Standard Selections
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Title: Standard Selections
Editor: Robert I. Fulton
Edwin P. Trueblood
Thomas C. Trueblood
Release date: November 27, 2006 [eBook #19926]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19926
Credits: Produced by Kevin Handy, John Hagerson, Martin Pettit and
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STANDARD SELECTIONS ***
Produced by Kevin Handy, John Hagerson, Martin Pettit and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
STANDARD SELECTIONS
A COLLECTION AND ADAPTATION OF SUPERIOR
PRODUCTIONS FROM BEST AUTHORS
FOR USE IN CLASS ROOM AND
ON THE PLATFORM
ARRANGED AND EDITED BY
ROBERT I. FULTON
DEAN OF THE SCHOOL OF ORATORY AND PROFESSOR OF ELOCUTION
AND ORATORY IN THE OHIO WESLEYAN UNIVERSITY
THOMAS C. TRUEBLOOD
PROFESSOR OF ELOCUTION AND ORATORY IN THE
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
AND
EDWIN P. TRUEBLOOD
PROFESSOR OF ELOCUTION AND ORATORY IN EARLHAM COLLEGE
GINN AND COMPANY
BOSTON · NEW YORK · CHICAGO · LONDON
ATLANTA · DALLAS · COLUMBUS · SAN FRANCISCO
COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY
R. I. FULTON, T. C. TRUEBLOOD, AND E. P. TRUEBLOOD
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The Athenæum Press
GINN AND COMPANY · PROPRIETORS
BOSTON · U.S.A.
PREFACE
The purpose of the compilers of this volume is:--
_First_, to provide some new material in poetry and eloquence that has
never before appeared in books of this character, in addition to many
standard selections familiar to the general public;
_Second_, to furnish selections that will stand the test of literary
criticism and at the same time prove to be popular and successful for
public entertainment;
_Third_, to offer for the use of classes in public speaking such
carefully selected literature of varied scope as will be helpful and
stimulating in the practice of reading aloud and profitable in acquiring
power of vocal interpretation;
_Fourth_, to stimulate interest in the works of the authors from whom we
have chosen and in the speeches or books from which extracts have been
taken;
_Fifth_, to present as models for students in public speaking notable
specimens of eloquence, among which are masterpieces of the seven great
orators of the world and from the six great triumphs in the history of
American oratory;
_Sixth_, to provide carefully chosen scenes from a few standard, modern
dramas for class-room and platform use. In these scenes the attempt has
been made to preserve the spirit and unity of the plays, to shorten them
to practical length, and to adapt them to the demands of the public
audience.
To avoid reprinting material which is already universally accessible, we
have inserted no scenes from Shakespeare; but the reader is referred to
Fulton and Trueblood's "Choice Readings" (published by Ginn and
Company), which contains copious Indexes to choice scenes from
Shakespeare, the Bible, and hymn-books. The two volumes include a wide
field of literature best suited for public speaking.
The selections throughout the book are arranged under six different
classes and cover a wide range of thought and emotion. While many shades
of feeling may be found in the same selection, it has been our aim to
place each one under the division with which, as a whole, it is most
closely allied.
We are grateful to the many authors and publishers who have courteously
permitted us to use their publications. Instead of naming them in the
preface we have chosen to make due acknowledgment in a footnote wherever
their selections appear in the volume.
F. AND T.
CONTENTS
I
NARRATIVE, DESCRIPTIVE, PATHETIC
PAGE
Arena Scene from "Quo Vadis?" The _Sienkiewicz._ 1
Arrow and the Song, The _Longfellow._ 8
Aux Italiens _Lytton._ 8
Bobby Shafto _Henry._ 12
Carcassonne _Nadaud._ 13
Child-wife, The _Dickens._ 15
Count Gismond _Browning._ 21
Death of Arbaces, The _Lytton._ 25
Dora _Tennyson._ 32
Easter with Parepa, An _Delano._ 37
Evening Bells, Those _Moore._ 41
Ginevra _Coolidge._ 42
High Tide at Lincolnshire, The _Ingelow._ 47
How Did You Die? _Cooke._ 52
Indigo Bird, The _Burroughs._ 53
Jackdaw of Rheims, The _Barham._ 54
Jaffar _Hunt._ 57
Jim Bludsoe _Hay._ 59
King Robert of Sicily _Longfellow._ 61
Lady of Shalott, The _Tennyson._ 67
Legend of Service, A _Van Dyke._ 72
Little Boy Blue _Field._ 76
Mary's Night Ride _Cable._ 77
Nydia, the Blind Girl _Lytton._ 80
O Captain, My Captain! _Whitman._ 88
On the Other Train _Anon._ 89
Pansy, The _Anon._ 92
"Revenge," The _Tennyson._ 94
Rider of the Black Horse, The _Lippard._ 98
Sailing beyond Seas _Ingelow._ 101
Sands of Dee, The _Kingsley._ 102
School of Squeers, The _Dickens._ 103
Secret of Death, The _Arnold._ 110
Shamus O'Brien _Le Fanu._ 113
Ships, My _Wilcox._ 117
Soldier's Reprieve, The _Robbins._ 118
Song, The _Scott._ 123
Stirrup Cup, The _Hay._ 124
Swan-song, The _Brooks._ 125
Sweet Afton _Burns._ 129
Violet's Blue _Henry._ 130
Waterfowl, To a _Bryant._ 132
Wedding Gown, The _Pierce._ 133
When the Snow Sifts Through _Gillilan._ 137
Wild Flower, To a _Thompson._ 138
Zoroaster, The Fate of _Crawford._ 139
II
SOLEMN, REVERENTIAL, SUBLIME
Centennial Hymn _Whittier._ 144
Chambered Nautilus, The _Holmes._ 145
Crossing the Bar _Tennyson._ 146
Destruction of Sennacherib, The _Byron._ 147
Each and All _Emerson._ 148
Laus Deo! _Whittier._ 149
Pilgrim Fathers, The _Hemans._ 151
Present Crisis, The _Lowell._ 152
Recessional, The _Kipling._ 155
Sacredness of Work, The _Carlyle._ 156
What's Hallowed Ground? _Campbell._ 157
III
PATRIOTIC, HEROIC, ORATORICAL
The Seven Great Orators of the World 159
I. Demosthenes
Encroachments of Philip, The 159
II. Cicero
Oration against Antony 162
III. Chrysostom
Undue Lamentations over the Dead 165
On Applauding Preachers 167
IV. Bossuet
On the Death of the Prince of Condé 169
V. Chatham
I. War with America 171
II. Attempt to Subjugate America 173
VI. Burke
I. Impeachment of Hastings 175
II. Conciliation with America 178
III. English Privileges in America 182
