His hands were thrust into his pockets; he was whistling
thoughtfully, and walking to and fro, a small space having been accorded
him by the crowd, in deference to his temporary importance. There were
repeated cheerings and salutations interchanged between the shore and the
ship, as friends happened to recognize each other. I particularly noticed
one young woman of humble dress, but interesting demeanor. She was leaning
forward from among the crowd; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared
the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. She seemed disappointed
and agitated; when I heard a faint voice call her name. It was from a poor
sailor who had been ill all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of
every one on board. When the weather was fine, his messmates had spread a
mattress for him on deck in the shade, but of late his illness had so
increased that he had taken to his hammock, and only breathed a wish that
he might see his wife before he died. He had been helped on deck as we came
up the river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, with a countenance
so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of
affection did not recognize him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye
darted on his features; it read, at once, a whole volume of sorrow; she
clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood wringing them in
silent agony.
All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaintances--the greetings
of friends--the consultations of men of business. I alone was solitary and
idle. I had no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the
land of my forefathers--but felt that I was a stranger in the land.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
Why did the author realize so clearly the extent of the journey he had
undertaken?
How many days do you think Irving was on the ocean?
What change has taken place in the method of ocean travel since he made
this voyage?
Find words and lines which tell you the kind of vessel in which he crossed
the ocean.
Had Irving greater opportunity for observing "the monsters of the deep"
than is afforded people crossing the ocean at the present day? Why do you
think so?
What does Irving say is a "glorious monument of human invention"?
Name some inventions which seem to you more worthy of this designation.
Find the paragraph which describes the mast of a ship that was wrecked.
How does this description compare with his description of the "monsters of
the deep"?
Which description in this selection do you like best? Why?
What do you think of Irving's powers of description?
What does this sketch tell you of Irving's own character?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"undulating billows"
"idle speculation"
"reconnoitred"
"delicious sensation"
"dread"
"abbey"
"wild phantasms"
"despair"
"anxiety"
"monument of human invention"
"prowled like guardian giants"
"light of knowledge"
"insurmountable barrier"
"dismal anecdotes"
* * * * *
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
The ancestors of Hawthorne, unlike those of most of the New England
writers, were not of the clergy, but were seamen, soldiers, and
magistrates. Concerning one of these, a judge who dealt harshly with the
Salem witches, Hawthorne writes: "I take shame upon myself for their sakes
and yet strong traits of their nature have intertwined themselves with
mine." Hawthorne was born in Salem, Massachusetts, July 4, 1804, and when
only four years old lost his father, a sea captain.
The happiest years of his boyhood were spent at his uncle's home in the
forests of Maine. Here he loved to wander through the woods, afterwards
recording carefully his observations. His early education was rather
irregular; however, for a time he had for schoolmaster, Worcester, the
author of the dictionary. At Bowdoin college his studies were largely
literary. His life at college is chiefly remarkable for the friendships
formed there. Both Franklin Pierce, who later became president of the
United States, and Longfellow, the poet, were members of his class.
After graduation in 1825, while Longfellow was traveling in many lands and
yielding himself to the charm of mediaeval history and legend, Hawthorne
drifted into a strange mode of life, virtually disappearing from the world
for a dozen years and living in actual solitude. "I have made a captive of
myself," he wrote to Longfellow, "and put me into a dungeon; and now I
cannot find the key to let myself out." But the key was found. The
appreciation of Elizabeth and Sophia Peabody and the deep affection for the
latter acted as a spur to get him into active life. At thirty-eight he
married Sophia Peabody and took up courageously enough a life of poverty
and hard literary work at Concord in the Old Manse, which had formerly been
Emerson's home. There he came to know and value the friendship of Emerson,
who we may well believe was the inspiration of the allegory of the Great
Stone Face.
In curious contradiction with his natural love for solitude, Hawthorne
became interested in the experiment of communal life and spent the year
before his marriage at Brook Farm, where a number of literary men tried to
live simply and happily by combining intellectual and manual work.
During the years of his solitude he wrote incessantly and composed many of
those sketches of the fancy which won for him his peculiar place in
literature. Many of these sketches appeared in the collection "Twice Told
Tales." For children he has written the little stories and biographies of
"Grandfather's Chair" and the story of Greek and Roman Myths in his
"Wonder-Book" and "Tanglewood Tales." Sin and the effect of guilt upon
human conduct are the problems in his great romances.
Many of our literary men have held public positions, sometimes to help out
the meager financial returns of literary work, but more often because they
would bring honor to these positions. Hawthorne successively filled the
offices of weigher and gauger in the Boston Custom House, collector of
customs at Salem, and American consul at Liverpool, having been appointed
as consul by his old friend President Pierce. After four years' residence
in England he resigned his consulship and spent several years in travel on
the continent, spending two winters in Rome. Here he conceived his "Marble
Faun," which, though given an Italian setting, embodies the same problem of
conscience that we find in his earlier "Scarlet Letter."
In June, 1860, he returned to America. He was deeply agitated by the Civil
War, the more so because his sympathies were not entirely with his Northern
friends. In May, 1864, his old friend General Pierce suggested that they
make a journey to the scenes of their college days. On their way they
stopped at Plymouth, New Hampshire, and there, early on the morning of the
nineteenth, he passed quietly away.
* * * * *
THE GREAT STONE FACE
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
One afternoon, when the sun was going down, a mother and her little boy sat
at the door of their cottage, talking about the Great Stone Face. They had
but to lift their eyes, and there it was plainly to be seen, though miles
away, with the sunshine brightening all its features.
And what was the Great Stone Face?
Embosomed amongst a family of lofty mountains, there was a valley so
spacious that it contained many thousand inhabitants. Some of these good
people dwelt in log-huts, with the black forest all around them, on the
steep and difficult hillsides. Others had their homes in comfortable
farm-houses, and cultivated the rich soil on the gentle slopes or level
surfaces of the valley. Others, again, were congregated into populous
villages, where some wild, highland rivulet, tumbling down from its
birthplace in the upper mountain region, had been caught and tamed by human
cunning, and compelled to turn the machinery of cotton-factories. The
inhabitants of this valley, in short, were numerous, and of many modes of
life. But all of them, grown people and children, had a kind of familiarity
with the Great Stone Face, although some possessed the gift of
distinguishing this grand natural phenomenon more perfectly than many of
their neighbors.
The Great Stone Face, then, was a work of Nature in her mood of majestic
playfulness, formed on the perpendicular side of a mountain by some immense
rocks, which had been thrown together in such a position as, when viewed at
a proper distance, precisely to resemble the features of the human
countenance. It seemed as if an enormous giant, or a Titan, had sculptured
his own likeness on the precipice. There was the broad arch of the
forehead, a hundred feet in height; the nose, with its long bridge; and the
vast lips, which, if they could have spoken, would have rolled their
thunder accents from one end of the valley to the other. True it is, that
if the spectator approached too near, he lost the outline of the gigantic
visage, and could discern only a heap of ponderous and gigantic rocks,
piled in chaotic ruin one upon another. Retracing his steps, however, the
wondrous features would again be seen; and the farther he withdrew from
them, the more like a human face, with all its original divinity intact,
did they appear; until, as it grew dim in the distance, with the clouds and
glorified vapor of the mountains clustering about it, the Great Stone Face
seemed positively to be alive.
It was a happy lot for children to grow up to manhood or womanhood with the
Great Stone Face before their eyes, for all the features were noble, and
the expression was at once grand and sweet, as if it were the glow of a
vast, warm heart, that embraced all mankind in its affections, and had room
for more. It was an education only to look at it. According to the belief
of many people, the valley owed much of its fertility to this benign aspect
that was continually beaming over it, illuminating the clouds, and infusing
its tenderness into the sunshine.
As we began with saying, a mother and her little boy sat at their
cottage-door, gazing at the Great Stone Face, and talking about it. The
child's name was Ernest.
"Mother," said he, while the Titanic visage smiled on him, "I wish that it
could speak, for it looks so very kindly that its voice must needs be
pleasant. If I were to see a man with such a face, I should love him
dearly."
"If an old prophecy should come to pass," answered his mother, "we may see
a man, some time or other, with exactly such a face as that."
"What prophecy do you mean, dear mother?" eagerly inquired Ernest. "Pray
tell me all about it!"
So his mother told him a story that her own mother had told to her, when
she herself was younger than little Ernest; a story, not of things that
were past, but of what was yet to come; a story, nevertheless, so very old,
that even the Indians, who formerly inhabited this valley, had heard it
from their forefathers, to whom, as they affirmed, it had been murmured by
the mountain streams, and whispered by the wind among the tree-tops. The
purport was, that, at some future day, a child should be born hereabouts,
who was destined to become the greatest and noblest personage of his time,
and whose countenance, in manhood, should bear an exact resemblance to the
Great Stone Face. Not a few old-fashioned people, and young ones likewise,
in the ardor of their hopes, still cherished an enduring faith in this old
prophecy. But others, who had seen more of the world, had watched and
waited till they were weary, and had beheld no man with such a face, nor
any man that proved to be much greater or nobler than his neighbors,
concluded it to be nothing but an idle tale. At all events, the great man
of the prophecy had not yet appeared.
"O mother, dear mother!" cried Ernest, clapping his hands above his head,
"I do hope that I shall live to see him!"
His mother was an affectionate and thoughtful woman, and felt that it was
wisest not to discourage the generous hopes of her little boy. So she only
said to him, "Perhaps you may."
And Ernest never forgot the story that his mother told him. It was always
in his mind, whenever he looked upon the Great Stone Face. He spent his
childhood in the log-cottage where he was born, and was dutiful to his
mother, and helpful to her in many things, assisting her much with his
little hands, and more with his loving heart. In this manner, from a happy
yet often pensive child, he grew up to be a mild, quiet, unobtrusive boy,
and sun-browned with labor in the fields, but with more intelligence
brightening his aspect than is seen in many lads who have been taught at
famous schools. Yet Ernest had had no teacher, save only that the Great
Stone Face became one to him. When the toil of the day was over, he would
gaze at it for hours, until he began to imagine that those vast features
recognized him, and gave him a smile of kindness and encouragement,
responsive to his own look of veneration. We must not take upon us to
affirm that this was a mistake, although the Face may have looked no more
kindly at Ernest than at all the world besides. But the secret was that the
boy's tender and confiding simplicity discerned what other people could not
see; and thus the love, which was meant for all, became his peculiar
portion.
About this time there went a rumor throughout the valley, that the great
man, foretold from ages long ago, who was to bear a resemblance to the
Great Stone Face, had appeared at last. It seems that, many years before, a
young man had migrated from the valley and settled at a distant seaport,
where, after getting together a little money, he had set up as a
shopkeeper. His name--but I could never learn whether it was his real one,
or a nickname that had grown out of his habits and success in life--was
Gathergold. Being shrewd and active, and endowed by Providence with that
inscrutable faculty which develops itself in what the world calls luck, he
became an exceedingly rich merchant, and owner of a whole fleet of
bulky-bottomed ships. All the countries of the globe appeared to join hands
for the mere purpose of adding heap after heap to the mountainous
accumulation of this one man's wealth. The cold regions of the north,
almost within the gloom and shadow of the Arctic Circle, sent him their
tribute in the shape of furs; hot Africa sifted for him the golden sands of
her rivers, and gathered up the ivory tusks of her great elephants out of
the forests; the East came bringing him the rich shawls, and spices, and
teas, and the effulgence of diamonds, and the gleaming purity of large
pearls. The ocean, not to be behindhand with the earth, yielded up her
mighty whales, that Mr. Gathergold might sell their oil, and make a profit
on it. Be the original commodity what it might, it was gold within his
grasp. It might be said of him, as of Midas in the fable, that whatever he
touched with his finger immediately glistened, and grew yellow, and was
changed at once into sterling metal, or, which suited him still better,
into piles of coin. And, when Mr. Gathergold had become so very rich that
it would have taken him a hundred years only to count his wealth, he
bethought himself of his native valley, and resolved to go back thither,
and end his days where he was born. With this purpose in view, he sent a
skilful architect to build him such a palace as should be fit for a man of
his vast wealth to live in.
As I have said above, it had already been rumored in the valley that Mr.
Gathergold had turned out to be the prophetic personage so long and vainly
looked for, and that his visage was the perfect and undeniable similitude
of the Great Stone Face. People were the more ready to believe that this
must needs be the fact, when they beheld the splendid edifice that rose, as
if by enchantment, on the site of his father's old weather-beaten
farm-house. The exterior was of marble, so dazzlingly white that it seemed
as though the whole structure might melt away in the sunshine, like those
humbler ones which Mr. Gathergold, in his young play-days, before his
fingers were gifted with the touch of transmutation, had been accustomed to
build of snow. It had a richly ornamented portico, supported by tall
pillars, beneath which was a lofty door, studded with silver knobs, and
made of a kind of variegated wood that had been brought from beyond the
sea. The windows, from the floor to the ceiling of each stately apartment,
were composed, respectively, of but one enormous pane of glass, so
transparently pure that it was said to be a finer medium than even the
vacant atmosphere. Hardly anybody had been permitted to see the interior of
this palace; but it was reported, and with good semblance of truth, to be
far more gorgeous than the outside, insomuch that whatever was iron or
brass in other houses was silver or gold in this; and Mr. Gathergold's
bedchamber, especially, made such a glittering appearance that no ordinary
man would have been able to close his eyes there. But, on the other hand,
Mr. Gathergold was now so inured to wealth, that perhaps he could not have
closed his eyes unless where the gleam of it was certain to find its way
beneath his eyelids.
In due time, the mansion was finished; next came the upholsterers, with
magnificent furniture; then, a whole troop of black and white servants, the
harbingers of Mr. Gathergold, who, in his own majestic person, was expected
to arrive at sunset. Our friend Ernest, meanwhile, had been deeply stirred
by the idea that the great man, the noble man, the man of prophecy, after
so many ages of delay, was at length to be made manifest to his native
valley. He knew, boy as he was, that there were a thousand ways in which
Mr. Gathergold, with his vast wealth, might transform himself into an angel
of beneficence, and assume a control over human affairs as wide and
benignant as the smile of the Great Stone Face. Full of faith and hope,
Ernest doubted not that what the people said was true, and that now he was
to behold the living likeness of those wondrous features on the
mountain-side. While the boy was still gazing up the valley, and fancying,
as he always did, that the Great Stone Face returned his gaze and looked
kindly at him, the rumbling of wheels was heard, approaching swiftly along
the winding road.
"Here he comes!" cried a group of people who were assembled to witness the
arrival. "Here comes the great Mr. Gathergold!" A carriage, drawn by four
horses, dashed round the turn of the road. Within it, thrust partly out of
the window, appeared the physiognomy of the old man, with a skin as yellow
as if his own Midas-hand had transmuted it. He had a low forehead, small,
sharp eyes, puckered about with innumerable wrinkles, and very thin lips,
which he made still thinner by pressing them forcibly together.
"The very image of the Great Stone Face!" shouted the people. "Sure enough,
the old prophecy is true; and here we have the great man come, at last!"
And, what greatly perplexed Ernest, they seemed actually to believe that
here was the likeness which they spoke of. By the roadside there chanced to
be an old beggar-woman and two little beggar-children, stragglers from some
far-off region, who, as the carriage rolled onward, held out their hands
and lifted up their doleful voices, most piteously beseeching charity. A
yellow claw--the very same that had clawed together so much wealth--poked
itself out of the coach-window, and dropt some copper coins upon the
ground; so that, though the great man's name seems to have been Gathergold,
he might just as suitably have been nicknamed Scattercopper. Still,
nevertheless, with an earnest shout, and evidently with as much good faith
as ever, the people bellowed,--
"He is the very image of the Great Stone Pace!"
But Ernest turned sadly from the wrinkled shrewdness of that sordid visage,
and gazed up the valley, where, amid a gathering mist, gilded by the last
sun beams, he could still distinguish those glorious features which had
impressed themselves into his soul. Their aspect cheered him. What did the
benign lips seem to say?
"He will come! Fear not, Ernest; the man will come!"