VII. Webster
I. Bunker Hill Monument 185
II. Revolutionary Patriots 188
III. Character of Washington 191
Six Great Triumphs in the History of American Oratory 193
I. Henry
Call to Arms, The 193
II. Hamilton
Coercion of Delinquent States 196
III. Webster
Reply to Hayne, The 199
IV. Phillips
Murder of Lovejoy, The 202
V. Lincoln
Slavery Issue, The 206
VI. Beecher
Moral Aspect of the American War 208
Abolition of War _Sumner._ 212
American Flag, The _Beecher._ 215
American People, The _Beveridge._ 217
American Question, The _Bright._ 218
America's Relation to Missions _Angell._ 220
American Slavery _Bright._ 222
Armenian Massacres, The _Gladstone._ 222
Battle Hymn of the Republic _Howe._ 225
Blue and the Gray, The _Lodge._ 226
Corruption of Prelates _Savonarola._ 228
Cross of Gold, The _Bryan._ 231
Death of Congressman Burnes _Ingalls._ 235
Death of Garfield, The _Blaine._ 237
Death of Grady, The _Graves._ 246
Death of Toussaint L'Ouverture _Phillips._ 239
Dedication of Gettysburg Cemetery, The _Lincoln._ 241
Fallen Heroes of Japan, The _Togo._ 242
Glory of Peace, The _Sumner._ 248
Hope of the Republic, The _Grady._ 249
Hungarian Heroism _Kossuth._ 250
International Relations _McKinley._ 251
Irish Home Rule _Gladstone._ 255
Lincoln _Castelar._ 258
Lincoln _Garfield._ 260
Louisiana Purchase Exposition _Hay._ 261
Man with the Muck-rake, The _Roosevelt._ 264
Message to the Squadron _Togo._ 271
Minute Man, The _Curtis._ 273
More Perfect Union, A _Curtis._ 275
Napoleon _Corwin._ 278
Napoleon _Ingersoll._ 279
National Control of Corporations _Roosevelt._ 280
Negro, The _Grady._ 283
New England _Quincy._ 284
New South, The _Grady._ 284
O'Connell _Phillips._ 290
Open Door, The _Henry._ 292
Organization of the World _Mead._ 294
Permanency of Empire, The _Phillips._ 296
Pilgrims, The _Phillips._ 297
Principles of the Founders _Mead._ 299
Responsibility of War, The _Channing._ 302
Scotland _Flagg._ 304
Secession _Stephens._ 243
Second Inaugural Address _Lincoln._ 305
Slavery and the Union _Lincoln._ 307
Subjugation of the Filipino _Hoar._ 309
Sufferings and Destiny of the Pilgrims _Everett._ 312
To Arms _Kossuth._ 313
True American Patriotism _Cockran_. 314
Vision of War _Ingersoll_. 315
War in the Twentieth Century _Mead_. 318
Washington _Phillips_. 321
IV
GAY, HUMOROUS, COMIC
A Boy's Mother _Riley_. 323
Almost beyond Endurance _Riley_. 324
Bird in the Hand, A _Weatherly_. 328
Breaking the Charm _Dunbar_. 325
Candle Lightin' Time _Dunbar_. 327
"Day of Judgment, The" _Phelps_. 330
De Appile Tree _Harris_. 335
Dooley on La Grippe Microbes _Dunne_. 337
Doctrinal Discussion, A _Edwards_. 340
Finnigin to Flannigan _Gillilan_. 343
Gavroche and the Elephant _Hugo_. 345
Hazing of Valiant, The _Anon_. 349
Hindoo's Paradise, The _Anon_. 353
If I Knew _Anon_. 354
Imaginary Invalid, The _Jerome_. 354
Jane Jones _King_. 357
Knee-deep in June _Riley_. 359
Little Breeches _Hay_. 362
Low-Backed Car, The _Lover_. 364
Mammy's Pickanin' _Jenkins_. 366
Mandalay _Kipling_. 368
Mr. Coon and Mr. Rabbit _Harris_. 370
Money Musk _Taylor_. 373
One-legged Goose, The _Smith_. 375
Pessimist, The _King_. 379
Schneider Sees Leah _Anon_. 380
Superfluous Man, The _Saxe_. 384
Usual Way, The _Anon_. 386
Wedding Fee, The _Streeter_. 387
When Malindy Sings _Dunbar_. 389
When the Cows Come Home _Mitchell_. 391
V
DRAMATIC, NOT IN THE DRAMA
Confessional, The _Anon._ 395
Jean Valjean and the Good Bishop _Hugo_. 400
Lasca _Anon._ 404
Michael Strogoff _Verne_. 408
Mrs. Tree _Richards_. 414
Portrait, The _Lytton_. 423
Tell-tale Heart, The _Poe_. 426
Uncle, The _Bell_. 431
VI
SCENES FROM THE DRAMA
Beau Brummell, Act I, Scene I; Act II, Scene 3 _Jerrold_. 468
Bells, The, Act III, Scene I _Williams_. 437
Lady of Lyons, The, Act II, Scene I; Act III,
Scene 2 _Lytton_. 441
Pygmalion and Galatea, Act I, Scene I; Act II,
Scene I _Gilbert_. 493
Rip Van Winkle, Act I, Scene I; Act II, Scene I _Irving_. 449
Rivals, The, Act I, Scene 2; Act II, Scene I;
Act III, Scene I; Act IV, Scene 2 _Sheridan_. 454
Set of Turquoise, The, Act I, Scene I; Act I,
Scene 2 _Aldrich_. 478
She Stoops to Conquer, Act II, Scene I _Goldsmith_. 486
INDEX OF AUTHORS 509
STANDARD SELECTIONS
I
NARRATIVE, DESCRIPTIVE, PATHETIC
THE ARENA SCENE FROM "QUO VADIS"[1]
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
The Roman Empire in the first century presents the most revolting
picture of mankind to be found in the pages of history. Society founded
on superior force, on the most barbarous cruelty, on crime and mad
profligacy, was corrupt beyond the power of words to describe. Rome
ruled the world, but was also its ulcer, and the horrible monster, Nero,
guilty of all hideous and revolting crimes, seems a fit monarch for such
a people.
A few years ago appeared "Quo Vadis?" the story from which this
selection is made. The book attained so great a popularity, that it was
translated into almost every tongue. In spite of its many faults, it
invited the attention, and, although it shocked the sensibilities, when
its great purpose was understood it melted the heart.
The author drew a startlingly vivid and horrible picture of humanity at
this lowest stage, and in conflict with it he showed us the Christ
spirit.
The extract is the story of how the young Vinicius, a patrician, a
soldier, a courtier of Nero, through the labyrinth of foul sin, of
self-worship and self-indulgence, with love for his guide, found his
way home to the feet of Him who commanded, "Be ye pure even as I am
pure."
It is the love story of Vinicius and the Princess Lygia, a convert to
Christ. The girl's happy and innocent life was rudely disturbed by a
summons to the court of the profligate emperor. Arrived there, she found
that Nero had given her to Vinicius, who had fallen passionately in love
with her; but on the way to Vinicius' house she was rescued by the giant
Ursus, one of her devoted attendants and a member of her own faith. They
escaped in safety to the Christians, who were living in hiding in the
city.