The years went on, and Ernest ceased to be a boy. He had grown, to be a
young man now. He attracted little notice from the other inhabitants of the
valley; for they saw nothing remarkable in his way of life, save that, when
the labor of the day was over, he still loved to go apart and gaze and
meditate upon the Great Stone Face. According to their idea of the matter,
it was a folly, indeed, but pardonable, inasmuch as Ernest was industrious,
kind, and neighborly, and neglected no duty for the sake of indulging this
idle habit. They knew not that the Great Stone Face had become a teacher to
him, and that the sentiment which was expressed in it would enlarge the
young man's heart, and fill it with wider and deeper sympathies than other
hearts. They knew not that thence would come a better wisdom than could be
learned from books, and a better life than could be moulded on the defaced
example of other human lives. Neither did Ernest know that the thoughts and
affections which came to him so naturally, in the fields and at the
fireside, and wherever he communed with himself, were of a higher tone than
those which all men shared with him. A simple soul,--simple as when his
mother first taught him the old prophecy,--he beheld the marvelous features
beaming adown the valley, and still wondered that their human counterpart
was so long in making his appearance.
By this time poor Mr. Gathergold was dead and buried; and the oddest part
of the matter was, that his wealth, which was the body and spirit of his
existence, had disappeared before his death, leaving nothing of him but a
living skeleton, covered over with a wrinkled, yellow skin. Since the
melting away of his gold, it had been very generally conceded that there
was no such striking resemblance, after all, betwixt the ignoble features
of the ruined merchant and that majestic face upon the mountainside. So the
people ceased to honor him during his lifetime, and quietly consigned him
to forgetfulness after his decease. Once in a while, it is true, his memory
was brought up in connection with the magnificent palace which he had
built, and which had long ago been turned into a hotel for the
accommodation of strangers, multitudes of whom came, every summer, to visit
that famous natural curiosity, the Great Stone Face. Thus, Mr. Gathergold
being discredited and thrown into the shade, the man of prophecy was yet to
come.
It so happened that a native-born son of the valley, many years before, had
enlisted as a soldier, and, after a great deal of hard fighting, had now
become an illustrious commander. Whatever he may be called in history, he
was known in camps and on the battle-field under the nickname of Old
Blood-and-Thunder. This war-worn veteran, being now infirm with age and
wounds, and weary of the turmoil of a military life, and of the roll of the
drum and the clangor of the trumpet, that had so long been ringing in his
ears, had lately signified a purpose of returning to his native valley,
hoping to find repose where he remembered to have left it. The inhabitants,
his old neighbors and their grown-up children, were resolved to welcome the
renowned warrior with a salute of cannon and a public dinner; and all the
more enthusiastically, it being affirmed that now, at last, the likeness of
the Great Stone Face had actually appeared. An aid-de-camp of Old
Blood-and-Thunder, traveling through the valley, was said to have been
struck with the resemblance. Moreover the schoolmates and early
acquaintances of the general were ready to testify, on oath, that, to the
best of their recollection, the aforesaid general had been exceedingly like
the majestic image, even when a boy, only that the idea had never occurred
to them at that period. Great, therefore, was the excitement throughout the
valley; and many people, who had never once thought of glancing at the
Great Stone Face for years before, now spent their time in gazing at it,
for the sake of knowing exactly how General Blood-and-Thunder looked.
On the day of the great festival, Ernest, with all the other people of the
valley, left their work, and proceeded to the spot where the sylvan banquet
was prepared. As he approached, the loud voice of the Rev. Dr. Battleblast
was heard, beseeching a blessing on the good things set before them, and on
the distinguished friend of peace in whose honor they were assembled. The
tables were arranged in a cleared space of the woods, shut in by the
surrounding trees, except where a vista opened eastward, and afforded a
distant view of the Great Stone Face. Over the general's chair, which was a
relic from the home of Washington, there was an arch of verdant boughs,
with the laurel profusely intermixed, and surmounted by his country's
banner, beneath which he had won his victories. Our friend Ernest raised
himself on his tiptoes, in hopes to get a glimpse of the celebrated guest;
but there was a mighty crowd about the tables anxious to hear the toasts
and speeches, and to catch any word that might fall from the general in
reply; and a volunteer company, doing duty as a guard, pricked ruthlessly
with their bayonets at any particularly quiet person among the throng. So
Ernest, being of an unobtrusive character, was thrust quite into the
background, where he could see no more of Old Blood-and-Thunder's
physiognomy than if it had been still blazing on the battle-field. To
console himself, he turned towards the Great Stone Face, which, like a
faithful and long-remembered friend, looked back and smiled upon him
through the vista of the forest. Meanwhile, however, he could overhear the
remarks of various individuals, who were comparing the features of the hero
with the face on the distant mountain-side.
"'Tis the same face, to a hair!" cried one man, cutting a caper for joy.
"Wonderfully like, that's a fact!" responded another.
"Like! why, I call it Old Blood-and-Thunder himself, in a monstrous
looking-glass!" cried a third. "And why not? He's the greatest man of this
or any other age, beyond a doubt."
And then all three of the speakers gave a great shout, which communicated
electricity to the crowd, and called forth a roar from a thousand voices,
that went reverberating for miles among the mountains, until you might have
supposed that the Great Stone Face had poured its thunder-breath into the
cry. All these comments, and this vast enthusiasm, served the more to
interest our friend; nor did he think of questioning that now, at length,
the mountain-visage had found its human counterpart. It is true, Ernest had
imagined that this long-looked-for personage would appear in the character
of a man of peace, uttering wisdom, and doing good, and making people
happy. But, taking an habitual breadth of view, with all his simplicity, he
contended that Providence should choose its own method of blessing mankind,
and could conceive that this great end might be effected even by a warrior
and a bloody sword, should inscrutable wisdom see fit to order matters so.
"The general! the general!" was now the cry. "Hush! silence! Old
Blood-and-Thunder's going to make a speech."
Even so; for, the cloth being removed, the general's health had been drunk,
amid shouts of applause, and he now stood upon his feet to thank the
company. Ernest saw him. There he was, over the shoulders of the crowd,
from the two glittering epaulets and embroidered collar upward, beneath the
arch of green boughs with intertwined laurel, and the banner drooping as if
to shade his brow! And there, too, visible in the same glance, through the
vista of the forest, appeared the Great Stone Face! And was there, indeed,
such a resemblance as the crowd had testified? Alas, Ernest could not
recognize it! He beheld a war-worn and weather-beaten countenance, full of
energy, and expressive of an iron will; but the gentle wisdom, the deep,
broad, tender sympathies, were altogether wanting in Old
Blood-and-Thunder's visage; and even if the Great Stone Face had assumed
his look of stern command, the milder traits would still have tempered it.
"This is not the man of prophecy," sighed Ernest to himself, as he made his
way out of the throng. "And must the world wait longer yet?"
The mists had congregated about the distant mountain-side, and there were
seen the grand and awful features of the Great Stone Face, awful but
benignant, as if a mighty angel were sitting among the hills, and enrobing
himself in a cloud-vesture of gold and purple. As he looked, Ernest could
hardly believe but that a smile beamed over the whole visage, with a
radiance still brightening, although without motion of the lips. It was
probably the effect of the western sunshine, melting through the thinly
diffused vapors that had swept between him and the object that he gazed at.
But--as it always did--the aspect of his marvelous friend made Ernest as
hopeful as if he had never hoped in vain.
"Fear not, Ernest," said his heart, even as if the Great Face were
whispering him,--"fear not, Ernest; he will come." More years sped swiftly
and tranquilly away. Ernest still dwelt in his native valley, and was now a
man of middle age. By imperceptible degrees, he had become known among the
people. Now, as heretofore, he labored for his bread, and was the same
simple-hearted man that he had always been. But he had thought and felt so
much, he had given so many of the best hours of his life to unworldly hopes
for some great good to mankind, that it seemed as though he had been
talking with the angels, and had imbibed a portion of their wisdom
unawares. It was visible in the calm and well-considered beneficence of his
daily life, the quiet stream of which had made a wide green margin all
along its course. Not a day passed by, that the world was not the better
because this man, humble as he was, had lived. He never stepped aside from
his own path, yet would always reach a blessing to his neighbor. Almost
involuntarily, too, he had become a preacher. The pure and high simplicity
of his thought, which, as one of its manifestations, took shape in the good
deeds that dropped silently from his hand, flowed also forth in speech. He
uttered truths that wrought upon and moulded the lives of those who heard
him. His auditors, it may be, never suspected that Ernest, their own
neighbor and familiar friend, was more than an ordinary man; least of all
did Ernest himself suspect it; but, inevitably as the murmur of a rivulet,
came thoughts out of his mouth that no other human lips had spoken.
When the people's minds had had a little time to cool, they were ready
enough to acknowledge their mistake in imagining a similarity between
General Blood-and-Thunder's truculent physiognomy and the benign visage on
the mountain-side. But now, again, there were reports and many paragraphs
in the newspapers, affirming that the likeness of the Great Stone Face had
appeared upon the broad shoulders of a certain eminent statesman. He, like
Mr. Gathergold and Old Blood-and-Thunder, was a native of the valley, but
had left it in his early days, and taken up the trades of law and politics.
Instead of the rich man's wealth and the warrior's sword, he had but a
tongue, and it was mightier than both together. So wonderfully eloquent was
he, that whatever he might choose to say, his auditors had no choice but to
believe him; wrong looked like right, and right like wrong; for when it
pleased him, he could make a kind of illuminated fog with his mere breath,
and obscure the natural daylight with it. His tongue, indeed, was a magic
instrument: sometimes it rumbled like the thunder; sometimes it warbled
like the sweetest music. It was the blast of war,--the song of peace; and
it seemed to have a heart in it, when there was no such matter. In good
truth, he was a wondrous man; and when his tongue had acquired him all
other imaginable success,--when it had been heard in halls of state, and in
the courts of princes and potentates,--after it had made him known all over
the world, even as a voice crying from shore to shore,--it finally
persuaded his countrymen to select him for the Presidency. Before this
time,--indeed, as soon as he began to grow celebrated,--his admirers had
found out the resemblance between him and the Great Stone Face; and so much
were they struck by it, that throughout the country this distinguished
gentleman was known by the name of Old Stony Phiz. The phrase was
considered as giving a highly favorable aspect to his political prospects;
for, as is likewise the case with the Popedom, nobody ever becomes
President without taking a name other than his own.
While his friends were doing their best to make him President, Old Stony
Phiz, as he was called, set out on a visit to the valley where he was born.
Of course, he had no other object than to shake hands with his fellow
citizens, and neither thought nor cared about any effect which his progress
through the country might have upon the election. Magnificent preparations
were made to receive the illustrious statesman; a cavalcade of horsemen set
forth to meet him at the boundary line of the State, and all the people
left their business and gathered along the wayside to see him pass. Among
these was Ernest. Though more than once disappointed, as we have seen, he
had such a hopeful and confiding nature, that he was always ready to
believe in whatever seemed beautiful and good. He kept his heart
continually open, and thus was sure to catch the blessing from on high when
it should come. So now again, as buoyantly as ever, he went forth to behold
the likeness of the Great Stone Face. The cavalcade came prancing along the
road, with a great clattering of hoofs and a mighty cloud of dust, which
rose up so dense and high that the visage of the mountain-side was
completely hidden from Ernest's eyes. All the great men of the neighborhood
were there on horseback; militia officers, in uniform; the member of
Congress; the sheriff of the county; the editors of newspapers; and many a
farmer, too, had mounted his patient steed, with his Sunday coat upon his
back. It really was a very brilliant spectacle, especially as there were
numerous banners flaunting over the cavalcade, on some of which were
gorgeous portraits of the illustrious statesman and the Great Stone Face,
smiling familiarly at one another, like two brothers. If the pictures were
to be trusted, the mutual resemblance, it must be confessed, was marvelous.
We must not forget to mention that there was a band of music, which made
the echoes of the mountains ring and reverberate with the loud triumph of
its strains; so that airy and soul-thrilling melodies broke out among all
the heights and hollows, as if every nook of his native valley had found a
voice, to welcome the distinguished guest. But the grandest effect was when
the far-off mountain precipice flung back the music; for then the Great
Stone Face itself seemed to be swelling the triumphant chorus, in
acknowledgment that, at length, the man of prophecy was come.
All this while the people were throwing up their hats and shouting with
enthusiasm so contagious that the heart of Ernest kindled up, and he
likewise threw up his hat, and shouted, as loudly as the loudest, "Huzza
for the great man! Huzza for Old Stony Phiz!" But as yet he had not seen
him.
"Here he is, now!" cried those who stood near Ernest. "There! There! Look
at Old Stony Phiz and then at the Old Man of the Mountain, and see if they
are not as like as two twin-brothers!"
In the midst of all this gallant array came an open barouche, drawn by four
white horses; and in the barouche, with his massive head uncovered, sat the
illustrious statesman, Old Stony Phiz himself.
"Confess it," said one of Ernest's neighbors to him, "the Great Stone Face
has met its match at last!"
Now, it must be owned that, at his first glimpse of the countenance which
was bowing and smiling from the barouche, Ernest did fancy that there was a
resemblance between it and the old familiar face upon the mountain-side.
The brow, with its massive depth and loftiness, and all the other features,
indeed, were boldly and strongly hewn, as if in emulation of a more than
heroic, of a Titanic model. But the sublimity and stateliness, the grand
expression of a divine sympathy, that illuminated the mountain visage and
etherealized its ponderous granite substance into spirit, might here be
sought in vain. Something had been originally left out, or had departed.
And therefore the marvelously gifted statesman had always a weary gloom in
the deep caverns of his eyes, as of a child that has outgrown its
playthings or a man of mighty faculties and little aims, whose life, with
all its high performances, was vague and empty, because no high purpose had
endowed it with reality.
Still, Ernest's neighbor was thrusting his elbow into his side, and
pressing him for an answer.
"Confess! confess! Is not he the very picture of your Old Man of the
Mountain?"
"No!" said Ernest, bluntly, "I see little or no likeness."
"Then so much the worse for the Great Stone Face!" answered his neighbor;
and again he set up a shout for Old Stony Phiz.
But Ernest turned away, melancholy, and almost despondent: for this was the
saddest of his disappointments, to behold a man who might have fulfilled
the prophecy, and had not willed to do so. Meantime, the cavalcade, the
banners, the music, and the barouches swept past him, with the vociferous
crowd in the rear, leaving the dust to settle down, and the Great Stone
Face to be revealed again, with the grandeur that it had worn for untold
centuries.
"Lo, here I am, Ernest!" the benign lips seemed to say. "I have waited
longer than thou, and am not yet weary. Fear not; the man will come."
The years hurried onward, treading in their haste on one another's heels.
And now they began to bring white hairs, and scatter them over the head of
Ernest; they made reverend wrinkles across his forehead, and furrows in his
cheeks. He was an aged man. But not in vain had he grown old: more than the
white hairs on his head were the sage thoughts in his mind; his wrinkles
and furrows were inscriptions that Time had graved, and in which he had
written legends of wisdom that had been tested by the tenor of a life. And
Ernest had ceased to be obscure. Unsought for, undesired, had come the fame
which so many seek, and made him known in the great world, beyond the
limits of the valley in which he had dwelt so quietly. College professors,
and even the active men of cities, came from far to see and converse with
Ernest; for the report had gone abroad that this simple husbandman had
ideas unlike those of other men, not gained from books, but of a higher
tone,--a tranquil and familiar majesty, as if he had been talking with the
angels as his daily friends. Whether it were sage, statesman, or
philanthropist, Ernest received these visitors with the gentle sincerity
that had characterized him from boyhood, and spoke freely with them of
whatever came uppermost, or lay deepest in his heart or their own. While
they talked together, his face would kindle, unawares, and shine upon them,
as with a mild evening light. Pensive with the fulness of such discourse,
his guests took leave and went their way; and passing up the valley, paused
to look at the Great Stone Face, imagining that they had seen its likeness
in a human countenance, but could not remember where.
While Ernest had been growing up and growing old, a bountiful Providence
had granted a new poet to this earth. He, likewise, was a native of the
valley, but had spent the greater part of his life at a distance from that
romantic region, pouring out his sweet music amid the bustle and din of
cities. Often, however, did the mountains which had been familiar to him in
his childhood lift their snowy peaks into the clear atmosphere of his
poetry. Neither was the Great Stone Face forgotten, for the poet had
celebrated it in an ode, which was grand enough to have been uttered by its
own majestic lips. This man of genius, we may say, had come down from
heaven with wonderful endowments. If he sang of a mountain, the eyes of all
mankind beheld a mightier grandeur reposing on its breast, or soaring to
its summit, than had before been seen there. If his theme were a lovely
lake, a celestial smile had now been thrown over it, to gleam forever on
its surface. If it were the vast old sea, even the deep immensity of its
dread bosom seemed to swell the higher, as if moved by the emotions of the
song. Thus the world assumed another and a better aspect from the hour that
the poet blessed it with his happy eyes. The Creator had bestowed him, as
the last best touch to his own handiwork. Creation was not finished till
the poet came to interpret, and so complete it.