The imperious nature of the youthful soldier for the first time in his
life met resistance. He was so transported with rage and disappointment
that he ordered the slaves from whom Lygia had escaped to be flogged to
death, while he set out to find the girl who had dared to thwart his
desire. His egotism was so great that he would have seen the city and
the whole world sunk in ruins rather than fail of his purpose. For days
and days his search was unceasing, and at last he found Lygia, but in
making a second attempt to carry her off was severely wounded by the
giant Ursus. Finding himself helpless in the Christians' hands, he
expected nothing but death; but instead he was carefully and tenderly
nursed back to health. Waking from his delirium, he found at his bedside
Lygia--Lygia, whom he had most injured, watching alone, while the others
had gone to rest. Gradually in his pagan head the idea began to hatch
with difficulty that at the side of naked beauty, confident and proud of
Greek and Roman symmetry, there is another in the world, new, immensely
pure, in which a soul resides. As the days went by, Vinicius was
thrilled to the very depths of his soul by the consciousness that Lygia
was learning to love him. With that revelation came the certain
conviction that his religion would forever make an inseparable barrier
between them. Then he hated Christianity with all the powers of his
soul, yet he could not but acknowledge that it had adorned Lygia with
that exceptional, unexplained beauty, which was producing in his heart
besides love, respect; besides desire, homage. Yet, when he thought of
accepting the religion of the Nazarene, all the Roman in him rose up in
revolt against the idea. He knew that if he were to accept that teaching
he would have to throw, as on a burning pile, all his thoughts, ideas,
ambitions, habits of life, his very nature up to that moment, burn them
into ashes and fill himself with an entirely new life, and from his soul
he cried that it was impossible; it was impossible!
Before Vinicius had entirely recovered Nero commanded his presence at
Antium, whither the court was going for the hot summer months. Nero was
ambitious to write an immortal epic poem which should rival the
"Odyssey," and in order that he might describe realistically a burning
city, gave a secret command while he was in Antium that Rome should be
set on fire.
One evening, when the court was assembled to hear Nero recite some of
his poetry, a slave appeared.
"Pardon, Divine Imperator, Rome is burning! The whole city is a sea of
flames!" A moment of horrified silence followed, broken by the cry of
Vinicius. He rushed forth, and, springing on his horse, dashed into the
deep night. A horseman, rushing also like a whirlwind, but in the
opposite direction, toward Antium, shouted as he raced past: "Rome is
perishing!" To the ears of Vinicius came only one more expression:
"Gods!" The rest was drowned by the thunder of hoofs. But the expression
sobered him. "Gods!" He raised his head suddenly, and, stretching his
arms toward the sky filled with stars, began to pray.
"Not to you, whose temples are burning, do I call, but to Thee. Thou
Thyself hast suffered. Thou alone hast understood people's pain. If Thou
art what Peter and Paul declare, save Lygia. Seek her in the burning;
save her and I will give Thee my blood!"
Before he had reached the top of the mountain he felt the wind on his
face, and with it the odor of smoke came to his nostrils. He touched the
summit at last, and then a terrible sight struck his eyes. The whole
lower region was covered with smoke, but beyond this gray, ghastly plain
the city was burning on the hills. The conflagration had not the form of
a pillar, but of a long belt, shaped like the dawn.
Vinicius' horse, choking with the smoke, became unmanageable. He sprang
to the earth and rushed forward on foot. The tunic began to smolder on
him in places; breath failed his lungs; strength failed his bones; he
fell! Two men, with gourds full of water, ran to him and bore him away.
When he regained consciousness he found himself in a spacious cave,
lighted with torches and tapers. He saw a throng of people kneeling, and
over him bent the tender, beautiful face of his soul's beloved.
Lygia was indeed safe from the burning, but before the first thrill of
relief was over an infinitely more horrible danger threatened her. The
people were in wrath and threatened violence to Nero and his court, for
it was popularly believed that the city had been set on fire at the
emperor's instigation. The coward, Nero, was startled and thoroughly
alarmed, and welcomed gladly the suggestion that the calamity should be
blamed on the Christians, who were viewed with great suspicion by the
common people, and obliged even then to live in hiding. In order to
clear himself and to divert the people's minds, he instituted at once
against the Christians the most horrible persecutions that have ever
stained man's history. For days and days the people came in countless
numbers to witness the tortures of the innocent victims; but at last
they grew weary of blood-spilling. Then it was given out that Nero had
arranged a climax for the last of the Christians who were to die at an
evening spectacle in a brilliantly lighted amphitheater. Chief interest
both of the Augustinians and the people centered in Lygia and Vinicius,
for the story of their love was now generally known, and everybody felt
that Nero was intending to make a tragedy for himself out of the
suffering of Vinicius.
At last the evening arrived. The sight was in truth magnificent. All
that was powerful, brilliant and wealthy in Rome was there. The lower
seats were crowded with togas as white as snow. In a gilded padium sat
Nero, wearing a diamond collar and a golden crown upon his head. Every
eye was turned with strained gaze to the place where the unfortunate
lover was sitting. He was exceedingly pale, and his forehead was covered
with drops of sweat. To his tortured mind came the thought that faith of
itself would spare Lygia. Peter had said that faith would move the earth
to its foundations. He crushed doubt in himself, compressed his whole
being into the sentence, "I believe," and he looked for a miracle.
The prefect of the city waved a red handkerchief, and out of the dark
gully into the brilliantly lighted arena came Ursus. In Rome there was
no lack of gladiators, larger by far than the common measure of man; but
Roman eyes had never seen the like of Ursus. The people gazed with the
delight of experts at his mighty limbs, as large as tree trunks; at his
breast, as large as two shields joined together, and his arms of a
Hercules. He was unarmed, and had determined to die as became a follower
of the Lamb, peacefully and patiently. Meanwhile he wished to pray once
more to the Saviour. So he knelt on the arena, joined his hands and
raised his eyes towards the stars. This act displeased the crowd. They
had had enough of those Christians, who died like sheep. They understood
that if the giant would not defend himself, the spectacle would be a
failure. Here and there hisses were heard. Some began to cry for
scourgers, whose office it was to lash combatants unwilling to fight.
But soon all had grown silent, for no one knew what was waiting for the
giant, nor whether he would not defend himself when he met death eye to
eye.
In fact, they had not long to wait. Suddenly the shrill sound of brazen
trumpets was heard, and at that signal into the arena rushed, amid the
shouts of the beast-keepers, an enormous German aurochs, bearing on his
head the naked body of a woman.
Vinicius sprang to his feet.
"Lygia! Oh, ... I believe! I believe! Oh, Christ, a miracle! a miracle!"
And he did not even know that Petronius had covered his head at that
moment with a toga. He did not look; he did not see. The feeling of some
awful emptiness possessed him. In his head there remained not a thought.
His lips merely repeated as if in madness, "I believe! I believe! I
believe!"
This time the amphitheater was silent, for in the arena something
uncommon had happened. That giant, obedient and ready to die, when he
saw his queen on the horns of the wild beast, sprang up, as if touched
by living fire, and, bending forward, he ran at the raging animal.
From all breasts a sudden cry of amazement was heard, as the giant fell
on the raging bull and seized him by the horns. And then came deep
silence. All breasts ceased to breathe. In the amphitheater a fly might
be heard on the wing. People could not believe their own eyes. Since
Rome was Rome no one had ever seen such a spectacle. The man's feet sank
in the sand to his ankle; his back was bent like a bow; his head was
hidden between his shoulders; on his arms the muscles came out so that
the skin almost burst from their pressure; but he had stopped the bull
in his tracks. The man and the bull remained so still that the
spectators thought themselves looking at a group hewn in stone. But in
that apparent repose there was a tremendous exertion of two struggling
forces. The bull's feet, as well as the man's, sank in the sand, and the
dark, shaggy body was curved so that it seemed a gigantic ball. Which
of the two would fail first? Which would fall first?
Meanwhile a dull roar resembling a groan was heard from the arena, after
which a brief shout was wrested from every breast, and again there was
silence. Duller and duller, hoarser and hoarser, more and more painful
grew the groan of the bull as it mingled with the whistling breath from
the breast of the giant. The head of the beast began to turn in the iron
hands of the barbarian, and from his jaws crept forth a long, foaming
tongue. A moment more and to the ears of the spectators sitting nearer
came, as it were, the crack of breaking bones; then the beast rolled on
the earth, dead.
The giant removed in a twinkling the ropes that bound the maiden to the
horns of the bull. His face was very pale; he stood as if only half
conscious; then he raised his eyes and looked at the spectators.
The amphitheater had gone wild. The walls of the building were trembling
from the roar of tens of thousands of people.
Everywhere were heard cries for mercy, passionate and persistent, which
soon turned into one unbroken thunder.
The giant understood that they were asking for his life and liberty, but
his thoughts were not for himself. He raised the unconscious maiden in
his arms, and, going to Nero's padium, held her up and looked up
imploringly.
Vinicius sprang over the barrier, which separated the lower seats from
the arena, and, running to Lygia, covered her with his toga.
Then he tore apart the tunic on his breast, laid bare the scars left by
wounds received in the Armenian war, and stretched out his hands to the
multitude.
At this the enthusiasm passed everything ever seen in a circus before.
Voices choking with tears began to demand mercy. Yet Nero halted and
hesitated. He would have preferred to see the giant and the maiden rent
by the horns of the bull.
Nero was alarmed. He understood that to oppose longer was simply
dangerous. A disturbance begun in the circus might seize the whole city.
He looked once more, and, seeing everywhere frowning brows, excited
faces and eyes fixed on him, he slowly raised his hand and gave the sign
for mercy.
Then a thunder of applause broke from the highest seats to the lowest.
But Vinicius heard it not. He dropped on his knees in the arena,
stretched his hands toward heaven and cried: "I believe! Oh, Christ! I
believe! I believe!"
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Copyright, 1896, by Jeremiah Curtin.
THE ARROW AND THE SONG[2]
H. W. LONGFELLOW
I shot an arrow into the air.
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air.
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong
That it can follow the flight of song.
Long, long afterward, in an oak,
I found the arrow still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
FOOTNOTE:
[2] Used by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers of his
works.
AUX ITALIENS
R. BULWER LYTTON
At Paris it was, at the opera there;
And she looked like a queen that night,
With a wreath of pearl in her raven hair,
And the brooch in her breast so bright.
Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,
The best, to my taste, is the "Trovatoré":
And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note,
The souls in purgatory.
The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;
And who was not thrilled in the strangest way,
As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low,
"_Non ti scordar di me?_"
The Emperor there in his box of state,
Looked grave; as if he had just then seen
The red flag wave from the city gate,
Where the eagles in bronze had been.
The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye;
You'd have thought that her fancy had gone back again,
For one moment, under the old blue sky,
To that old glad life in Spain.
Well! there in our front row box we sat
Together, my bride betrothed and I;
My gaze was fixed on my opera hat,
And hers on the stage hard by.
And both were silent and both were sad;
Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm,
With that regal indolent air she had;
So confident of her charm!
I have not a doubt she was thinking then
Of her former lord, good soul that he was,
Who died the richest and roundest of men,
The Marquis of Carabas.
I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,
Through a needle's eye he had not to pass;
I wish him well for the jointure given
To my lady of Carabas.
Meanwhile I was thinking of my first love
As I had not been thinking of aught for years;
Till over my eyes there began to move
Something that felt like tears.
I thought of the dress that she wore last time,
When we stood neath the cypress-trees together,
In that lost land, in that soft clime,
In the crimson evening weather;
Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot);
And her warm white neck in its golden chain;
And her full soft hair just tied in a knot,
And falling loose again.
And the Jasmine flower in her fair young breast;
(O the faint sweet smell of that Jasmine flower!)
And the one bird singing alone to its nest;
And the one star over the tower.
I thought of our little quarrels and strife,
And the letter that brought me back my ring;
And it all seemed there in the waste of life,
Such a very little thing.
For I thought of her grave below the hill,
Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over;
And I thought, "Were she only living still,
How I could forgive her and love her!"
And I swear as I thought of her thus in that hour,
And of how, after all, old things are best,
That I smelt the smell of that Jasmine flower
Which she used to wear in her breast.
And I turned and looked; she was sitting there,
In a dim box over the stage; and drest
In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair,
And that Jasmine in her breast!
I was here, and she was there;
And the glittering horse-shoe curved between;--
From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair
And her sumptuous scornful mien,
To my early love with her eyes downcast,
And over her primrose face the shade,
(In short from the future back to the past)
There was but a step to be made.
To my early love from my future bride
One moment I looked, then I stole to the door,
I traversed the passage; and down at her side
I was sitting a moment more.
My thinking of her or the music's strain,
Or something which never will be expressed,
Had brought her back from the grave again,
With the Jasmine in her breast.
She is not dead, and she is not wed!
But she loves me now and she loved me then!
And the very first words that her sweet lips said,
My heart grew youthful again.
The Marchioness there, of Carabas,
She is wealthy and young and handsome still,
And but for her ... well, we'll let that pass;
She may marry whomever she will.
But I will marry my own first love,
With her primrose face, for old things are best;
And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above
The brooch in my lady's breast.
The world is filled with folly and sin,
And love must cling where it can, I say,
For beauty is easy enough to win,
But one isn't loved every day.
And I think in the lives of most women and men,
There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,
If only the dead could find out when
To come back and be forgiven.
But O! the smell of that Jasmine flower!
And O that music! and O the way
That voice rang out from the donjon tower,
_Non ti scordar di me,
Non ti scordar di me!_
BOBBY SHAFTO[3]
DANIEL HENRY, JR.
_Theme._
"Bobby Shafto's gone to sea:--
Silver buckles on his knee--
He'll come back and marry me,
Pretty Bobby Shafto!"
"Mother Goose Melodies."
"With his treasures won at sea,
Spanish gold and Portugee,
And his heart, still fast to me,
Pretty Bobby Shafto!
"In a captain's pomp and pride,
With a gold sword at his side,
He'll come back to claim his bride,
Pretty Bobby Shafto!"
So she sang, the winter long,
Till the sun came, golden-strong,
And the blue birds caught her song:
All of Bobby Shafto.
Days went by, and autumn came,
Eyes grew dim, and feet went lame,
But the song, it was the same,
All of Bobby Shafto.
Never came across the sea,
Silver buckles on his knee,
Bobby to his bride-to-be,
Fickle Bobby Shafto!
For where midnight never dies,
In the Storm-King's caves of ice,
Stiff and stark, poor Bobby lies--
Heigho! Bobby Shafto.
FOOTNOTE:
[3] From "Under a Fool's Cap."
CARCASSONNE
GUSTAV NADAUD, translated by M. E. W. SHERWOOD
"How old I am! I'm eighty years!
I've worked both hard and long;
Yet patient as my life has been,
One dearest sight I have not seen,--
It almost seems a wrong.