The effect was no less high and beautiful, when his human brethren were the
subject of his verse. The man or woman, sordid with the common dust of
life, who crossed his daily path, and the little child who played in it,
were glorified if he beheld them in his mood of poetic faith. He showed the
golden links of the great chain that intertwined them with an angelic
kindred; he brought out the hidden traits of a celestial birth that made
them worthy of such kin. Some, indeed, there were, who thought to show the
soundness of their judgment by affirming that all the beauty and dignity of
the natural world existed only in the poet's fancy. Let such men speak for
themselves, who undoubtedly appear to have been spawned forth by Nature
with a contemptuous bitterness; she having plastered them up out of her
refuse stuff, after all the swine were made. As respects all things else,
the poet's ideal was the truest truth.
The songs of this poet found their way to Ernest. He read them after his
customary toil, seated on the bench before his cottage-door, where for such
a length of time he had filled his repose with thought, by gazing at the
Great Stone Face. And now as he read stanzas that caused the soul to thrill
within him, he lifted his eyes to the vast countenance beaming on him so
benignantly.
"O majestic friend," he murmured, addressing the Great Stone Face, "is not
this man worthy to resemble thee?"
The Face seemed to smile, but answered not a word.
Now it happened that the poet, though he dwelt so far away, had not only
heard of Ernest, but had meditated much upon his character, until he deemed
nothing so desirable as to meet this man, whose untaught wisdom walked hand
in hand with the noble simplicity of his life. One summer morning,
therefore, he took passage by the railroad, and, in the decline of the
afternoon, alighted from the cars at no great distance from Ernest's
cottage. The great hotel, which had formerly been the palace of Mr.
Gathergold, was close at hand, but the poet, with his carpetbag on his arm,
inquired at once where Ernest dwelt, and was resolved to be accepted as his
guest.
Approaching the door, he there found the good old man, holding a volume in
his hand, which alternately he read, and then, with a finger between the
leaves, looked lovingly at the Great Stone Face.
"Good evening," said the poet. "Can you give a traveler a night's lodging?"
"Willingly," answered Ernest; and then he added, smiling, "Methinks I never
saw the Great Stone Face look so hospitably at a stranger."
The poet sat down on the bench beside him, and he and Ernest talked
together. Often had the poet held intercourse with the wittiest and the
wisest, but never before with a man like Ernest, whose thoughts and
feelings gushed up with such a natural freedom, and who made great truths
so familiar by his simple utterance of them. Angels, as had been so often
said, seemed to have wrought with him at his labor in the fields; angels
seemed to have sat with him by the fireside; and, dwelling with angels as
friend with friends, he had imbibed the sublimity of their ideas, and
imbued it with the sweet and lowly charm of household words. So thought the
poet. And Ernest, on the other hand, was moved and agitated by the living
images which the poet flung out of his mind, and which peopled all the air
about the cottage-door with shapes of beauty, both gay and pensive. The
sympathies of these two men instructed them with a profounder sense than
either could have attained alone. Their minds accorded into one strain, and
made delightful music which neither of them could have claimed as all his
own, nor distinguished his own share from the other's. They led one
another, as it were, into a high pavilion of their thoughts, so remote, and
hitherto so dim, that they had never entered it before, and so beautiful
that they desired to be there always.
As Ernest listened to the poet, he imagined that the Great Stone Face was
bending forward to listen too. He gazed earnestly into the poet's glowing
eyes.
"Who are you, my strangely gifted guest?" he said. The poet laid his finger
on the volume that Ernest had been reading.
"You have read these poems," said he. "You know me, then,--for I wrote
them."
Again, and still more earnestly than before, Ernest examined the poet's
features; then turned towards the Great Stone Face; then back, with an
uncertain aspect, to his guest. But his countenance fell; he shook his
head, and sighed.
"Wherefore are you sad?" inquired the poet.
"Because," replied Ernest, "all through life I have awaited the fulfilment
of a prophecy; and, when I read these poems, I hoped that it might be
fulfilled in you."
"You hoped," answered the poet, faintly smiling, "to find in me the
likeness of the Great Stone Face. And you are disappointed, as formerly
with Mr. Gathergold, and Old Blood-and-Thunder, and Old Stony Phiz. Yes,
Ernest, it is my doom. You must add my name to the illustrious three, and
record another failure of your hopes. For--in shame and sadness do I speak
it, Ernest--I am not worthy to be typified by yonder benign and majestic
image."
"And why?" asked Ernest. He pointed to the volume. "Are not those thoughts
divine?"
"They have a strain of the Divinity," replied the poet. "You can hear in
them the far-off echo of a heavenly song. But my life, dear Ernest, has not
corresponded with my thought. I have had grand dreams, but they have been
only dreams, because I have lived--and that, too, by my own choice--among
poor and mean realities. Sometimes even--shall I dare to say it?--I lack
faith in the grandeur, the beauty, and the goodness, which my own works are
said to have made more evident in nature and in human life. Why, then, pure
seeker of the good and true, shouldst thou hope to find me, in yonder image
of the divine?"
The poet spoke sadly, and his eyes were dim with tears. So, likewise, were
those of Ernest.
At the hour of sunset, as had long been his frequent custom, Ernest was to
discourse to an assemblage of the neighboring inhabitants in the open air.
He and the poet, arm in arm, still talking together as they went along,
proceeded to the spot. It was a small nook among the hills, with a gray
precipice behind, the stern front of which was relieved by the pleasant
foliage of many creeping plants that made a tapestry for the naked rock, by
hanging their festoons from all its rugged angles. At a small elevation
above the ground, set in a rich framework of verdure, there appeared a
niche, spacious enough to admit a human figure, with freedom for such
gestures as spontaneously accompany earnest thought and genuine emotion.
Into this natural pulpit Ernest ascended, and threw a look of familiar
kindness around upon his audience. They stood, or sat, or reclined upon the
grass, as seemed good to each, with the departing sunshine falling
obliquely over them, and mingling its subdued cheerfulness with the
solemnity of a grove of ancient trees, beneath and amid the boughs of which
the golden rays were constrained to pass. In another direction was seen the
Great Stone Face, with the same cheer, combined with the same solemnity, in
its benignant aspect.
Ernest began to speak, giving to the people of what was in his heart and
mind. His words had power, because they accorded with his thoughts; and his
thoughts had reality and depth, because they harmonized with the life which
he had always lived. It was not mere breath that this preacher uttered;
they were the words of life, because a life of good deeds and holy love was
melted into them. Pearls, pure and rich, had been dissolved into this
precious draught. The poet, as he listened, felt that the being and
character of Ernest were a nobler strain of poetry than he had ever
written. His eyes glistening with tears, he gazed reverentially at the
venerable man, and said within himself that never was there an aspect so
worthy of a prophet and a sage as that mild, sweet, thoughtful countenance,
with the glory of white hair diffused about it. At a distance, but
distinctly to be seen, high up in the golden light of the setting sun,
appeared the Great Stone Face, with hoary mists around it, like the white
hairs around the brow of Ernest. Its look of grand beneficence seemed to
embrace the world.
At that moment, in sympathy with a thought which he was about to utter, the
face of Ernest assumed a grandeur of expression, so imbued with
benevolence, that the poet, by an irresistible impulse, threw his arms
aloft, and shouted,--
"Behold! Behold! Ernest is himself the likeness of the Great Stone Face!"
Then all the people looked, and saw that what the deep-sighted poet said
was true. The prophecy was fulfilled. But Ernest, having finished what he
had to say, took the poet's arm, and walked slowly homeward, still hoping
that some wiser and better man than himself would by and by appear, bearing
a resemblance to the GREAT STONE FACE.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
What part of the description of the Great Stone Face do you like the best?
What influence had this Face upon the valley? Upon the clouds? Upon the
sunshine?
Show how each of the four characters failed to realize the ideal.
What purpose do you think Hawthorne had in creating these characters?
Why did so many people think that each of these men was the image of the
Great Stone Face?
Why did not Ernest think so?
What were the characteristics of the ideal? What words name them?
What does the Great Stone Face symbolize?
What words tell you the source of Ernest's power?
What lines tell you of his humility?
Summarize his characteristics.
What pictures do you find in the selection?
Point out sentences that contain examples of alliteration.
Find a humorous sentence.
Who were the Titans?
Who was Midas?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"infusing its tenderness into the sunshine"
"transform himself into an angel of beneficence"
"the mountain visage had found its human counterpart"
"a kind of illuminated fog"
"the prophecy was fulfilled"
* * * * *
MY VISIT TO NIAGARA
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
Never did a pilgrim approach Niagara with deeper enthusiasm than mine. I
had lingered away from it, and wandered to other scenes, because my
treasury of anticipated enjoyments, comprising all the wonders of the
world, had nothing else so magnificent, and I was loath to exchange the
pleasures of hope for those of memory so soon. At length the day came. The
stage-coach, with a Frenchman and myself on the back seat, had already left
Lewiston, and in less than an hour would set us down in Manchester. I began
to listen for the roar of the cataract, and trembled with a sensation like
dread, as the moment drew nigh, when its voice of ages must roll, for the
first time, on my ear. The French gentleman stretched himself from the
window, and expressed loud admiration, while, by a sudden impulse, I threw
myself back and closed my eyes. When the scene shut in, I was glad to
think, that for me the whole burst of Niagara was yet in futurity. We
rolled on, and entered the village of Manchester, bordering on the falls.
I am quite ashamed of myself here. Not that I ran like a madman to the
falls, and plunged into the thickest of the spray,--never stopping to
breathe, till breathing was impossible; not that I committed this, or any
other suitable extravagance. On the contrary, I alighted with perfect
decency and composure, gave my cloak to the black waiter, pointed out my
baggage, and inquired, not the nearest way to the cataract, but about the
dinner-hour. The interval was spent in arranging my dress. Within the last
fifteen minutes, my mind had grown strangely benumbed, and my spirits
apathetic, with a slight depression, not decided enough to be termed
sadness. My enthusiasm was in a deathlike slumber. Without aspiring to
immortality, as he did, I could have imitated that English traveller, who
turned back from the point where he first heard the thunder of Niagara,
after crossing the ocean to behold it. Many a Western trader, by the by,
has performed a similar act of heroism with more heroic simplicity, deeming
it no such wonderful feat to dine at the hotel and resume his route to
Buffalo or Lewiston, while the cataract was roaring unseen.
Such has often been my apathy, when objects, long sought, and earnestly
desired, were placed within my reach. After dinner--at which an unwonted
and perverse epicurism detained me longer than usual--I lighted a cigar and
paced the piazza, minutely attentive to the aspect and business of a very
ordinary village. Finally, with reluctant step, and the feeling of an
intruder, I walked towards Goat Island. At the toll-house, there were
farther excuses for delaying the inevitable moment. My signature was
required in a huge ledger, containing similar records innumerable, many of
which I read. The skin of a great sturgeon, and other fishes, beasts, and
reptiles; a collection of minerals, such as lie in heaps near the falls;
some Indian moccasins, and other trifles, made of deer-skin and embroidered
with beads; several newspapers, from Montreal, New York, and Boston,--all
attracted me in turn. Out of a number of twisted sticks, the manufacture of
a Tuscarora Indian, I selected one of curled maple, curiously convoluted,
and adorned with the carved images of a snake and a fish. Using this as my
pilgrim's staff, I crossed the bridge. Above and below me were the rapids,
a river of impetuous snow, with here and there a dark rock amid its
whiteness, resisting all the physical fury, as any cold spirit did the
moral influences of the scene. On reaching Goat Island, which separates the
two great segments of the falls, I chose the right-hand path, and followed
it to the edge of the American cascade. There, while the falling sheet was
yet invisible, I saw the vapor that never vanishes, and the Eternal Rainbow
of Niagara.
It was an afternoon of glorious sunshine, without a cloud, save those of
the cataracts. I gained an insulated rock, and beheld a broad sheet of
brilliant and unbroken foam, not shooting in a curbed line from the top of
the precipice, but falling, headlong down from height to depth. A narrow
stream diverged from the main branch, and hurried over the crag by a
channel of its own, leaving a little pine-clad island and a streak of
precipice between itself and the larger sheet. Below arose the mist, on
which was painted a dazzling sunbow with two concentric shadows,--one,
almost as perfect as the original brightness; and the other, drawn faintly
round the broken edge of the cloud.
Still I had not half seen Niagara. Following the verge of the island, the
path led me to the Horseshoe, where the real, broad St. Lawrence, rushing
along on a level with its banks, pours its whole breadth over a concave
line of precipice, and thence pursues its course between lofty crags
towards Ontario. A sort of bridge, two or three feet wide, stretches out
along the edge of the descending sheet, and hangs upon the rising mist, as
if that were the foundation of the frail structure. Here I stationed myself
in the blast of wind, which the rushing river bore along with it. The
bridge was tremulous beneath me, and marked the tremor of the solid earth.
I looked along the whitening rapids, and endeavored to distinguish a mass
of water far above the falls, to follow it to their verge, and go down with
it, in fancy, to the abyss of clouds and storm. Casting my eyes across the
river, and every side, I took in the whole scene at a glance, and tried to
comprehend it in one vast idea. After an hour thus spent, I left the
bridge, and by a staircase, winding almost interminably round a post,
descended to the base of the precipice. From that point, my path lay over
slippery stones, and among great fragments of the cliff, to the edge of the
cataract, where the wind at once enveloped me in spray, and perhaps dashed
the rainbow round me. Were my long desires fulfilled? And had I seen
Niagara?
Oh that I had never heard of Niagara till I beheld it! Blessed were the
wanderers of old, who heard its deep roar, sounding through the woods, as
the summons to an unknown wonder, and approached its awful brink, in all
the freshness of native feeling. Had its own mysterious voice been the
first to warn me of its existence, then, indeed, I might have knelt down
and worshipped. But I had come thither, haunted with a vision of foam and
fury, and dizzy cliffs, and an ocean tumbling down out of the sky,--a
scene, in short, which nature had too much good taste and calm simplicity
to realize. My mind had struggled to adapt these false conceptions to the
reality, and finding the effort vain, a wretched sense of disappointment
weighed me down. I climbed the precipice, and threw myself on the earth,
feeling that I was unworthy to look at the Great Falls, and careless about
beholding them again.
All that night, as there has been and will be for ages past and to come, a
rushing sound was heard, as if a great tempest were sweeping through the
air. It mingled with my dreams, and made them full of storm and whirlwind.
Whenever I awoke, and heard this dread sound in the air, and the windows
rattling as with a mighty blast, I could not rest again, till looking
forth, I saw how bright the stars were, and that every leaf in the garden
was motionless. Never was a summer night more calm to the eye, nor a gale
of autumn louder to the ear. The rushing sound proceeds from the rapids,
and the rattling of the casements is but an effect of the vibration of the
whole house, shaken by the jar of the cataract. The noise of the rapids
draws the attention from the true voice of Niagara, which is a dull,
muffled thunder, resounding between the cliffs. I spent a wakeful hour at
midnight, in distinguishing its reverberations, and rejoiced to find that
my former awe and enthusiasm were reviving.
Gradually, and after much contemplation, I came to know, by my own
feelings, that Niagara is indeed a wonder of the world, and not the less
wonderful, because time and thought must be employed in comprehending it.
Casting aside all preconceived notions, and preparation to be dire-struck
or delighted, the beholder must stand beside it in the simplicity of his
heart, suffering the mighty scene to work its own impression. Night after
night, I dreamed of it, and was gladdened every morning by the
consciousness of a growing capacity to enjoy it. Yet I will not pretend to
the all-absorbing enthusiasm of some more fortunate spectators, nor deny
that very trifling causes would draw my eyes and thoughts from the
cataract.
The last day that I was to spend at Niagara, before my departure for the
Far West, I sat upon the Table Rock. This celebrated station did not now,
as of old, project fifty feet beyond the line of the precipice, but was
shattered by the fall of an immense fragment, which lay distant on the
shore below. Still, on the utmost verge of the rock, with my feet hanging
over it, I felt as if suspended in the open air. Never before had my mind
been in such perfect unison with the scene. There were intervals, when I
was conscious of nothing but the great river, lolling calmly into the
abyss, rather descending than precipitating itself, and acquiring tenfold
majesty from its unhurried motion. It came like the march of Destiny. It
was not taken by surprise, but seemed to have anticipated, in all its
course through the broad lakes, that it must pour their collected waters
down this height. The perfect foam of the river, after its descent, and the
ever-varying shapes of mist, rising up, to become clouds in the sky, would
be the very picture of confusion, were it merely transient, like the rage
of a tempest. But when the beholder has stood awhile, and perceives no lull
in the storm, and considers that the vapor and the foam are as everlasting
as the rocks which produce them, all this turmoil assumes a sort of
calmness. It soothes, while it awes the mind.
Leaning over the cliff, I saw the guide conducting two adventurers behind
the falls. It was pleasant, from that high seat in the sunshine, to observe
them struggling against the eternal storm of the lower regions, with heads
bent down, now faltering, now pressing forward, and finally swallowed up in
their victory. After their disappearance, a blast rushed out with an old
hat, which it had swept from one of their heads. The rock, to which they
were directing their unseen course, is marked, at a fearful distance on the
exterior of the sheet, by a jet of foam. The attempt to reach it appears
both poetical and perilous to a looker-on, but may be accomplished without
much more difficulty or hazard than in stemming a violent northeaster. In a
few moments, forth came the children of the mist. Dripping and breathless,
they crept along the base of the cliff, ascended to the guide's cottage,
and received, I presume, a certificate of their achievement, with three
verses of sublime poetry on the back.
My contemplations were often interrupted by strangers who came down from
Forsyth's to take their first view of the falls. A short, ruddy,
middle-aged gentleman, fresh from Old England, peeped over the rock, and
evinced his approbation by a broad grin. His spouse, a very robust lady,
afforded a sweet example of maternal solicitude, being so intent on the
safety of her little boy that she did not even glance at Niagara. As for
the child,--he gave himself wholly to the enjoyment of a stick of candy.
Another traveller, a native American, and no rare character among us,
produced a volume of Captain Hall's tour, and labored earnestly to adjust
Niagara to the captain's description, departing, at last, without one new
idea or sensation of his own. The next comer was provided, not with a
printed book, but with a blank sheet of foolscap, from top to bottom of
which, by means of an ever-pointed pencil, the cataract was made to
thunder. In a little talk which we had together, he awarded his approbation
to the general view, but censured the position of Goat Island, observing
that it should have been thrown farther to the right, so as to widen the
American falls, and contract those of the Horseshoe. Next appeared two
traders of Michigan, who declared, that, upon the whole, the sight was
worth looking at; there certainly was an immense water-power here; but
that, after all, they would go twice as far to see the noble stone-works of
Lockport, where the Grand Canal is locked down a descent of sixty feet.
They were succeeded by a young fellow, in a homespun cotton dress, with a
staff in his hand, and a pack over his shoulders. He advanced close to the
edge of the rock, where his attention, at first wavering among the
different components of the scene, finally became fixed in the angle of the
Horseshoe falls, which is, indeed the central point of interest. His whole
soul seemed to go forth and be transported thither, till the staff slipped
from his relaxed grasp, and falling down--down--down--struck upon the
fragment of the Table Rock.
In this manner I spent some hours, watching the varied impression, made by
the cataract, on those who disturbed me, and returning to unwearied
contemplation, when left alone. At length my time came to depart. There is
a grassy footpath through the woods, along the summit of the bank, to a
point whence a causeway, hewn in the side of the precipice, goes winding
down to the Ferry, about half a mile below the Table Rock. The sun was near
setting, when I emerged from the shadow of the trees, and began the
descent. The indirectness of my downward road continually changed the point
of view, and showed me, in rich and repeated succession, now, the whitening
rapids and majestic leap of the main river, which appeared more deeply
massive as the light departed; now, the lovelier picture, yet still
sublime, of Goat Island, with its rocks and grove, and the lesser falls,
tumbling over the right bank of the St. Lawrence, like a tributary stream;
now, the long vista of the river, as it eddied and whirled between the
cliffs, to pass through Ontario toward the sea, and everywhere to be
wondered at, for this one unrivalled scene. The golden sunshine tinged the
sheet of the American cascade, and painted on its heaving spray the broken
semi-circle of a rainbow, heaven's own beauty crowning earth's sublimity.
My steps were slow, and I paused long at every turn of the descent, as one
lingers and pauses who discerns a brighter and brightening excellence in
what he must soon behold no more. The solitude of the old wilderness now
reigned over the whole vicinity of the falls. My enjoyment became the more
rapturous, because no poet shared it, nor wretch devoid of poetry profaned
it; but the spot so famous through the world was all my own!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
Why was Hawthorne's first impression of Niagara a disappointment?
How did Hawthorne come to know that Niagara is a wonder of the world?
What feelings did Niagara produce in Hawthorne?
What effect on the reader did Hawthorne seek in this story?
What does Hawthorne say is necessary in order to appreciate nature?
What relation has Niagara to the geography of the country, its animal and
vegetable life, its trade and industry?
What is the effect on one's feelings when he "considers that the vapor and
the foam are as everlasting as the rocks which produce them"?
Niagara _grew_ on Hawthorne. Justify this.
Note the comments of other observers based upon their interpretation of
Niagara.
Do you think one who sees nothing in Niagara except a mass of rock and
water, vapor and sunshine, could appreciate its beauty, grandeur, and
sublimity?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"insulated"
"rapturous"
"abyss of clouds"
"eddied and whirled"
"epicurism"
"convoluted"
"voice of ages"
"mysterious voice"
"unrivaled scene"
"Eternal Rainbow"
"majestic leap"
* * * * *
EDGAR ALLAN POE
So irregular was the life of Edgar Allan Poe and so strong were the
prejudices of his critics that not only his character and habits of life,
but even the simplest facts of his biography, are surrounded with mystery
and are subjects of doubt and dispute.
By everything, but the accident of birth, Poe belongs to the South. His
father was from Baltimore and his mother was of English birth. They were
both members of a theatrical company playing in Boston at the time of Poe's
birth, January 19, 1809. At the age of three he was left an orphan by the
death of his mother. A wealthy Scotchman of Virginia, Mr. John Allan,
adopted him and brought him up in luxury--a much spoiled child, everywhere
petted for his beauty and precocity.
He was sent to school in a suburb of London and upon his return to America
entered the University of Virginia, a proud, reserved, and self-willed
youth. Here he led an irregular life, so that Mr. Allan was forced to
withdraw him from school and gave him work in his office. The routine of
office work was very distasteful to Poe and he ran away to Boston, where he
published his first volume of poems. Here he enlisted in the army, but when
Mr. Allan heard of his whereabouts he secured his discharge and obtained an
appointment for him, as a cadet, at West Point. The severe discipline of
that school proved irksome to his restless nature and after a few months he
brought upon himself his dismissal. At the age of twenty-two he found
himself adrift with nothing further to expect from Mr. Allan.
Literature presented itself as his most natural vocation. He had written
poetry from the pure love of it, but now actual poverty drove him to the
more remunerative prose writing. He engaged in journalistic work in
Baltimore, living with his aunt, Mrs. Clemm, and her daughter, Virginia.
Two years later he married Virginia Clemm, a mere child; but Poe, whose
reverence for women was his noblest trait, loved her and cared for her
through poverty and ill-health, until her death eleven years later, a short
time before his own. His life was a melancholy one, a fierce struggle and
final defeat. In 1849, on his way to New York from Richmond, chance brought
him and election day together in the city of Baltimore. He was found in an
election booth, delirious, and died a few days later.
Poe was a keen critic of the literary men of his day, but he applied the
same standards to himself. He was constantly re-writing and polishing what
he had written. Poe's greatness lay in his imaginative, work--his tales and
his poems. The tales may be said to constitute a distinct addition to the
world's literature. From time immemorial, there have been tales in prose
and in verse, tales legendary, romantic, and humorous, but never any quite
like Poe's.
The appeal of his poetry is to the sentiment of beauty--the one appeal,
which according to his theory is the final justification of any poem.
Language is made to yield its utmost of melody. "The Raven" was first
published in January, 1845, and immediately became and remains one of the
most widely known of English poems. It can be mentioned anywhere, without
apology or explanation and there is scarcely a lover of melodious verse who
cannot repeat many of its lines and stanzas.
Every reader of Poe's prose will be impressed with the charm of the
language itself, the fascination of the vivid scenes and the magic touch
like the Necromancer's wand, which removes these scenes into the uncharted
realm of the supernatural and invests them with a kind of sacred awe.
* * * * *
A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROeM
EDGAR ALLAN POE
WE had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some minutes the
old man seemed too much exhausted to speak.
"Not long ago," said he at length, "and I could have guided you on this
route as well as the youngest of my sons; but, about three years past,
there happened to me an event such as never happened before to mortal
man--or at least such as no man ever survived to tell of--and the six hours
of deadly terror which I then endured have broken me up body and soul. You
suppose me a _very_ old man--but I am not. It took less than a single
day to change these hairs from a jetty black to white, to weaken my limbs,
and to unstring my nerves, so that I tremble at the least exertion, and am
frightened at a shadow. Do you know I can scarcely look over this little
cliff without getting giddy?"
The "little cliff," upon whose edge he had so carelessly thrown himself
down to rest that the weightier portion of his body hung over it, while he
was only kept from falling by the tenure of his elbow on its extreme and
slippery edge--this "little cliff" arose, a sheer unobstructed precipice of
black shining rock, some fifteen or sixteen hundred feet from the world of
crags beneath us. Nothing would have tempted me to within half a dozen
yards of its brink. In truth so deeply was I excited by the perilous
position of my companion, that I fell at full length upon the ground, clung
to the shrubs around me, and dared not even glance upward at the sky--while
I struggled in vain to divest myself of the idea that the very foundations
of the mountain were in danger from the fury of the winds. It was long
before I could reason myself into sufficient courage to sit up and look out
into the distance.
"You must get over these fancies," said the guide, "for I have brought you
here that you might have the best possible view of the scene of that event
I mentioned--and to tell you the whole story with the spot just under your
eye.
"We are now," he continued, in that particularizing manner which
distinguished him--"we are now close upon the Norwegian coast--in the
sixty-eighth degree of latitude--in the great province of Nordland--and in
the dreary district of Lofoden. The mountain upon whose top we sit is
Helseggen, the Cloudy. Now raise yourself up a little higher--hold on to
the grass if you feel giddy--so--and look out, beyond the belt of vapor
beneath us, into the sea."
I looked dizzily, and beheld a wide expanse of ocean, whose waters wore so
inky a hue as to bring at once to my mind the Nubian geographer's account
of the _Mare Tenebrarum_. A panorama more deplorably desolate no human
imagination can conceive. To the right and left, as far as the eye could
reach, there lay outstretched, like ramparts of the world, lines of
horridly black and beetling cliff, whose character of gloom was but the
more forcibly illustrated by the surf which reared high up against it its
white and ghastly crest, howling and shrieking forever. Just opposite the
promontory upon whose apex we were placed, and at a distance of some five
or six miles out at sea, there was visible a small, bleak-looking island;
or, more properly, its position was discernible through the wilderness of
surge in which it was enveloped. About two miles nearer the land arose
another of smaller size, hideously craggy and barren, and encompassed at
various intervals by a cluster of dark rocks.
The appearance of the ocean, in the space between the more distant island
and the shore, had something very unusual about it. Although, at the time,
so strong a gale was blowing landward that a brig in the remote offing lay
to under a double-reefed trysail, and constantly plunged her whole hull out
of sight, still there was here nothing like a regular swell, but only a
short, quick, angry cross-dashing of water in every direction--as well in
the teeth of the wind as otherwise. Of foam there was little except in the
immediate vicinity of the rocks.
"The island in the distance," resumed the old man, "is called by the
Norwegians Vurrgh. The one midway is Moskoe. That a mile to the northward
is Ambaaren. Yonder are Iflesen, Hoeyholm, Kieldholm, Suarven, and
Buckholm. Farther off--between Moskoe and Vurrgh--are Otterholm, Flimen,
Sandflesen, and Skarholm. These are the true names of the places--but why
it has been thought necessary to name them at all is more than either you
or I can understand. Do you hear anything? Do you see any change in the
water?"
We had now been about ten minutes upon the top of Helseggen, to which we
had ascended from the interior of Lofoden, so that we had caught no glimpse
of the sea until it had burst upon us from the summit. As the old man
spoke, I became aware of a loud and gradually increasing sound, like the
moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes upon an American prairie; and at the
same moment I perceived that what seamen term the _chopping_ character
of the ocean beneath us, was rapidly changing into a current which set to
the eastward. Even while I gazed, this current acquired a monstrous
velocity. Each moment added to its speed--to its headlong impetuosity. In
five minutes the whole sea, as far as Vurrgh, was lashed into ungovernable
fury; but it was between Moskoe and the coast that the main uproar held its
sway. Here the vast bed of the waters, seamed and scarred into a thousand
conflicting channels, burst suddenly into frenzied convulsion--heaving,
boiling, hissing--gyrating in gigantic and innumerable vortices, and all
whirling and plunging on to the eastward with a rapidity which water never
elsewhere assumes, except in precipitous descents.
In a few minutes more there came over the scene another radical alteration.
The general surface grew somewhat more smooth, and the whirlpools, one by
one, disappeared, while prodigious streaks of foam became apparent where
none had been seen before. These streaks, at length, spreading out to a
great distance, and entering into combination, took unto themselves the
gyratory motion of the subsided vortices, and seemed to form the germ of
another more vast. Suddenly--very suddenly--this assumed a distinct and
definite existence, in a circle of more than a mile in diameter. The edge
of the whirl was represented by a broad belt of gleaming spray; but no
particle of this slipped into the mouth of the terrific funnel, whose
interior, as far as the eye could fathom it, was a smooth, shining and
jet-black wall of water, inclined to the horizon at an angle of some
forty-five degrees, speeding dizzily round and round with a swaying and
sweltering motion, and sending forth to the winds an appalling voice, half
shriek, half roar, such as not even the mighty cataract of Niagara ever
lifts up in its agony to Heaven.
The mountain trembled to its very base, and the rock rocked. I threw myself
upon my face, and clung to the scant herbage in an excess of nervous
agitation.
"This," said I at length, to the old man--"this _can_ be nothing else
than the great whirlpool of the Maelstroem."
"So it is sometimes termed," said he. "We Norwegians call it the
Moskoe-stroem, from the island of Moskoe in the midway."
The ordinary accounts of this vortex had by no means prepared me for what I
saw. That of Jonas Ramus, which, is perhaps the most circumstantial of any,
cannot impart the faintest conception either of the magnificence or of the
horror of the scene--or of the wild bewildering sense of _the novel_
which confounds the beholder. I am not sure from what point of view the
writer in question surveyed it, nor at what time; but it could neither have
been from the summit of Helseggen, nor during a storm. There are some
passages of his description, nevertheless, which may be quoted for their
details, although their effect is exceedingly feeble in conveying an
impression of the spectacle.
"Between Lofoden and Moskoe," he says, "the depth of the water is between
thirty-six and forty fathoms; but on the other side, toward Ver (Vurrgh)
this depth decreases so as not to afford a convenient passage for a vessel,
without the risk of splitting on the rocks, which happens even in the
calmest weather. When it is flood, the stream runs up the country between
Lofoden and Moskoe with a boisterous rapidity; but the roar of its
impetuous ebb to the sea is scarce equaled by the loudest and most dreadful
cataracts, the noise being heard several leagues off; and the vortices or
pits are of such an extent and depth that if a ship comes within its
attraction it is inevitably absorbed and carried down to the bottom, and
there beat to pieces against the rocks; and when the water relaxes, the
fragments thereof are thrown up again. But these intervals of tranquillity
are only at the turn of the ebb and flood, and in calm weather, and last
but a quarter of an hour, its violence gradually returning. When the stream
is most boisterous, and its fury heightened by a storm, it is dangerous to
come within a Norway mile of it. Boats, yachts, and ships have been carried
away by not guarding against it before they were within its reach. It
likewise happens frequently that whales come too near the stream, and are
overpowered by its violence; and then it is impossible to describe their
howling and bellowings in their fruitless struggles to disengage
themselves. A bear once, attempting to swim from Lofoden to Moskoe, was
caught by the stream and borne down, while he roared terribly, so as to be
heard on shore. Large stocks of firs and pine trees, after being absorbed
by the current, rise again broken and torn to such a degree as if bristles
grew upon them. This plainly shows the bottom to consist of craggy rocks,
among which they are whirled to and fro. This stream is regulated by the
flux and reflux of the sea--it being constantly high and low water every
six hours. In the year 1645, early in the morning of Sexagesima Sunday, it
raged with such noise and impetuosity that the very stones of the houses on
the coast fell to the ground."