A dream I had when life was new;
Alas, our dreams! they come not true;
I thought to see fair Carcassonne,--
That lovely city,--Carcassonne!
"One sees it dimly from the height
Beyond the mountains blue,
Fain would I walk five weary leagues,--
I do not mind the road's fatigues,--
Through morn and evening's dew;
But bitter frost would fall at night;
And on the grapes,--that yellow blight!
I could not go to Carcassonne,
I never went to Carcassonne.
"They say it is as gay all times
As holidays at home!
The gentles ride in gay attire,
And in the sun each gilded spire
Shoots up like those of Rome!
The bishop the procession leads,
The generals curb their prancing steeds.
Alas! I know not Carcassonne--
Alas! I saw not Carcassonne!
"Our Vicar's right! he preaches loud,
And bids us to beware;
He says, 'O guard the weakest-part,
And most that traitor in the heart
Against ambition's snare.'
Perhaps in autumn I can find
Two sunny days with gentle wind;
I then could go to Carcassonne,
I still could go to Carcassonne.
"My God, my Father! pardon me
If this my wish offends;
One sees some hope more high than his,
In age, as in his infancy,
To which his heart ascends!
My wife, my son have seen Narbonne,
My grandson went to Perpignan,
But I have not seen Carcassonne,
But I have not seen Carcassonne."
Thus sighed a peasant bent with age,
Half-dreaming in his chair;
I said, "My friend, come go with me
To-morrow, then thine eyes shall see
Those streets that seem so fair."
That night there came for passing soul
The church-bell's low and solemn toll.
He never saw gay Carcassonne.
Who has not known a Carcassonne?
THE CHILD-WIFE
CHARLES DICKENS
All this time I had gone on loving Dora harder than ever. If I may so
express it, I was steeped in Dora. I was not merely over head and ears
in love with her, I was saturated through and through. I took night
walks to Norwood where she lived, and perambulated round and round the
house and garden for hours together, looking through crevices in the
palings, using violent exertions to get my chin above the rusty nails on
the top, blowing kisses at the lights in the windows, and romantically
calling on the night to shield my Dora,--I don't exactly know from
what,--I suppose from fire, perhaps from mice, to which she had a great
objection.
Dora had a discreet friend, comparatively stricken in years, almost of
the ripe age of twenty, I should say, whose name was Miss Mills. Dora
called her Julia. She was the bosom friend of Dora. Happy Miss Mills!
One day Miss Mills said: "Dora is coming to stay with me. She is coming
the day after to-morrow. If you would like to call, I am sure papa would
be happy to see you."
I passed three days in a luxury of wretchedness. At last, arrayed for
the purpose, at a vast expense, I went to Miss Mills's, fraught with a
declaration. Mr. Mills was not at home. I didn't expect he would be.
Nobody wanted him. Miss Mills was at home. Miss Mills would do.
I was shown into a room upstairs, where Miss Mills and Dora were. Dora's
little dog Jip was there. Miss Mills was copying music, and Dora was
painting flowers. What were my feelings when I recognized flowers I had
given her!
Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very sorry her papa was not at
home, though I thought we all bore that with fortitude. Miss Mills was
conversational for a few minutes, and then laying down her pen, got up
and left the room.
I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow.
"I hope your poor horse was not tired when he got home at night from
that picnic," said Dora, lifting up her beautiful eyes.
"It was a long way for him."
I began to think I would do it to-day.
"It was a long way for him, for he had nothing to uphold him on the
journey."
"Wasn't he fed, poor thing?"
I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow.
"Ye-yes, he was well taken care of. I mean he had not the unutterable
happiness that I had in being so near to you."
I saw now that I was in for it, and it must be done on the spot.
"I don't know why you should care for being near me, or why you should
call it a happiness. But of course you don't mean what you say. Jip, you
naughty boy, come here!"
I don't know how I did it, but I did it in a moment. I intercepted Jip.
I had Dora in my arms. I was full of eloquence. I never stopped for a
word. I told her how I loved her. I told her I should die without her. I
told her that I idolized and worshiped her. Jip barked madly all the
time. My eloquence increased, and I said if she would like me to die for
her, she had but to say the word, and I was ready. I had loved her to
distraction every minute, day and night, since I first set eyes upon
her. I loved her at that minute to distraction. I should always love
her, every minute, to distraction. Lovers had loved before, and lovers
would love again; but no lover had ever loved, might, could, would, or
should ever love, as I loved Dora. The more I raved, the more Jip
barked. Each of us in his own way got more mad every moment.
Well, well! Dora and I were sitting on the sofa by and by quiet enough,
and Jip was lying in her lap winking peacefully at me. It was off my
mind. I was in a state of perfect rapture. Dora and I were engaged.
Being poor, I felt it necessary the next time I went to my darling to
expatiate on that unfortunate drawback. I soon carried desolation into
the bosom of our joys--not that I meant to do it, but that I was so full
of the subject--by asking Dora without the smallest preparation, if she
could love a beggar.
"How can you ask me anything so foolish? Love a beggar!"
"Dora, my own dearest, I am a beggar!"
"How can you be such a silly thing," replied Dora, slapping my hand, "as
to sit there telling such stories? I'll make Jip bite you, if you are so
ridiculous."
But I looked so serious that Dora began to cry. She did nothing but
exclaim, "O dear! O dear!" And oh, she was so frightened! And where was
Julia Mills? And oh, take her to Julia Mills, and go away, please! until
I was almost beside myself.
I thought I had killed her. I sprinkled water on her face; I went down
on my knees; I plucked at my hair; I implored her forgiveness; I
besought her to look up; I ravaged Miss Mills's work-box for a
smelling-bottle, and in my agony of mind, applied an ivory needle-case
instead, and dropped all the needles over Dora.
At last I got Dora to look at me, with a horrified expression which I
gradually soothed until it was only loving, and her soft, pretty cheek
was lying against mine.
"Is your heart mine still, dear Dora?"
"O yes! O yes! it's all yours, oh, don't be dreadful."
"My dearest love, the crust well earned--"
"O yes; but I don't want to hear any more about crusts. And after we are
married, Jip must have a mutton chop every day at twelve, or he'll die."
I was charmed with her childish, winning way, and I fondly explained to
her that Jip should have his mutton chop with his accustomed regularity.
When we had been engaged some half-year or so, Dora delighted me by
asking me to give her that cookery-book I had once spoken of, and to
show her how to keep accounts, as I had once promised I would. I brought
the volume with me on my next visit (I got it prettily bound, first, to
make it look less dry and more inviting), and showed her an old
housekeeping book of my aunt's, and gave her a set of tablets, and a
pretty little pencil-case, and a box of leads, to practice housekeeping
with.
But the cookery-book made Dora's head ache, and the figures made her
cry. They wouldn't add up, she said. So she rubbed them out, and drew
little nosegays, and likenesses of me and Jip, all over the tablets.
Time went on, and at last, here in this hand of mine, I held the wedding
license. There were the two names in the sweet old visionary
connection,--David Copperfield and Dora Spenlow; and there in the corner
was that parental institution, the Stamp Office, looking down upon our
union; and there, in the printed form of words, was the Archbishop of
Canterbury, invoking a blessing on us and doing it as cheap as could
possibly be expected.