In regard to the depth of the water, I could not see how this could have
been ascertained at all in the immediate vicinity of the vortex. The "forty
fathoms" must have reference only to portions of the channel close upon the
shore either of Moskoe or Lofoden. The depth in the center of the
Moskoe-stroem must be immeasurably greater; and no better proof of this fact
is necessary than can be obtained from even the sidelong glance into the
abyss of the whirl which may be had from the highest crag of Helseggen.
Looking down from this pinnacle upon the howling Phlegethon below, I could
not help smiling at the simplicity with which the honest Jonas Ramus
records, as a matter difficult of belief, the anecdotes of the whales and
the bears; for it appeared to me, in fact, a self-evident thing that the
largest ships of the line in existence, coming within the influence of that
deadly attraction, could resist it as little as a feather the hurricane,
and must disappear bodily and at once.
The attempts to account for the phenomenon--some of which, I remember,
seemed to me sufficiently plausible in perusal--now wore a very different
and unsatisfactory aspect. The idea generally received is that this, as
well as three smaller vortices among the Feroe Islands, "have no other
cause than the collision of waves rising and falling, at flux and reflux,
against a ridge of rocks and shelves, which confines the water so that it
precipitates itself like a cataract; and thus the higher the flood rises,
the deeper must the fall be, and the natural result of all is a whirlpool
or vortex, the prodigious suction of which is sufficiently known by lesser
experiments."--These are the words of the "Encyclopaedia Brittanica."
Kircher and others imagine that in the center of the channel of the
Maelstroem is an abyss penetrating the globe, and issuing in some very
remote part--the Gulf of Bothnia being somewhat decidedly named in one
instance. This opinion, idle in itself, was the one to which, as I gazed,
my imagination most readily assented; and, mentioning it to the guide, I
was rather surprised to hear him say that, although it was the view almost
universally entertained of the subject by the Norwegians, it nevertheless
was not his own. As to the former notion he confessed his inability to
comprehend it; and here I agreed with him--for, however conclusive on
paper, it becomes altogether unintelligible, and even absurd, amid the
thunder of the abyss.
"You have had a good look at the whirl now," said the old man, "and if you
will creep round this crag, so as to get in its lee, and deaden the roar of
the water, I will tell you a story that will convince you I ought to know
something of the Moskoe-stroem."
I placed myself as desired, and he proceeded.
"Myself and my two brothers once owned a schooner-rigged smack of about
seventy tons burden, with which we were in the habit of fishing among the
islands beyond Moskoe, nearly to Vurrgh. In all violent eddies at sea there
is good fishing, at proper opportunities, if one has only the courage to
attempt it; but among the whole of the Lofoden coastmen we three were the
only ones who made a regular business of going out to the islands, as I
tell you. The usual grounds are a great way lower down to the southward.
There fish can be got at all hours, without much risk, and therefore these
places are preferred. The choice spots over here among the rocks, however,
not only yield the finest variety, but in far greater abundance; so that we
often got in a single day what the more timid of the craft could not scrape
together in a week. In fact, we made it a matter of desperate
speculation--the risk of life standing instead of labor, and courage
answering for capital.
"We kept the smack in a cove about five miles higher up the coast than
this; and it was our practice, in fine weather, to take advantage of the
fifteen minutes' slack to push across the main channel of the Moskoe-stroem,
far above the pool, and then drop down upon anchorage somewhere near
Otterholm, or Sandflesen, where the eddies are not so violent as elsewhere.
Here we used to remain until nearly time for slack-water again, when we
weighed and made for home. We never set out upon this expedition without a
steady side wind for going and coming--one that we felt sure would not fail
us before our return--and we seldom made a miscalculation upon this point.
Twice, during six years, we were forced to stay all night at anchor on
account of a dead calm, which is a rare thing indeed just about here; and
once we had to remain on the grounds nearly a week, starving to death,
owing to a gale which blew up shortly after our arrival, and made the
channel too boisterous to be thought of. Upon this occasion we should have
been driven out to sea in spite of everything (for the whirlpools threw us
round and round so violently that, at length, we fouled our anchor and
dragged it) if it had not been that we drifted into one of the innumerable
cross currents--here to-day and gone to-morrow--which drove us under the
lee of Flimen, where, by good luck, we brought up.
"I could not tell you the twentieth part of the difficulties we encountered
'on the ground'--it is a bad spot to be in, even in good weather--but we
made shift always to run the gauntlet of the Moskoe-stroem itself without
accident; although at times my heart has been in my mouth when we happened
to be a minute or so behind or before the slack. The wind sometimes was not
as strong as we thought it at starting, and then we made rather less way
than we could wish, while the current rendered the smack unmanageable. My
eldest brother had a son eighteen years old, and I had two stout boys of my
own. These would have been of great assistance at such times, in using the
sweeps, as well as afterward in fishing--but, somehow, although we ran the
risk ourselves, we had not the heart to let the young ones get into the
danger--for, after all said and done, it _was_ a horrible danger, and
that is the truth.
"It is now within a few days of three years since what I am going to tell
you occurred. It was on the tenth of July, 18--, a day which the people of
this part of the world will never forget--for it was one in which blew the
most terrible hurricane that ever came out of the heavens. And yet all the
morning, and indeed until late in the afternoon, there was a gentle and
steady breeze from the southwest, while the sun shone brightly, so that the
oldest seaman among us could not have foreseen what was to follow.
"The three of us--my two brothers and myself--had crossed over to the
islands about two o'clock P.M., and soon nearly loaded the smack with fine
fish, which, we all remarked, were more plenty that day than we had ever
known them. It was just seven, _by my watch_, when we weighed and
started for home, so as to make the worst of the Stroem at slack water,
which we knew would be at eight.
"We set out with a fresh wind on our starboard quarter, and for some time
spanked along at a great rate, never dreaming of danger, for indeed we saw
not the slightest reason to apprehend it. All at once we were taken aback
by a breeze from over Helseggen. This was most unusual--something that had
never happened to us before--and I began to feel a little uneasy, without
exactly knowing why. We put the boat on the wind, but could make no headway
at all for the eddies, and I was upon the point of proposing to return to
the anchorage, when, looking astern, we saw the whole horizon covered with
a singular copper-colored cloud that rose with the most amazing velocity.
"In the meantime the breeze that had headed us off fell away, and we were
dead becalmed, drifting about in every direction. This state of things,
however, did not last long enough to give us time to think about it. In
less than a minute the storm was upon us--in less than two the sky was
entirely overcast--and what with this and the driving spray, it became
suddenly so dark that we could not see each other in the smack.
"Such a hurricane as then blew it is folly to attempt describing. The
oldest seaman in Norway never experienced anything like it. We had let our
sails go by the run before it cleverly took us; but, at the first puff,
both our masts went by the board as if they had been sawed off--the
mainmast taking with it my youngest brother, who had lashed himself to it
for safety.
"Our boat was the lightest feather of a thing that ever sat upon water. It
had a complete flush deck, with only a small hatch near the bow, and this
hatch it had always been our custom to batten down when about to cross the
Stroem, by way of precaution against the chopping seas. But for this
circumstance we should have foundered at once--for we lay entirely buried
for some moments. How my elder brother escaped destruction I cannot say,
for I never had an opportunity of ascertaining. For my part, as soon as I
had let the foresail run, I threw myself flat on deck, with my feet against
the narrow gunwale of the bow, and with my hands grasping a ringbolt near
the foot of the foremast. It was mere instinct that prompted me to do
this--which was undoubtedly the very best thing I could have done--for I
was too much flurried to think.
"For some moments we were completely deluged, as I say, and all this time I
held my breath, and clung to the bolt. When I could stand it no longer I
raised myself upon my knees, still keeping hold with my hands, and thus got
my head clear. Presently our little boat gave herself a shake, just as a
dog does in coming out of the water, and thus rid herself, in some measure,
of the seas. I was now trying to get the better of the stupor that had come
over me, and to collect my senses so as to see what was to be done, when I
felt somebody grasp my arm. It was my elder brother, and my heart leaped
for joy, for I had made sure that he was overboard--but the next moment all
this joy was turned into horror--for he put his mouth close to my ear, and
screamed out the word '_Moskoe-stroem!_'
"No one will ever know what my feelings were at that moment. I shook from
head to foot as if I had had the most violent fit of the ague. I knew what
he meant by that one word well enough--I knew what he wished to make me
understand. With the wind that now drove us on, we were bound for the whirl
of the Stroem, and nothing could save us!
"You perceive that in crossing the Stroem _channel_, we always went a
long way up above the whirl, even in the calmest weather, and then had to
wait and watch carefully for the slack--but now we were driving right upon
the pool itself, and in such a hurricane as this! 'To be sure,' I thought,
'we shall get there just about the slack--there is some little hope in
that'--but in the next moment I cursed myself for being so great a fool as
to dream of hope at all. I knew very well that we were doomed, had we been
ten times a ninety-gun ship.
"By this time the first fury of the tempest had spent itself, or perhaps we
did not feel it so much as we scudded before it; but at all events the
seas, which at first had been kept down by the wind, and lay flat and
frothing, now got up into absolute mountains. A singular change, too, had
come over the heavens. Around in every direction it was still as black as
pitch, but nearly overhead there burst out, all at once, a circular rift of
clear sky--as clear as I ever saw--and of a deep bright blue--and through
it there blazed forth the full moon with a luster that I never before knew
her to wear. She lit up everything about us with the greatest
distinctness--but, oh God, what a scene it was to light up!
"I now made one or two attempts to speak to my brother--but, in some manner
which I could not understand, the din had so increased that I could not
make him hear a single word, although I screamed at the top of my voice in
his ear. Presently he shook his head, looking as pale as death, and held up
one of his fingers, as if to say _listen!_
"At first I could not make out what he meant--but soon a hideous thought
flashed upon me. I dragged my watch from its fob. It was not going. I
glanced at its face by the moonlight, and then burst into tears as I flung
it far away into the ocean. _It had run down at seven o'clock! We were
behind the time of the slack, and the whirl of the Stroem was in full
fury!_
"When a boat is well built, properly trimmed, and not deep laden, the waves
in a strong gale, when she is going large, seem always to slip from beneath
her--which appears very strange to a landsman--and this is what is called
_riding_, in sea phrase.
"Well, so far we had ridden the swells very cleverly; but presently a
gigantic sea happened to take us right under the counter, and bore us with
it as it rose--up--up--as if into the sky. I would not have believed that
any wave could rise so high. And then down we came with a sweep, a slide,
and a plunge, that made me feel sick and dizzy, as if I was falling from
some lofty mountain-top in a dream. But while we were up I had thrown a
quick glance around--and that one glance was all-sufficient. I saw our
exact position in an instant. The Moskoe-stroem whirlpool was about a
quarter of a mile dead ahead--but no more like the everyday Moskoe-stroem,
than the whirl as you now see it is like a mill-race. If I had not known
where we were, and what we had to expect, I should not have recognized the
place at all. As it was, I involuntarily closed my eyes in horror. The lids
clenched themselves together as if in a spasm.
"It could not have been more than two minutes afterwards until we suddenly
felt the waves subside, and were enveloped in foam. The boat made a sharp
half turn to larboard, and then shot off in its new direction like a
thunderbolt. At the same moment the roaring noise of the water was
completely drowned in a kind of shrill shriek--such a sound as you might
imagine given out by the waterpipes of many thousand steam vessels, letting
off their steam all together. We were now in the belt of surf that always
surrounds the whirl; and I thought, of course, that another moment would
plunge us into the abyss--down which we could only see indistinctly on
account of the amazing velocity with which we were borne along. The boat
did not seem to sink into the water at all, but to skim like an air-bubble
upon the surface of the surge. Her starboard side was next the whirl, and
on the larboard arose the world of ocean we had left. It stood like a huge
writhing wall between us and the horizon.
"It may appear strange, but now, when we were in the very jaws of the gulf,
I felt more composed than when we were only approaching it. Having made up
my mind to hope no more, I got rid of a great deal of that terror which
unmanned me at first. I suppose it was despair that strung my nerves.
"It may look like boasting--but what I tell you is truth--I began to
reflect how magnificent a thing it was to die in such a manner, and how
foolish it was in me to think of so paltry a consideration as my own
individual life, in view of so wonderful a manifestation of God's power. I
do believe that I blushed with shame when this idea crossed my mind. After
a little while I became possessed with the keenest curiosity about the
whirl itself. I positively felt a _wish_ to explore its depths, even
at the sacrifice I was going to make; and my principal grief was that I
should never be able to tell my old companions on shore about the mysteries
I should see. These, no doubt, were singular fancies to occupy a man's mind
in such extremity--and I have often thought since, that the revolutions of
the boat around the pool might have rendered me a little light-headed.
"There was another circumstance which tended to restore my self-possession;
and this was the cessation of the wind, which could not reach us in our
present situation--for, as you saw yourself, the belt of surf is
considerably lower than the general bed of the ocean, and this latter now
towered above us, a high, black, mountainous ridge. If you have never been
at sea in a heavy gale, you can form no idea of the confusion of mind
occasioned by the wind and spray together. They blind, deafen, and strangle
you, and take away all power of action or reflection. But we were now, in a
great measure, rid of these annoyances--just as death-condemned felons in
prisons are allowed petty indulgences, forbidden them while their doom is
yet uncertain.
"How often we made the circuit of the belt it is impossible to say. We
careered round and round for perhaps an hour, flying rather than floating,
getting gradually more and more into the middle of the surge, and then
nearer and nearer to its horrible inner edge. All this time I had never let
go of the ringbolt. My brother was at the stern, holding on to a small
empty water-cask which had been securely lashed under the coop of the
counter, and was the only thing on deck that had not been swept overboard
when the gale first took us. As we approached the brink of the pit he let
go his hold upon this, and made for the ring, from which, in the agony of
his terror, he endeavored to force my hands, as it was not large enough to
afford us both a secure grasp. I never felt deeper grief than when I saw
him attempt this act--although I knew he was a madman when he did it--a
raving maniac through sheer fright. I did not care, however, to contest the
point with him. I knew it could make no difference whether either of us
held on at all; so I let him have the bolt, and went astern to the cask.
This there was no great difficulty in doing; for the smack flew round
steadily enough, and upon an even keel--only swaying to and fro, with the
immense sweeps and swelters of the whirl. Scarcely had I secured myself in
my new position, when we gave a wild lurch to starboard, and rushed
headlong into the abyss. I muttered a hurried prayer to God, and thought
all was over.
"As I felt the sickening sweep of the descent, I had instinctively
tightened my hold upon the barrel, and closed my eyes. For some seconds I
dared not open them--while I expected instant destruction, and wondered
that I was not already in my death-struggles with the water. But moment
after moment elapsed. I still lived. The sense of falling had ceased; and
the motion of the vessel seemed much as it had been before, while in the
belt of foam, with the exception that she now lay more along. I took
courage and looked once again upon the scene.
"Never shall I forget the sensations of awe, horror, and admiration with
which I gazed about me. The boat appeared to be hanging, as if by magic,
midway down, upon the interior surface of a funnel vast in circumference,
prodigious in depth, and whose perfectly smooth sides might have been
mistaken for ebony, but for the bewildering rapidity with which they spun
around, and for the gleaming and ghastly radiance they shot forth, as the
rays of the full moon, from that circular rift amid the clouds which I have
already described, streamed in a flood of golden glory along the black
walls, and far away down into the inmost recesses of the abyss.
"At first I was too much confused to observe anything accurately. The
general burst of terrific grandeur was all that I beheld. When I recovered
myself a little, however, my gaze fell instinctively downward. In this
direction I was able to obtain an unobstructed view, from the manner in
which the smack hung on the inclined surface of the pool. She was quite
upon an even keel--that is to say, her deck lay in a plane parallel with
that of the water--but this latter sloped at an angle of more than
forty-five degrees, so that we seemed to be lying upon our beam-ends. I
could not help observing, nevertheless, that I had scarcely more difficulty
in maintaining my hold and footing in this situation, than if we had been
upon a dead level; and this, I suppose, was owing to the speed at which we
revolved.
"The rays of the moon seemed to search the very bottom of the profound
gulf; but still I could make out nothing distinctly, on account of a thick
mist in which everything there was enveloped, and over which there hung a
magnificent rainbow, like that narrow and tottering bridge which Mussulmans
say is the only pathway between Time and Eternity. This mist, or spray, was
no doubt occasioned by the clashing of the great walls of the funnel, as
they all met together at the bottom--but the yell that went up to the
heavens from out of that mist, I dare not attempt to describe.
"Our first slide into the abyss itself, from the belt of foam above, had
carried us to a great distance down the slope; but our farther descent was
by no means proportionate. Round and round we swept--not with any uniform
movement, but in dizzying swings and jerks, that sent us sometimes only a
few hundred yards--sometimes nearly the complete circuit of the whirl. Our
progress downward, at each revolution, was slow, but very perceptible.
"Looking about me upon the wide waste of liquid ebony on which we were thus
borne, I perceived that our boat was not the only object in the embrace of
the whirl. Both above and below us were visible fragments of vessels, large
masses of building timber and trunks of trees, with many smaller articles,
such as pieces of house furniture, broken boxes, barrels, and staves. I
have already described the unnatural curiosity which had taken the place of
my original terrors. It appeared to grow upon me as I drew nearer and
nearer to my dreadful doom. I now began to watch, with a strange interest,
the numerous things that floated in our company. I _must_ have been
delirious--for I even sought _amusement_ in speculating upon the
relative velocities of their several descents toward the foam below. 'This
fir tree,' I found myself at one time saying, 'will certainly be the next
thing that takes the awful plunge and disappears,'--and then I was
disappointed to find that the wreck of a Dutch merchant ship overtook it
and went down before. At length, after making several guesses of this
nature, and being deceived in all--this fact--the fact of my invariable
miscalculation, set me upon a train of reflection that made my limbs again
tremble, and my heart beat heavily once more.
"It was not a new terror that thus affected me, but the dawn of a more
exciting _hope_. This hope arose partly from memory, and partly from
present observation. I called to mind the great variety of buoyant matter
that strewed the coast of Lofoden, having been absorbed and then thrown
forth by the Moskoe-stroem. By far the greater number of the articles were
shattered in the most extraordinary way--so chafed and roughened as to have
the appearance of being stuck full of splinters--but then I distinctly
recollected that there were _some_ of them which were not disfigured
at all. Now I could not account for this difference except by supposing
that the roughened fragments were the only ones which had been
_completely absorbed_--that the others had entered the whirl at so
late a period of the tide, or, from some reason, had descended so slowly
after entering, that they did not reach the bottom before the turn of the
flood came, or of the ebb, as the case might be. I conceived it possible,
in either instance, that they might thus be whirled up again to the level
of the ocean, without undergoing the fate of those which had been drawn in
more early or absorbed more rapidly. I made, also, three important
observations. The first was, that as a general rule, the larger the bodies
were, the more rapid their descent; the second, that, between two masses of
equal extent, the one spherical, and the other of _any other shape_,
the superiority in speed of descent was with the sphere; the third, that,
between two masses of equal size, the one cylindrical, and the other of any
other shape, the cylinder was absorbed the more slowly. Since my escape, I
have had several conversations on this subject with an old schoolmaster of
the district; and it was from him that I learned the use of the words
'cylinder' and 'sphere.' He explained to me--although I have forgotten the
explanation--how what I observed was, in fact, the natural consequence of
the forms of the floating fragments, and showed me how it happened that a
cylinder, swimming in a vortex, offered more resistance to its suction, and
was drawn in with greater difficulty, than an equally bulky body, of any
form whatever.
"There was one startling circumstance which went a great way in enforcing
these observations, and rendering me anxious to turn them to account, and
this was that, at every revolution, we passed something like a barrel, or
else the yard or the mast of a vessel, while many of these things, which
had been on our level when I first opened my eyes upon the wonders of the
whirlpool, were now high up above us, and seemed to have moved but little
from their original station.
"I no longer hesitated what to do. I resolved to lash myself securely to
the water-cask upon which I now held, to cut it loose from the counter, and
to throw myself with it into the water. I attracted my brother's attention
by signs, pointed to the floating barrels that came near us, and did
everything in my power to make him understand what I was about to do. I
thought at length that he comprehended my design--but, whether this was the
case or not, he shook his head despairingly, and refused to move from his
station by the ringbolt. It was impossible to reach him; the emergency
admitted of no delay; and so, with a bitter struggle, I resigned him to his
fate, fastened myself to the cask by means of the lashings which secured it
to the counter, and precipitated myself with it into the sea, without
another moment's hesitation.
"The result was precisely what I had hoped it might be. As it is myself who
now tell you this tale--as you see that I _did_ escape--and as you are
already in possession of the mode in which this escape was effected, and
must therefore anticipate all that I have farther to say-I will bring my
story quickly to conclusion. It might have been an hour, or thereabout,
after my quitting the smack, when, having descended to a vast distance
beneath me, it made three or four wild gyrations in rapid succession, and,
bearing my loved brother with it, plunged headlong, at once and forever,
into the chaos of foam below. The barrel to which I was attached sunk very
little farther than half the distance between the bottom of the gulf and
the spot at which I leaped overboard, before a great change took place in
the character of the whirlpool. The slope of the sides of the vast funnel
became momently less and less steep. The gyrations of the whirl grew,
gradually, less and less violent. By degrees, the froth and the rainbow
disappeared, and the bottom of the gulf seemed slowly to uprise. The sky
was clear, the winds had gone down, and the full moon was setting radiantly
in the west, when I found myself on the surface of the ocean, in full view
of the shores of Lofoden, and above the spot where the pool of the
Moskoe-stroem _had been._ It was the hour of the slack, but the sea
still heaved in mountainous waves from the effects of the hurricane. I was
borne violently into the channel of the Stroem, and in a few minutes was
hurried down the coast into the 'grounds' of the fishermen. A boat picked
me up--exhausted from fatigue--and (now that the danger was removed)
speechless from the memory of its horror. Those who drew me on board were
my old mates and daily companions, but they knew me no more than they would
have known a traveler from the spirit-land. My hair, which had been
raven-black the day before, was as white as you see it now. They say, too,
that the whole expression of my countenance had changed. I told them my
story--they did not believe it. I now tell it to you--and I can scarcely
expect you to put more faith in it than did the merry fishermen of
Lofoden."
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
Locate the scene of this story on your map.
How does the hero account for his apparent age?
What do you learn from Jonas Ramus's description of the whirlpool?
How does the "Encyclopedia Britannica" account for the vortex?
What was the theory of Kircher?
Briefly relate in your own words the hero's story of his experience in the
Maelstroem.
What tempted him into the whirlpool?
Account for his miscalculation as to the time of the slack.
What three observations did the hero make?
How did he make his escape?
From this story what do you think of Poe's powers of imagination and
description?
What other authors have you read that have similar powers?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"circumstantial"
"bleak-looking"
"double-reefed"
"gyrating"
"prodigious"
"impetuosity"
"promontory"
"encompassed"
"inevitably"
"deplorably desolate"
"gleaming spray"
"boisterous rapidity"
"fruitless struggles"
"desperate speculation"
"terrific grandeur"
"frenzied convulsions"
"precipitous descents"
"sufficiently plausible"
"belt of foam"
"collision of waves"
"flood of golden glory"
"wild waste of liquid ebony"
"chaos of foam"
"the gyrations of the whirl"
* * * * *
THE RAVEN
EDGAR ALLAN POE
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,--
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door:
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore,
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore:
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door:
This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door:--
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore":
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore;
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore:
'Tis the wind and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door,
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door:
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,--
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore:
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour,
Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered,
Till I scarcely more than muttered,--"Other friends have flown before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore:
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of 'yore,
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er
She shall press,' ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted
On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore:
Is there, is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore:
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting:
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor:
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
What is the theme of this poem?
What gives it its musical quality?
Mention parts that you think are especially beautiful.
Find examples of alliteration.
What does the refrain add to this poem?
What is the meaning of "Night's Plutonian shore"?
Of what is the raven a symbol?
Why does the poet call the bust of Pallas "pallid"?
What is the significance of the last stanza?
From this poem, in what would you say Poe's poetry excels?
Which stanza do you like best?
Why?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"ghost"
"surcease"
"entreating"
"obeisance"
"craven"
"ominous"
"censer"
"seraphim"
"nepenthe"
"dying ember"
"fantastic terrors"
"saintly days"
"tufted floor"
"pallid bust"
"radiant maiden"
"dirges of his Hope"
"bird of yore"
"balm in Gilead"
* * * * *
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
In "The Courtship of Miles Standish" Longfellow has made us acquainted with
his ancestors, John Alden and Priscilla Mullens, passengers of the
Mayflower. Of such ancestry Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born in
Portland, Maine, February 27, 1807. His birthplace was at that time a
beautiful and busy town, a forest city with miles of sea beach and a port
where merchant vessels from the West Indies exchanged sugar and rum for the
products of the forest and the fisheries of Maine.
We are told that he was a boy "true, high-minded and noble"; "active,
eager, often impatient"; "handsome in appearance" and the "sunlight of the
home." His conduct at school was "very correct and amiable"--he read much
and was always studious and thoughtful. The first book which fascinated his
imagination was Irving's "Sketch-Book." Indeed there is a resemblance
between the gentle Irving and the gentle Longfellow which is expressed in
the prose of one and the poetry of the other.
Longfellow's education was obtained in Portland and at Bowdoin College,
Brunswick, Maine, where he had for classmates several youths who afterward
became famous, Nathaniel Hawthorne, J. S. C. Abbott, and Franklin Pierce.
Upon Longfellow's graduation, the trustees of the college, having decided
to establish a chair of modern languages, proposed that this young
graduate, of scholarly and literary tastes, should fit himself for this
position. Three years, therefore, he spent in delightful study and travel
in France, Spain, Italy, and Germany. Here was laid the foundation for his
scholarship, and, as in Irving on his first European trip, there was
kindled that passion for romantic lore which followed him through life and
which gave color and direction to much of his work. He mastered the
language of each country visited in a remarkably short time, and many of
the choicer poems found in these languages he has given to us in the
English.
After five years at Bowdoin, Longfellow was invited in 1834 to the chair of
modern languages in Harvard College. Again he was given an opportunity to
prepare himself by a year of study abroad. In 1836 he began his active work
at Harvard and took up his residence in the historic Craigie House,
overlooking the Charles River--a house in which Washington had been
quartered for some months when he came to Cambridge in 1775 to take command
of the Continental forces. Longfellow was thenceforth one of the most
prominent members of that group of men including Sumner, Hawthorne,
Agassiz, Lowell, and Holmes, who gave distinction to the Boston and
Cambridge of earlier days.
For twenty years Longfellow filled the professorship of modern languages at
Harvard and was one of the best beloved instructors at the university. He
resigned that he might devote himself to writing and was succeeded at
Harvard by James Russell Lowell.
Though Longfellow wrote in prose and is the author of many shorter poems,
his reputation is mainly based upon his longer poems. Longfellow was a
great admirer of the German poet, Goethe, to whose "Hermann and Dorothea"
we are indebted for much of the form and no doubt some of the story of
Evangeline. The story of Acadie was told first to Hawthorne by a friend of
both authors; but the tale was hardly dark enough to suit the fancy of
Hawthorne, whereas to Longfellow it seemed to have in it precisely those
elements of faith and devotion that make the widest appeal. In a collection
of poems published in 1850 appeared the poem of Longfellow's highest
patriotic reach, the allegory of "The Building of the Ship." A friend of
Lincoln recited this poem to him, and when the lines of its closing
apostrophe to the ship of state were reached, with tears in his eyes the
president said, "It is a great gift to be able to stir men like that." In
his poem, "Hiawatha," Longfellow chose the metre of the Finnish epic
"Kalevala," which is peculiarly suited to the tales of primitive people.
The worthiest and most picturesque traditions of the American Indian are
woven into a connected story whose charm is greatly heightened by the novel
melody of the verse.
In 1861 the happiness of Longfellow's home life was broken by the death of
his wife, who was fatally burned. He turned from this sorrow and the
anxieties of the Civil War to the more mechanical work of writing tales and
making translations. The "Tales of a Wayside Inn" appeared in 1863, and
seven years later he published his translation of Dante's "Divine Comedy."
On Longfellow's seventy-second birthday the children of Cambridge presented
him with a chair made from the wood of the "Village Blacksmith's" chestnut
tree. He died March 24, 1882, aged seventy-five. In 1884 a bust of him was
placed in the Poets' Corner of Westminster Abbey--England's gracious
tribute to the renown of America's best loved poet.
EVANGELINE: A TALE OF ACADIE
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
PRELUDE
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.
Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.
PART THE FIRST.
I.
In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,
Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the floodgates
Opened and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.
West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields
Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains
Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic
Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended.
There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.
Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of chestnut,
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting
Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.
There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset
Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden
Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors
Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens.
Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children
Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.
Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens,
Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.
Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank
Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry
Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village
Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,
Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.
Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,--
Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from
Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.
Neither locks had they to their doors, nor, bars to their windows;
But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners;
There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.
Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,
Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pre,
Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household,
Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.
Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;
Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes;
White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves.
Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers;
Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside,
Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!
Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.
When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide
Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.
Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret
Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop
Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,
Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,
Wearing her Norman cap and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings
Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heir-loom,
Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.
But a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty--
Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,
Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer
Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady
Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.
Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath
Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.
Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,
Such as the traveler sees in regions remote by the roadside,
Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.
Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown
Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.
Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard;
There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows;
There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,
Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the self-same
Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.
Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one
Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase,
Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous cornloft.
There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates
Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes
Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.
Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pre
Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his house-hold.
Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal,
Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deepest devotion;
Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment!
Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended,
And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her foot-steps,
Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron;
Or, at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village,
Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered
Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music.
But among all who came young Gabriel only was welcome;
Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith,
Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men;
For since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations,
Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people.
Basil was Benedict's friend--Their children from earliest child-hood
Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician,
Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters
Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song.
But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed,
Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith.
There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him
Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything,
Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cartwheel
Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.
Oft on autumnal eyes, when without in the gathering darkness
Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice,
Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows,
And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes,
Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel.
Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle,
Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow.
Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters,
Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow
Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings;
Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow!
Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children.
He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning,
Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action.
She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman.
"Sunshine of Saint Eulalie" was she called; for that was the sunshine
Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples;
She too would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance,
Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children.
II.
Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,
And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.
Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the icebound,
Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands.
Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of September
Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.
All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.
Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey
Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters asserted
Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes.
Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season,
Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!
Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape
Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.
Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean
Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended.
Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farmyards,
Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,
All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun
Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him;
While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,
Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest
Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels.
Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.
Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending
Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead.
Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,
And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.
Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer,
Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar,
Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.
Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,
Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog,
Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,
Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly
Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;
Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,
When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled.
Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,
Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor.
Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,
While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,
Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson
Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.
Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders
Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence
Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.
Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farmyard,
Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness;
Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn doors,
Battled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.
In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer
Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths
Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him,
Nodding and mocking along the wall with gestures fantastic,
Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness.
Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair
Laughed in the nickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser
Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine.
Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas,
Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him
Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards.
Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated,
Spinning flax for the loom that stood in the corner behind her.
Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle,
While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe,
Followed the old man's song, and united the fragments together.
As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases,
Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar,
So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked.
Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted,
Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges.
Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith,
And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.
"Welcome!" the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold,
"Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the settle
Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee;
Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco;
Never so much thyself art thou as when, through the curling
Smoke of the pipe or the forge, thy friendly and jovial face gleams
Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes."
Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith,
Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside:--
"Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad!
Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with
Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them.
Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst packed up a horseshoe."
Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him,
And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:--
"Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors
Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us.
What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded
On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate
Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the meantime
Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people."
Then made answer the farmer:--"Perhaps some friendlier purpose
Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England
By the untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,
And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children."
"Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said warmly the blacksmith,
Shaking his head as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:--
"Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal.
Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts,
Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of tomorrow.
Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds;
Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower."
Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:--
"Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields,
Safer within these peaceful dikes besieged by the ocean,
Than were our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon.
Fear no evil, my friend, and tonight may no shadow of sorrow
Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract.
Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village
Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about them,
Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth.
Bene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn.
Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?"
As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's,
Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken,
And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered.
III
Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean,
Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public;
Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung
Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bows
Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal.
Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred
Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick.
Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive,
Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English.
Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion,
Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.
He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children;
For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest,
And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses,
And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened
Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children;
And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable,
And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell,
And of the marvelous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes,
With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village.
Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith,
Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand,
"Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, "thou hast heard the talk in the village,
And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand."
Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public,--
"Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser;
And what their errand may be I know not better than others.
Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention
Brings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us?"