I doubt whether two young birds could have known less about keeping
house than I and my pretty Dora did. We had a servant, of course. She
kept house for us. We had an awful time of it with Mary Anne. She was
the cause of our first little quarrel.
"My dearest life," I said one day to Dora, "do you think Mary Anne has
any idea of time?"
"Why, Doady?"
"My love, because it's five, and we were to have dined at four."
My little wife came and sat upon my knee, to coax me to be quiet, and
drew a line with her pencil down the middle of my nose; but I couldn't
dine off that, though it was very agreeable.
"Don't you think, my dear, it would be better for you to remonstrate
with Mary Anne?"
"O no, please! I couldn't, Doady!"
"Why not, my love?"
"O, because I am such a little goose, and she knows I am!"
I thought this sentiment so incompatible with the establishment of any
system of check on Mary Anne, that I frowned a little.
"My precious wife, we must be serious some times. Come! sit down on this
chair, close beside me! Give me the pencil! There! Now let us talk
sensibly. You know, dear," what a little hand it was to hold, and what a
tiny wedding ring it was to see,--"you know, my love, it is not exactly
comfortable to have to go out without one's dinner. Now, is it?"
"N-n-no!"
"My love, how you tremble!"
"Because, I know you're going to scold me."
"My sweet, I am only going to reason."
"O, but reasoning is worse than scolding! I didn't marry to be reasoned
with. If you meant to reason with such a poor little thing as I am, you
ought to have told me so, you cruel boy!"
"Dora, my darling!"
"No, I am not your darling. Because you must be sorry that you married
me, or else you wouldn't reason with me!"
I felt so injured by the inconsequential nature of this charge, that it
gave me courage to be grave.
"Now, my own Dora, you are childish, and are talking nonsense. You must
remember, I am sure, that I was obliged to go out yesterday when dinner
was half over; and that, the day before, I was made quite unwell by
being obliged to eat underdone veal in a hurry; to-day, I don't dine at
all, and I am afraid to say how long we waited for breakfast, and then
the water didn't boil. I don't mean to reproach you, my dear, but this,
is not comfortable."
"Oh, you cruel, cruel boy, to say I am a disagreeable wife!"
"Now, my dear Dora, you must know that I never said that!"
"You said I wasn't comfortable!"
"I said the housekeeping was not comfortable!"
"It's exactly the same thing! and I wonder, I do, at your making such
ungrateful speeches. When you know that the other day, when you said you
would like a little bit of fish, I went out myself, miles and miles, and
ordered it to surprise you."
"And it was very kind of you, my own darling; and I felt it so much that
I wouldn't on any account have mentioned that you bought a salmon, which
was too much for two; or that it cost one pound six, which was more than
we can afford."
"You enjoyed it very much. And you said I was a Mouse."
"And I'll say so again, my love, a thousand times!"
I said it a thousand times, and more, and went on saying it until Mary
Anne's cousin deserted into our coal-hole and was brought out, to our
great amazement, by a picket of his companions in arms, who took him
away handcuffed in a procession that covered our front garden with
disgrace.
"I am very sorry for all this, Doady. Will you call me a name I want you
to call me?"
"What is it, my dear?"
"It's a stupid name,--Child-wife. When you are going to be angry with
me, say to yourself, 'It's only my Child-wife.' When I am very
disappointing, say, 'I knew a long time ago, that she would make but a
Child-wife.' When you miss what you would like me to be, and what I
think I never can be, say, 'Still my foolish Child-wife loves me.' For
indeed I do."
I invoke the innocent figure that I dearly loved to come out of the
mists and shadows of the past, and to turn its gentle head toward me
once again, and to bear witness that it was made happy by what I
answered.
COUNT GISMOND
ROBERT BROWNING
Christ God, who savest man, save most
Of men Count Gismond who saved me!
Count Gauthier, when he chose his post,
Chose time and place and company
To suit it; when he struck at length
My honor, 'twas with all his strength.
And doubtlessly ere he could draw
All points to one, he must have schemed!
That miserable morning saw
Few half so happy as I seemed,
While being dressed in queen's array
To give our tourney prize away.
I thought they loved me, did me grace
To please themselves; 'twas all their deed;
God makes, or fair or foul, our face;
If showing mine so caused to bleed
My cousins' hearts, they should have dropped
A word, and straight the play had stopped.
They, too, so beauteous! Each a queen
By virtue of her brow and breast;
Not needing to be crowned, I mean,
As I do. E'en when I was dressed,
Had either of them spoke, instead
Of glancing sideways with still head!
But no: they let me laugh and sing
My birthday song quite through, adjust
The last rose in my garland, fling
A last look on the mirror, trust
My arms to each an arm of theirs,
And so descend the castle-stairs--
And come out on the morning-troop
Of merry friends who kissed my cheek,
And called me queen, and made me stoop
Under the canopy--(a streak
That pierced it, of the outside sun,
Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun)--
And they could let me take my state
And foolish throne amid applause
Of all come there to celebrate
My queen's-day--Oh I think the cause
Of much was, they forgot no crowd
Makes up for parents in their shroud!
Howe'er that be, all eyes were bent
Upon me, when my cousins cast
Theirs down; 'twas time I should present
The victor's crown, but ... there, 'twill last
No long time ... the old mist again
Blinds me as it did then. How vain!
See! Gismond's at the gate, in talk
With his two boys: I can proceed.
Well, at that moment, who should stalk
Forth boldly--to my face, indeed--
But Gauthier, and he thundered, "Stay!"
And all stayed. "Bring no crowns, I say!
"Bring torches! Wind the penance-sheet
About her! Let her cleave to right,
Or lay herself before our feet!
Shall she who sinned so bold at night
Unblushing, queen it in the day?
For honor's sake, no crowns, I say!"
I? What I answered? As I live,
I never fancied such a thing
As answer possible to give.
What says the body when they spring
Some monstrous torture-engine's whole
Strength on it? No more says the soul.
Till out strode Gismond; then I knew
That I was saved. I never met
His face before, but, at first view,
I felt quite sure that God had set
Himself to Satan; who would spend
A minute's mistrust on the end?
He strode to Gauthier, in his throat
Gave him the lie, then struck his mouth
With one back-handed blow that wrote
In blood men's verdict there. North, South,
East, West, I looked. The lie was dead,
And damned, and truth stood up instead.
This glads me most, that I enjoyed
The heart of the joy, with my content
In watching Gismond unalloyed
By any doubt of the event:
God took that on him--I was bid
Watch Gismond for my part: I did.
Did I not watch him while he let
His armorer just brace his greaves,
Rivet his hauberk, on the fret
The while! His foot ... my memory leaves
No least stamp out, nor how anon
He pulled his ringing gauntlets on.
And e'en before the trumpet's sound
Was finished, prone lay the false knight,
Prone as his lie, upon the ground:
Gismond flew at him, used no sleight
O' the sword, but open-breasted drove,
Cleaving till out the truth he clove.
Which done, he dragged him to my feet
And said, "Here die, but end thy breath
In full confession, lest thou fleet
From my first, to God's second death!
Say, hast thou lied?" And, "I have lied
To God and her," he said, and died.
Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked
--What safe my heart holds, though no word
Could I repeat now, if I tasked
My powers forever, to a third
Dear even as you are. Pass the rest
Until I sank upon his breast.