"God's name!" shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith;
"Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore?
Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest!"
But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public,--
"Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice
Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me,
When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal."
This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it
When his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them.
"Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,
Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice
Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand,
And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided
Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people.
Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance,
Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them.
But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted;
Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty
Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace
That a necklace of pearls was lost, and ere long a suspicion
Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household.
She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold,
Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice.
As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended,
Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder
Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand
Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance,
And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie,
Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven."
Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith
Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language;
All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors
Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter.
Then Evangeline lighted the Brazen lamp on the table,
Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed
Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pre;
While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn,
Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties,
Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle.
Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed,
And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin.
Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table
Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver;
And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom,
Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare.
Wiping the foam from, his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed,
While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,
Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner.
Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men
Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre,
Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row.
Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure,
Sat the lovers and whispered together, beholding the moon rise
Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows.
Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell from the belfry
Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway
Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household.
Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-step
Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness.
Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone,
And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer.
Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed.
Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness,
Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden.
Silent she passed through the hall, and entered the door of her chamber.
Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press
Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded
Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven.
This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage,
Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a house-wife.
Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight
Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden
Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean.
Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with
Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber!
Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard,
Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow.
Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness
Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight
Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment.
And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass
Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps,
As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar.
IV.
Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pre.
Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas,
Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor.
Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor
Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning.
Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets,
Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants.
Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk
Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows,
Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward,
Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway.
Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced.
Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doors
Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together.
Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted;
For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together,
All things were held in common, and what one had was another's
Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant:
For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father;
Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness
Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it.
Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard,
Bending with golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal.
There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated;
There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith.
Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives,
Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats.
Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white
Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler
Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers.
Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle,
_Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres,_ and _Le Carillon de Dunkerque,_
And anon with his wooden, shoes beat time to the music.
Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances
Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;
Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them.
Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter!
Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith.
So passed the morning away. And lo! with a summons sonorous
Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.
Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard,
Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones
Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest.
Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them
Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor
Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,--
Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal
Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers.
Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar,
Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission.
"You are convened this day," he said, "by his Majesty's orders.
Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness
Let your own hearts reply! To my natural make and my temper
Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous.
Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch:
Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds
Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this province
Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there
Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people!
Prisoners now I declare you, for such is his Majesty's pleasure!"
As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer,
Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones
Beats down the farmer's corn in the field, and shatters his windows,
Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs,
Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures;
So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker.
Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose
Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger,
And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way.
Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations
Bang through the house of prayer; and high o'er the heads of the others
Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith,
As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows.
Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he shouted,--
"Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn them allegiance!
Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!"
More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier
Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement.
In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention,
Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician
Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar.
Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence
All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people;
Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful
Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes.
"What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you?
Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you,
Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another!
Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations?
Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness?
This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it
Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred?
Lo! where the crucified Christ from His cross is gazing upon you!
See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion!
Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, 'O Father, forgive them!'
Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us,
Let us repeat it now, and say, 'O Father, forgive them!'"
Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people
Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak,
And they repeated his prayer, and said, "O Father, forgive them!"
Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar;
Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded,
Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave Maria
Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated,
Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven.
Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides
Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children.
Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand
Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending,
Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor and roofed each
Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows.
Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table;
There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild flowers;
There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy;
And at the head of the board the great arm-chair of the farmer:
Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset
Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows.
Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen,
And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended,--
Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience!
Then, all forgetful of self, she wandered into the village,
Cheering with looks and words the disconsolate hearts of the women,
As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed,
Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children.
Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors
Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.
Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded.
Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered.
All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windows
Stood she, and listened and looked, until, overcome by emotion,
"Gabriel!" cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answer
Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living.
Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father.
Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board stood the supper untasted.
Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror.
Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber.
In the dead of the night she heard the whispering rain fall
Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window.
Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing thunder
Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world He created!
Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven;
Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning.
V.
Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day
Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.
Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,
Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,
Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,
Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,
Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the wood-land.
Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,
While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.
Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach
Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.
All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply;
All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.
Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,
Echoing far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.
Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors
Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession
Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers,
Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,
Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,
So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended
Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.
Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,
Sang they with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:--
"Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain!
Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!"
Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the wayside
Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them
Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.
Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence,
Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,--
Calmly and sadly waited, until the procession approached her,
And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion.
Tears then rilled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him,
Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whispered,--
"Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one another
Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!"
Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her father
Saw she, slowly advancing. Alas! how changed was his aspect!
Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstep
Heavier seemed with the weight of the weary heart in his bosom.
But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him,
Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not.
Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession.
There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.
Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion
Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children
Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.
So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,
While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.
Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight
Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean'
Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach
Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery seaweed.
Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,
Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,
All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,
Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.
Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,
Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving
Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.
Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;
Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;
Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,--
Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid.
Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,
Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.
But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled,
Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest.
Found them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,
Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children.
Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish,
Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering,
Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate seashore.
Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father,
And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man,
Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion,
E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken.
Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him,
Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not,
But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light.
_"Benedicite!"_ murmured the priest, in tones of compassion.
More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents
Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold,
Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow.
Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden,
Raising his eyes full of tears to the silent stars that above them
Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals.
Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence.
Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red
Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon
Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain, and meadow,
Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together.
Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,
Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.
Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were
Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr.
Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting,
Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from, a hundred house-tops
Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.
These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.
Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,
"We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pre!"
Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farmyards,
Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle
Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.
Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments
Far in the western prairies of forests that skirt the Nebraska,
When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,
Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.
Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses
Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows.
Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden
Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them;
And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion,
Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the seashore
Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed.
Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden
Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror.
Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom.
Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber;
And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her.
Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her,
Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion.
Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape,
Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her,
And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses.
Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,--
"Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season
Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile,
Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard."
Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side,
Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches,
But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pre.
And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow,
Lo! with, a mournful sound like the voice of a vast congregation,
Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.
'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,
With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.
Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;
And with the ebb of that tide the ships sailed out of the harbor,
Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.
PART THE SECOND.
I.
Many a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pre,
When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed,
Bearing a nation, with all its household goods, into exile,
Exile without an end, and without an example in story.
Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed;
Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the northeast
Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of Newfoundland.
Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city,
From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas,--
From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of Waters
Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean,
Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth.
Friends they sought and homes; and many, despairing, heart-broken,
Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside.
Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards.
Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered,
Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things.
Fair was she and young; but, alas! before her extended,
Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway
Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her,
Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned,
As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked by
Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine.
Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished;
As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine,
Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended
Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen.
Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her,
Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit,
She would commence again her endless search and endeavor;
Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones,
Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom
He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him.
Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper,
Came with its airy hand to, point and beckon her forward.
Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him,
But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten.
"Gabriel Lajeunesse!" said they; "Oh, yes! we have seen him.
He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies;
_Coureurs-des-bois_ are they, and famous hunters and trappers."
"Gabriel Lajeunesse!" said others; "Oh; yes! we have seen him.
He is a _voyageur_ in the lowlands of Louisiana."
Then would they say, "Dear child! why dream and wait for him longer?
Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? others
Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal?
Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee
Many a tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be happy!
Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's tresses."
Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, "I cannot!
Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere.
For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway,
Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness."
And thereupon the priest, her friend and father confessor,
Said, with a smile, "O daughter! thy God thus speaketh within thee!
Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted;
If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning
Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment;
That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.
Patience; accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy work of affection!
Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.
Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike,
Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven!"
Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline labored and waited.
Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean,
But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, "Despair not!"
Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort,
Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence.
Let me essay, O Muse! to follow the wanderer's footsteps;--
Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence;
But as a traveler follows a streamlet's course through the valley:
Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water
Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only;
Then drawing nearer its bank, through sylvan glooms that conceal it,
Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur;
Happy, at length, if he find a spot where it reaches an outlet.
II.
It was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River,
Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash,
Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi,
Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen.
It was a band of exiles: a raft, as it were, from the shipwrecked
Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together,
Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune;
Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay,
Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmers
On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas.
With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician
Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with forests,
Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river;
Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders.
Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelike
Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current,
Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sandbars
Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin,
Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded.
Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river,
Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens,
Stood the houses of planters, with negro cabins and dove-cots.
They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summer,
Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron,
Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward.
They, too, swerved from their course; and, entering the Bayou of Plaquemine,
Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters,
Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction.
Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypress
Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in midair
Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals.
Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the herons
Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset,
Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter.
Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water,
Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the arches,
Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a ruin.
Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around them;
And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sadness,--
Strange forebodings of ill, unseen, and that cannot be compassed.
As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies,
Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa,
So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil,
Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it.
But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly
Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight.
It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a phantom.
Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her,
And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer.
Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen,
And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventure
Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle.
Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang,
Breaking the seal of silence and giving tongues to the forest.
Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music.
Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance,
Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches;
But not a voice replied; no answer came from the darkness;
And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.
Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the midnight,
Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs,
Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers,
And through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert,
Far off,--indistinct,--as of wave or wind in the forest,
Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator.
Thus ere another noon they emerged from those shades; and before them
Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya.
Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations
Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus
Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen.
Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms,
And with the heat of noon; and numberless sylvan islands,
Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses,
Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber.
Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended.
Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew by the margin,
Safely their boat was moored; and scattered about on the greensward,
Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travelers slumbered.
Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar.
Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grapevine
Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob,
On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending,
Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom.
Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it.
Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven
Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial.
Nearer and ever nearer, among the numberless islands,
Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water,
Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers.
Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver.
At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and careworn.
Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadness
Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written.
Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless,
Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow.
Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island,
But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos;
So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows;
And undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers;
Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden.
Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie.
After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance,
As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden
Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, "O Father Felician!
Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders.
Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition?
Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit?"
Then, with a blush, she added, "Alas for my credulous fancy!
Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning."
But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered,--
"Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they to me without meaning,
Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surface
Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden.
Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.
Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the southward,
On the banks of the Teche, are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin.
There the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegroom,
There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheepfold.
Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees;
Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens
Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest.
They who dwell there have named it the Eden of Louisiana."
And with these words of cheer they arose and continued their journey.
Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon
Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape;
Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest
Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.
Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver,
Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water.
Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness.
Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountain of feeling
Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her.
Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers,
Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water,
Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music,
That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.
Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madness
Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes.
Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation;
Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision,
As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops
Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches.
With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion,
Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows through the green Opelousas,
And, through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland,
Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighboring dwelling;--
Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle.
III.
Near to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks from whose branches
Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted,
Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule-tide,
Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. A garden
Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms,
Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of timbers
Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together.
Large and low was the roof; and on slender columns supported,
Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious veranda,
Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it.
At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden,
Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual symbol,
Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals.
Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow and sunshine
Ran near the tops of the trees; but the house itself was in shadow,
And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding
Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose.
In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathway
Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie,
Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending.
Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas
Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics,
Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grapevines.
Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie,
Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups,
Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin.
Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombrero
Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master.
Round about him were numberless herds of kine that were grazing
Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory freshness
That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape.
Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding
Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded
Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening.
Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle
Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean.
Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the prairie,
And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance.
Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the garden
Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him.
Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forward
Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder;
When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the blacksmith.
Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden.
There in an arbor of roses with endless question and answer
Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces,
Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful.
Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark doubts' and misgivings
Stole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed,
Broke the silence and said, "If you came by the Atchafalaya,
How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's boat on the bayous?"
Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed.
Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent,
"Gone? is Gabriel gone?" and, concealing her face on his shoulder,
All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented.
Then the good Basil said,--and his voice grew blithe as he said it,--
"Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he departed.
Foolish boy! he has left me alone with my herds and my horses,
Moody and restless grown, and tired and troubled, his spirit
Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence.
Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever,
Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles,
He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens,
Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent him
Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards.
Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains,
Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver.
Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive lover;
He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him.
Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morning,
We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison."
Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river,
Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler.
Long under Basil's roof had he lived, like a god on Olympus,
Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals.
Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle.
"Long live Michael," they cried, "our brave Acadian minstrel!"
As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and straightway
Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man
Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured,
Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips,
Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters.
Much they marveled to see the wealth of the ci-devant blacksmith,
All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanor;
Much they marveled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate,
And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who would take them;
Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise.
Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the breezy veranda,
Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil
Waited his late return; and they rested and feasted together.
Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended.
All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver,
Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but within doors,
Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering lamplight.
Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman
Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion.
Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco,
Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened:--
"Welcome once more, my friends, who so long have been friendless and homeless,
Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one!
Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers;
Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer;
Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the water.
All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom; and grass grows
More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer.
Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies;
Here, too, lands may he had for the asking, and forests of timber
With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses.
After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests,
No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads,
Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle."
Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils,
And his huge, brawny hand came thundering down on the table,
So that the guests all started; and Father Felician, astounded,
Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to his nostrils.
But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer:--
"Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever!
For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate,
Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nutshell!"
Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approaching
Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy Veranda.
It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian planters,
Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the herdsman.
Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbors:
Friend clasped friend in his arms; and they who before were as strangers,
Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each other,
Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together.
But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, proceeding
From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious fiddle,
Broke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted,
All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddening
Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music,
Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments.
Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsman
Sat, conversing together of past and present and future;
While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her
Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music
Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness
Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden.
Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest,
Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river
Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight,
Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.
Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden
Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions
Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.
Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews,
Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight
Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings,
As, through the garden gate, beneath the brown shade of the oak-trees,
Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie.
Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies
Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers.
Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens,
Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship,
Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple,
As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, "Upharsin."
And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies,
Wandered alone, and she cried, "O Gabriel! O my beloved!
Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee?
Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me?
Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie!
Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me!
Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor,
Thou hast lain, down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers!
When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?"
Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded
Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets,
Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence.
"Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness;
And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, "To-morrow!"
Bright rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the garden
Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses
With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal.
"Farewell!" said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold;
"See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and famine,
And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming."
"Farewell!" answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil descended
Down to the rivers brink, where the boatmen already were waiting.
Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and gladness,
Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before them,
Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert.
Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded,
Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river,
Nor, after many days, had they found him; but vague and uncertain
Rumors alone were their guides through a wild and desolate country;
Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes,
Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous landlord
That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions,
Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies.
IV.
Far in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains
Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits.
Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gateway,
Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's wagon,
Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee.
Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river Mountains,
Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska;
And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras,
Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert,
Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean,
Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations.
Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies,
Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine,
Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas.
Over them wander the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck;
Over them wander the wolves, and herds of riderless horses;
Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel;
Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children,
Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible wartrails
Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture,
Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle,
By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens.
Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders;
Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers;
And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert,
Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brookside,
And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven,
Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them.
Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains,
Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him.
Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil
Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him.
Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire
Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but at nightfall,
When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes.
And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary,
Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana
Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them.
Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered
Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features
Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow.
She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people,
From the far-off hunting grounds of the cruel Comanches,
Where her Canadian husband, a coureur-des-bois, had been murdered.
Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome
Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them
On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers.
But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions,
Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the bison,
Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire-light
Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their blankets,
Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated
Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent,
All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses.
Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another
Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed.
Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion,
Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her,
She in turn related her love and all its disasters.
Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended
Still was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horror
Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis;
Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden,
But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam,
Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine,
Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest.
Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation,
Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom,
That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of the twilight,
Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden,
Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest,
And nevermore returned, nor was seen again by her people.
Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened
To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her
Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress.
Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose,
Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendor
Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland.
With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches
Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers.
Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a secret,
Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror,
As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow.
It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region, of spirits
Seemed to float in the air of night; and she felt for a moment
That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom.
And with this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished.
Early upon the morrow the march was resumed, and the Shawnee
Said, as they journeyed along,--"On the western slope of these mountains
Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission.
Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus;
Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him."
Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered,
"Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us!"
Thither they turned their steeds; and behind a spur of the mountains,
Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices,
And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river,
Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission.
Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village,
Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix fastened
High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grapevines,
Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it.
This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches
Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers,
Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches.
Silent, with heads uncovered, the travelers, nearer approaching,
Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions.
But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen
Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower,
Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade them
Welcome; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression,
Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest,
And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wigwam.
There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize-ear
Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher.
Soon was their story told; and the priest with solemnity answered:--
"Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated
On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes,
Told me this same sad tale; then arose and continued his journey!"
Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness;
But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the snowflakes
Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed.
"Far to the north he has gone," continued the priest; "but in autumn,
When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission."
Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive,
"Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted."
So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow,
Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions,
Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission.
Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other,--
Days and weeks and months; and the fields of maize that were springing
Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving about her,
Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming
Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels.
Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens
Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover,
But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the cornfield.
Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover.
"Patience!" the priest would say; "have faith, and thy prayer will be answered!
Look at this delicate plant that lifts its head from the meadow,
See how its leaves all point to the north, as true as the magnet;
It is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has suspended
Here on its fragile stalk to direct the traveler's journey
Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert.
Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion,
Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance,
But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.
Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter
Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe."
So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter--yet Gabriel came not;
Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bluebird
Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not.
But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted
Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom.
Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests,
Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw River.
And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence,
Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission.
When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches,
She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests,
Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin!
Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places
Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden;--
Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian Missions,
Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army,
Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities.
Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered.
Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey;
Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended.
Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty,
Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow.
Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o'er her forehead,
Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon,
As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning.
V.
In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters,
Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle,
Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded.
There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty,
And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest,
As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested.
There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile,
Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country.
There old Rene Leblanc had died; and when he departed,
Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants.
Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the city,
Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger;
And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers,
For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country,
Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters.
So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor,
Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining,
Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps.
As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning
Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us,
Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets,
So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her,
Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and the pathway
Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance.
Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image,
Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him,
Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence.
Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not.
Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but transfigured;
He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent;
Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others,
This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.
So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices,
Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma.
Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow,
Meekly with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour.
Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; frequenting
Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city,
Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight.
Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected.
Night after night when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated
Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city,
High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper.
Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs
Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market,
Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings.
Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city,
Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons,
Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an acorn.
And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September,
Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow,
So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin,
Spread to a brackish lake the silver stream of existence.
Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor;
But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger;--
Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants,
Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless.
Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands;--
Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gateway and wicket
Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo
Softly the words of the Lord:--"The poor ye always have with you."
Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying
Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there
Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor,
Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles,
Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance.
Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial,
Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would enter.
Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent,
Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse.
Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the garden,
And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them,
That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty.
Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east-wind,
Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church,
While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted
Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at Wicaco.
Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit;
Something within her said, "At length thy trials are ended;"
And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness.
Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants,
Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence
Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces,
Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the roadside.
Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered,
Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence
Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison.
And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler,
Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.
Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night time;
Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers.
Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder,
Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder
Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers,
And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning.
Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish,
That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows.
On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man.
Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples;
But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment
Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood;
So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying.
Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever,
As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals,
That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over.
Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted
Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness,
Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking.
Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations,
Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded
Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saintlike,
"Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into silence.
Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood;
Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them,
Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow,
As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.
Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids,
Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside.
Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered
Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken.
Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him,
Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom.
Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness,
As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement.
All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,
All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!
And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,
Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank thee!"
Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow,
Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard,
In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed.
Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,
Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,
Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,
Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,
Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!
Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its branches
Dwells another race, with other customs and language.
Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic
Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile
Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom.
In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy;
Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun,
And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story,
While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Historical: The early history of Nova Scotia records the conflict for
supremacy between the French and the English. By the French the country was
called Acadie, The Acadians were essentially French in blood and in their
sympathies, though the English were from time to time in authority over the
country. At one time the English demanded an oath of allegiance from the
Acadians. This they refused unless it should be so modified as to exempt
them from bearing arms against France. It was finally decided to remove the
Acadians from the country, scattering them throughout the colonies in such
a way as to prevent their concerted action in attempting to return to their
homes. Accordingly they were driven on board the English transports and
three thousand of them sent out of the country. In the confusion incident
to their removal, families and friends were separated, in many cases never
to meet again. The story of Evangeline is a recital of such separation.
Notes and Questions.
Into what parts is the poem divided?
With what does Part First deal? Part Second?
What purpose do the introductory lines to Part First serve?
Which lines give you the best picture of Acadie?
Which lines best describe the Acadians?
Explain: "There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance."
What characteristics had Evangeline? Find lines that tell you.
What picture does the poem give you of the home of Evangeline?
Who was Gabriel?
Describe the visit of Basil and Gabriel.
What were the characteristics of Father Leblanc?
Which lines in Longfellow's description of the contract and the evening
scene at the farmer's are the most beautiful?
Describe the betrothal feast in your own words.
What message did the voice of the thunder convey to Evangeline?
Describe in your own words the embarkation, and the death of Evangeline's
father.
Note the devotion of Evangeline as shown in her wanderings in search of
Gabriel in the United States: The visit of Evangeline to the Acadian
settlement in Louisiana, the southern home of Basil; Evangeline and Basil
follow Gabriel to the West; Evangeline as a Sister of Mercy in
Philadelphia; Gabriel found dying; The concluding stanza of the poem.
Which of the above descriptions impressed you most? Which is most pathetic?
Which do you like best?
Trace the journeyings of Evangeline on your map.
Find the lines that describe the burning of Grand-Pre. What can you say
about this description?
In this poem there are many beautiful descriptions. What kinds of scenery
are described? What kinds of people are described?
What had a life of sorrow taught Evangeline? Which lines tell you?
What led her to devote herself to the service of others?
What finally became her sole hope and wish?
Why does this poem endure? Do you like it? Why?
Which lines do you think are most beautiful?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"This is the forest primeval"
"Naught but tradition remains of Grand Pre"
"List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy"
"Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven"
"Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard"
"Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter Noblest of
all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith"
* * * * *
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
"Build me straight, O worthy Master!
Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel,
That shall laugh at all disaster,
And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"
The merchant's word
Delighted the Master heard;
For his heart was in his work, and the heart
Giveth grace unto every Art.
A quiet smile played round his lips,
As the eddies and dimples of the tide
Play round the bows of ships,
That steadily at anchor ride.
And with a voice that was full of glee,
He answered, "Ere long we will launch
A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch,
As ever weathered a wintry sea!"
And first with nicest skill and art,
Perfect and finished in every part,
A little model the Master wrought,
Which should be to the larger plan
What the child is to the man,
Its counterpart in miniature;
That with a hand more swift and sure
The greater labor might be brought
To answer to his inward thought.
And as he labored his mind ran o'er
The various ships that were built of yore,
And above them all, and strangest of all,
Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall,
Whose picture was hanging on the wall,
With bows and stern raised high in air,
And balconies hanging here and there,
And signal lanterns and flags afloat,
And eight round towers, like those that frown
From some old castle, looking down
Upon the drawbridge and the moat,
And he said, with a smile, "Our ship, I wis,
Shall be of another form than this!"
It was of another form, indeed;
Built for freight, and yet for speed,
A beautiful and gallant craft;
Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast,
Pressing down upon sail and mast,
Might not the sharp bows overwhelm;
Broad in the beam, but sloping aft
With graceful curve and slow degrees,
That she might be docile to the helm,
And that the currents of parted seas,
Closing behind, with mighty force,
Might aid and not impede her course.
In the ship-yard stood the Master,
With the model of the vessel,
That should laugh at all disaster,
And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!
Covering many a rood of ground,
Lay the timber piled around;
Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak,
And scattered here and there, with these,
The knarred and crooked cedar knees;
Brought from regions far away,
From Pascagoula's sunny bay,
And the banks of the roaring Roanoke!
Ah! what a wondrous thing it is
To note how many wheels of toil
One thought, one word, can set in motion!
There's not a ship that sails the ocean,
But every climate, every soil,
Must bring its tribute, great or small,
And help to build the wooden wall!
The sun was rising o'er the sea,
And long the level shadows lay,
As if they, too, the beams would be
Of some great, airy argosy,
Framed and launched in a single day,
That silent architect, the sun,
Had hewn and laid them every one,
Ere the work of man was yet begun.
Beside the Master, when he spoke,
A youth, against an anchor leaning,
Listened, to catch his slightest meaning.
Only the long waves, as they broke
In ripples on the pebbly beach,
Interrupted the old man's speech.
Beautiful they were, in sooth,
The old man and the fiery youth!
The old man, in whose busy brain
Many a ship that sailed the main
Was modelled o'er and o'er again;--
The fiery youth, who was to be
The heir of his dexterity,
The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand,
When he had built and launched from land
What the elder head had planned.
"Thus," said he, "will we build this ship!
Lay square the blocks upon the slip,
And follow well this plan of mine.
Choose the timbers with greatest care;
Of all that is unsound beware;
For only what is sound and strong
To this vessel shall belong.
Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine
Here together shall combine.
A goodly frame, and a goodly fame,
And the UNION be her name!
For the day that gives her to the sea
Shall give my daughter unto thee!"
The Master's word
Enraptured the young man heard;
And as he turned his face aside,
With a look of joy and a thrill of pride,
Standing before
Her father's door,
He saw the form of his promised bride.
The sun shone on her golden hair,
And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair,
With the breath of morn and the soft sea air.
Like a beauteous barge was she,
Still at rest on the sandy beach,
Just beyond the billow's reach;
But he
Was the restless, seething, stormy sea!
Ah, how skilful grows the hand
That obeyeth Love's command!
It is the heart, and not the brain,
That to the highest doth attain,
And he who followeth Love's behest
Far exceedeth all the rest!
Thus with the rising of the sun
Was the noble task begun,
And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds
Were heard the intermingled sounds
Of axes and of mallets, plied
With vigorous arms on every side;
Plied so deftly and so well,
That, ere the shadows of evening fell,
The keel of oak for a noble ship,
Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong,
Was lying ready, and stretched along
The blocks, well placed upon the slip.
Happy, thrice happy, every one
Who sees his labor well begun,
And not perplexed and multiplied,
By idly waiting for time and tide!
And when the hot, long day was o'er,
The young man at the Master's door
Sat with the maiden calm and still,
And within the porch, a little more
Removed beyond the evening chill,
The father sat, and told them tales
Of wrecks in the great September gales,
Of pirates upon the Spanish Main,
And ships that never came back again,
The chance and change of a sailor's life,
Want and plenty, rest and strife,
His roving fancy, like the wind,
That nothing can stay and nothing can bind,
And the magic charm of foreign lands,
With shadows of palms, and shining sands,
Where the tumbling surf,
O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar,
Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar,
As he lies alone and asleep on the turf.
And the trembling maiden held her breath
At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea,
With all its terror and mystery,
The dim dark sea, so like unto Death,
That divides and yet unites mankind!
And whenever the old man paused, a gleam
From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume
The silent group in the twilight gloom,
And thoughtful faces, as in a dream;
And for a moment one might mark
What had been hidden by the dark,
That the head of the maiden lay at rest
Tenderly, on the young man's breast!
Day by day the vessel grew,
With timbers fashioned strong and true,
Sternson and keelson and sternson-knee,
Till, framed with perfect symmetry,
A skeleton ship rose up to view!
And around the bows and along the side
The heavy hammers and mallets plied,
Till after many a week, at length,
Wonderful for form and strength,
Sublime in its enormous bulk,
Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk!
And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing,
Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething,
Cauldron, that glowed,
And overflowed,
With the black tar, heated for the sheathing.
And amid the clamors
Of clattering hammers,
He who listened heard now and then
The song of the Master and his men:--
"Build me straight, O worthy Master,
Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel,
That shall laugh at all disaster,
And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"
With oaken brace and copper band,
Lay the rudder on the sand,
That, like a thought, should have control
Over the movement of the whole;
And near it the anchor, whose giant hand
Would reach down and grapple with the land,
And immovable and fast
Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast!
And at the bows an image stood,
By a cunning artist carved in wood,
With robes of white, that far behind
Seemed to be fluttering in the wind.
It was not shaped in a classic mould,
Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old,
Or Naiad rising from the water,
But modeled from the Master's daughter.
On many a dreary and misty night,
'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light,
Speeding along through the rain and the dark,
Like a ghost in its snow-white sark,
The pilot of some phantom hark,
Guiding the vessel, in its flight,
By a path none other knows aright!
Behold, at last,
Each tall and tapering mast
Is swung into its place;
Shrouds and stays
Holding it firm and fast!
Long ago,
In the deer-haunted forests of Maine,
When upon mountain and plain
Lay the snow,
They fell,--those lordly pines!
Those grand, majestic pines!
'Mid shouts and cheers
The jaded steers,
Panting beneath the goad,
Dragged down the weary, winding road
Those captive kings so straight and tall,
To be shorn of their streaming hair,
And, naked and bare,
To feel the stress and the strain
Of the wind and the reeling main,
Whose roar
Would remind them for evermore
Of their native forests they should not see again.
And everywhere
The slender, graceful spars
Poise aloft in the air,
And at the mast-head,
White, blue, and red,
A flag unrolls the Stripes and Stars.
Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless,
In foreign harbors shall behold
That flag unrolled,
'T will be as a friendly hand
Stretched out from his native land,
Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless!
All is finished! and at length
Has come the bridal day
Of beauty and of strength.
To-day the vessel shall be launched!
With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched,
And o'er the bay,
Slowly, in all his splendors dight,
The great sun rises to behold the sight.
The ocean old,
Centuries old,
Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled,
Paces restless to and fro,
Up and down the sands of gold.
His beating heart is not at rest;
And far and wide,
With ceaseless flow,
His beard of snow
Heaves with the heaving of his breast.
He waits impatient for his bride.
There she stands,
With her foot upon the sands,
Decked with flags and streamers gay,
In honor of her marriage day,
Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending,
Bound her like a veil descending,
Ready to be
The bride of the gray old sea.
On the deck another bride
Is standing by her lover's side.
Shadows from the flags and shrouds,
Like the shadows cast by clouds,
Broken by many a sunny fleck,
Fall around them on the deck.
The prayer is said,
The service read,
The joyous bridegroom bows his head;
And in tears the good old Master
Shakes the brown hand of his son,
Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek
In silence, for he cannot speak,
And ever faster
Down his own the tears begin to run.
The worthy pastor--
The shepherd of that wandering flock,
That has the ocean for its wold,
That has the vessel for its fold,
Leaping ever from rock to rock--
Spake, with accents mild and clear,
Words of warning, words of cheer,
But tedious to the bridegroom's ear.
He knew the chart
Of the sailor's heart,
All its pleasures and its griefs,
All its shallows and rocky reefs,
All those secret currents, that flow
With such resistless undertow,
And lift and drift, with terrible force,
The will from its moorings and its course.
Therefore he spake, and thus said he:--
"Like unto ships far off at sea,
Outward or homeward bound, are we,
Before, behind, and all around,
Floats and swings the horizon's bound,
Seems at its distant rim to rise
And climb the crystal wall of the skies,
And then again to turn and sink,
As if we could slide from its outer brink.
Ah! it is not the sea,
It is not the sea that sinks and shelves,
But ourselves
That rock and rise
With endless and uneasy motion,
Now touching the very skies,
Now sinking into the depths of ocean.
Ah! if our souls but poise and swing
Like the compass in its brazen ring,
Ever level and ever true
To the toil and the task we have to do,
We shall sail securely, and safely reach
The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach
The sights we see, and the sounds we hear,
Will be those of joy and not of fear!"
Then the Master,
With a gesture of command,
Waved his hand;
And at the word,
Loud and sudden there was heard,
All around them and below,
The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
Knocking away the shores and spurs.
And see! she stirs!
She starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel
The thrill of life along her keel,
And, spurning with her foot the ground,
With one exulting, joyous bound,
She leaps into the ocean's arms!
And lo! from the assembled crowd
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
That to the ocean seemed to say,
"Take her, Oh bridegroom, old and gray,
Take her to thy protecting arms,
With all her youth and all her charms!"
How beautiful she is! How fair
She lies within those arms, that press
Her form with many a soft caress
Of tenderness and watchful care!
Sail forth into the sea, O ship!
Through wind and wave, right onward steer!
The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
Sail forth into the sea of life,
O gentle, loving, trusting wife,
And safe from all adversity
Upon the bosom of that sea
Thy comings and thy goings be!
For gentleness and love and trust
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust;
And in the wreck of noble lives
Something immortal still survives!
Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
Sail on, O UNION, strong and great!
Humanity with all its fears,
With all the hopes of future years,
Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
We know what Master laid thy keel,
What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
In what a forge and what a heat
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
'T is of the wave and not the rock;
'T is but the flapping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale!
In spite of rock and tempest's roar,
In spite of false lights on the shore,
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
Are all with thee,--are all with thee!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
Quote the lines that tell the kind of ship the Master is to build.
What comparison does the Master use in speaking of the model?
What does Longfellow say that one thought can do?
Explain lines 84 to 93.
Account for the name given the ship by the Master.
Describe the daughter in your own words.
Explain: "It is the heart, and not the brain, That to the highest doth
attain."
Quote the song of the Master and his men.
What uses are assigned to each of the following: "the rudder," "the
anchor," "the image at the bows."
Read the description of "those lordly pines."
What does Longfellow say the flag of the ship will be to the wanderer?
Longfellow comments on the marriage of the ship with the sea. Explain the
figure of speech.
Memorize the pastor's words.
Describe the launching in your own words.
Have you ever seen a ship launched?
What does the building of the ship symbolize?
Memorize the apostrophe to the ship of state and explain the symbol in
detail.
Find examples of alliteration.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"airy argosy"
"heir of his dexterity"
"slip"
"scarfed"
"Like a beauteous barge was she"
"moat"
"knarred"
* * * * *
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
The year 1807 was the birth year of both Whittier and L |