Over my head his arm he flung
Against the world; and scarce I felt
His sword (that dripped by me and swung)
A little shifted in its belt;
For he began to say the while
How South our home lay many a mile.
So 'mid the shouting multitude
We two walked forth to never more
Return. My cousins have pursued
Their life, untroubled as before
I vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-place
God lighten! May his soul find grace!
Our elder boy has got the clear
Great brow; though when his brother's black
Full eye shows scorn, it ... Gismond here?
And have you brought your tercel back?
I just was telling Adela
How many birds it struck since May.
THE DEATH OF ARBACES[4]
EDWARD BULWER LYTTON
In the eventful year of the eruption of Vesuvius, there lived in Pompeii
a young Greek by the name of Glaucus. Heaven had given him every
blessing but one; it had denied him the heritage of freedom. He was
born in Athens, the subject of Rome. Succeeding early to an ample
inheritance, he had indulged that inclination for travel, so natural to
the young, and consequently knew much of the gorgeous luxuries of the
imperial court. His ideals in life were high. At last he discovered the
long-sought idol of his dreams in the person of Ione, a beautiful, young
Neapolitan, also of Greek parentage, who had lately come to Pompeii. She
was one of those brilliant characters which seldom flash across our
career. She united in the highest perfection the rarest of earthly
gifts,--Genius and Beauty. No wonder that the friendship of these two
ripened into a higher love than that which served a theme for the idle
gossip of the Roman baths, or the epicurean board of a Sallust or a
Diomede.
Arbaces, the legal guardian of Ione, was a subtle, crafty, cunning
Egyptian, whose conscience was solely of the intellect awed by no moral
laws. His great wealth and learning, and his reputation as a magician
gave him great power and influence over not only the superstitious
worshipers, but also the priesthood of Isis. Shrouding the deceit and
vices of a heathen metaphysical philosophy in a brilliant and imposing
ceremonial, Arbaces was the better able to gratify his own desires and
work out his diabolical scheme.
As Ione just ripened into beautiful womanhood, Arbaces determined to
claim her life and her love for himself alone; but his first overture
not only met with rebuff, but revealed the fact that she already loved
Glaucus. Angered by a fate which not even his dark sorcery could remove,
and which the prophecy of the stars had foretold, he is further enraged
by the violent opposition of Apæcides, the brother of Ione, who on his
own account threatens and has prepared to expose the lewd deceits and
hypocrisy of the worship of Isis. Arbaces murders Apæcides, imprisons
the priest Calenus, the only witness of the deed, and with great cunning
weaves a convicting net of circumstantial evidence around Glaucus, his
hated rival. Glaucus is tried, convicted and doomed to be thrown to the
lion.
The day of the sports of the amphitheater had come. The gladiatorial
fights and other games were completed. "Bring forth the lion and Glaucus
the Athenian," said the editor. Glaucus had been placed in that gloomy
and narrow cell in which the criminals of the arena awaited their last
and fearful struggle. The door swung gratingly back--the gleam of spears
shot along the walls.
"Glaucus the Athenian, thy time has come," said a loud and clear voice.
"The lion awaits thee."
"I am ready," said the Athenian. "Worthy officer, I attend you."
When he came into the air its breath, which, though sunless, was hot and
arid, smote witheringly upon him. They anointed his body, placed the
stylus in his hand, and led him into the arena.
And now when the Greek saw the eyes of thousands and tens of thousands
upon him, he no longer felt that he was mortal. All evidence of
fear--all fear itself--was gone. A red and haughty flush spread over the
paleness of his features--he towered aloft to the fullness of his
glorious stature. In the elastic beauty of his limbs and form, in his
intent but unfrowning brow, in the high disdain, and in the indomitable
soul, which breathed visibly, which spoke audibly, from his attitude,
his lip, his eye, he assumed the very incarnation, vivid and corporeal,
of the valor of his land--of the divinity of its worship--at once a hero
and a god.
The murmur of hatred and horror at his crime, which had greeted his
entrance, died into the stillness of involuntary admiration and
half-compassionate respect; and with a quick and convulsive sigh, that
seemed to move the whole mass of life as if it were one body, the gaze
of the spectators turned from the Athenian to a dark uncouth object in
the center of the arena. It was the grated den of the lion. Kept
without food for twenty-four hours, the animal had, during the whole
morning, testified a singular and restless uneasiness, which the keeper
had attributed to the pangs of hunger. Yet its bearing seemed rather
that of fear than of rage; its roar was painful and distressed; it hung
its head--snuffed the air through the bars--then lay down--started
again--and again uttered its wild and far-reaching cries.
The editor's lip quivered, and his cheek grew pale; he looked anxiously
around--hesitated--delayed; the crowd became impatient. Slowly he gave
the sign; the keeper, who was behind the den, cautiously removed the
grating, and the lion leaped forth with a mighty and glad roar of
release. The keeper retreated hastily through the grated passage leading
from the arena, and left the lord of the forest--and his prey.
Glaucus had bent his limbs so as to give himself the firmest posture at
the expected rush of the lion, with his small and shining weapon raised
high, in the faint hope that one well directed thrust might penetrate
through the eye to the brain of his grim foe.
At the first moment of its release the lion halted in the arena, raised
itself half on end, snuffing the upward air with impatient sighs; then
suddenly sprang forward, but not on the Athenian. At half speed it
circled around and around the arena; once or twice it endeavored to leap
up the parapet that separated it from the audience. At length, as if
tired of attempting to escape, it crept with a moan into its cage, and
once more laid itself down to rest.
The first surprise of the assembly at the apathy of the lion soon grew
into resentment at its cowardice; and the populace already merged their
pity for the fate of Glaucus into angry compassion for their own
disappointment. The editor called the keeper.
"How is this? Take the goad, prick him forth, and then close the door of
the den."
As the keeper, with some fear, but more astonishment, was preparing to
obey, a loud cry was heard at one of the entrances of the arena; there
was a confusion--a bustle--voices of remonstrance suddenly breaking
forth, and suddenly silenced at the reply. All eyes turned in wonder at
the interruption, toward the quarter of disturbance; the crowd gave way,
and suddenly Sallust appeared on the senatorial benches, his hair
disheveled,--breathless--half exhausted. He cast his eyes hastily round
the ring. "Remove the Athenian," he cried. "Haste,--he is innocent.
Arrest Arbaces the Egyptian. He is the murderer of Apæcides."
"Art thou mad, O Sallust?" said the prætor, rising from his seat. "What
means this raving?"
"Remove the Athenian. Quick! or his blood be on your head. Prætor, delay
and you answer with your own life to the Emperor. I bring with me the
eye-witness to the death of Apæcides. Room there--stand back--give way.
People of Pompeii, fix every eye on Arbaces--there he sits. Room there
for the priest Calenus."
"The priest Calenus,--Calenus," cried the mob. "Is it he?"
"It is the priest Calenus," said the prætor. "What hast thou to say?"
"Arbaces of Egypt is the murderer of Apæcides, the priest of Isis; these
eyes saw him deal the blow. It is from the dungeon into which he plunged
me--it is from the darkness and horror of a death by famine--that the
gods have raised me to proclaim his crime. Release the Athenian--he is
innocent."
"A miracle--a miracle," shouted the people. "Remove the Athenian.
Arbaces to the lion!"
"Officers, remove the accused Glaucus--remove, but guard him yet," said
the prætor.
"Calenus, priest of Isis, thou accusest Arbaces of the murder of
Apæcides?"
"I do."
"Thou didst behold the deed?"
"Prætor--with these eyes--"
"Enough at present--the details must be reserved for more suiting time
and place. Ho! guards--remove Arbaces--guard Calenus! Sallust, we hold
you responsible for your accusation. Let the sports be resumed."
"To the lion with the Egyptian!" cried the people.
With that cry up sprang--on moved--thousands upon thousands! They rushed
from the heights--they poured down in the direction of the Egyptian. In
vain did the ædile command--in vain did the prætor lift his voice and
proclaim the law. The people had been already rendered savage.
Arbaces stretched his hand on high; over his lofty brow and royal
features there came an expression of unutterable solemnity and command.
"Behold!" he shouted with a voice which stilled the roar of the crowd;
"behold the gods protect the guiltless! The fires of the avenging Orcus
burst forth against the false witness of my accusers!"
The eyes of the crowd followed the gesture of the Egyptian, and beheld,
with ineffable dismay, a vast vapor shooting from the summit of
Vesuvius, in the form of a gigantic pine tree; the trunk,
blackness,--the branches, fire,--a fire that shifted and wavered in its
hues with every moment, now fiercely luminous, now of a dull and dying
red, that again blazed terrifically forth with intolerable glare.
There was a dead heart-sunken silence. Then there arose on high the
universal shrieks of women; the men stared at each other, but were dumb.
At that moment they felt the earth shake beneath their feet; the walls
of the theater trembled; and beyond in the distance, they heard the
crash of falling roofs; an instant more and the mountain-cloud seemed
to roll towards them, dark and rapid, like a torrent; at the same time,
it cast forth from its bosom a shower of ashes mixed with vast fragments
of burning stone! Over the crushing vines,--over the desolate
streets,--over the amphitheater itself,--far and wide,--with many a
mighty splash in that agitated sea,--fell that awful shower! The crowd
turned to fly--each dashing, pressing, crushing, against the other.
Trampling recklessly over the fallen--amidst groans, and oaths, and
prayers, and sudden shrieks, the enormous crowd vomited itself forth
through the numerous passages; prisoner, gladiator and wild beast now
alike freed from their confines.
Glaucus paced swiftly up the perilous and fearful streets, having
learned that Ione was yet in the house of Arbaces. Thither he fled to
release--to save her! Even as he passed, however, the darkness that
covered the heavens increased so rapidly, that it was with difficulty he
could guide his steps. He ascended to the upper rooms--breathless he
paced along, shouting out aloud the name of Ione; and at length he
heard, at the end of a gallery, a voice--her voice, in wondering reply!
He rescued her and they made their way to the sea, boarded a vessel and
were saved from the wrath of Vesuvius.
Arbaces returned to his house to seek his wealth and Ione ere he fled
from the doomed Pompeii. He found them not; all was lost to him. In the
madness of despair he rushed forth and hurried along the street he knew
not whither; exhausted or lost he halted at the east end of the Forum.
High behind him rose a tall column that supported the bronze statue of
Augustus; and the imperial image seemed changed to a shape of fire. He
advanced one step--it was his last on earth! The ground shook beneath
him with a convulsion that cast all around upon its surface. A
simultaneous crash resounded through the city, as down toppled many a
roof and pillar!--The lightning, as if caught by the metal, lingered an
instant on the Imperial Statue--then shivered bronze and column! Down
fell the ruin, echoing along the street, crushing Arbaces and riving the
solid pavement where it crashed! The prophecy of the stars was
fulfilled!
So perished the wise Magician--the great Arbaces--the Hermes of the
Burning Belt--the last of the royalty of Egypt.
FOOTNOTE:
[4] An adaptation by R. I. Fulton from the "Last Days of Pompeii."
DORA
ALFRED LORD TENNYSON
With farmer Allan at the farm abode
William and Dora. William was his son,
And she his niece. He often look'd at them,
And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife."
Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,
And yearn'd toward William; but the youth, because
He had been always with her in the house,
Thought not of Dora.
Then there came a day
When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son,
I married late, but I would wish to see
My grandchild on my knees before I die;
And I have set my heart upon a match.
Now therefore look to Dora; she is well
To look to; thrifty too beyond her age.
She is my brother's daughter; he and I
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died
In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred
His daughter Dora. Take her for your wife;
For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day,
For many years." But William answer'd short;
"I cannot marry Dora; by my life,
I will not marry Dora." Then the old man
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said,
"You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!
But in my time a father's word was law,
And so it shall be now for me. Look to it;
Consider, William, take a month to think,
And let me have an answer to my wish;
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,
And never more darken my doors again."
But William answer'd madly; bit his lips,
And broke away. The more he look'd at her
The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before
The month was out he left his father's house,
And hired himself to work within the fields;
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison.
Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd
His niece and said, "My girl, I love you well;
But if you speak with him that was my son,
Or change a word with her he calls his wife,
My home is none of yours. My will is law."
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,
"It cannot be, my uncle's mind will change!"
And days went on, and there was born a boy
To William; then distresses came on him;
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate,
Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not.
But Dora stored what little she could save,
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know
Who sent it; till at last a fever seized
On William, and in harvest time he died.
Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat
And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said,
"I have obey'd my uncle until now,
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me
This evil came on William at the first.
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,
And for your sake, the woman that he chose,
And for this orphan, I am come to you.
You know there has not been for these five years
So full a harvest; let me take the boy,
And I will set him in my uncle's eye
Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy,
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."
And Dora took the child, and went her way
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound
That was unsown, where many poppies grew.
Far off the farmer came into the field
And spied her not; for none of all his men
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child;
And Dora would have risen and gone to him,
But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.
But when the morrow came, she rose and took
The child once more, and sat upon the mound;
And made a little wreath of all the flowers
That grew about, and tied it round his hat
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.
Then when the farmer pass'd into the field
He spied her, and he left his men at work,
And came and said, "Where were you yesterday?
Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,
And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!"
"And did I not," said Allan, "did I not
Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again,
"Do with me as you will, but take the child,
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!"
And Allan said, "I see it is a trick
Got up betwixt you and the woman there.
I must be taught my duty, and by you!
You knew my word was law, and yet you dared
To slight it. Well--for I will take the boy,
But go you hence, and never see me more."
So saying, he took the boy that cried aloud
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell
At Dora's, feet. She bow'd upon her hands,
And the boy's cry came to her from the field,
More and more distant. She bow'd down her head,
Remembering the day when first she came,
And all the things that had been. She bow'd down
And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.
Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise
To God, that help'd her in her widowhood.
And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy;
But, Mary, let me live and work with you:
He says that he will never see me more."
Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be,
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight
His mother; therefore thou and I will go,
And I will have my boy, and bring him home;
And I will beg of him to take thee back;
But if he will not take thee back again,
Then thou and I will live within one house,
And work for William's child, until he grows
Of age to help us."
So the women kiss'd
Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm.
The door was off the latch. They peep'd, and saw
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,
And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,
Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch'd out
And babbled for the golden seal, that hung
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.
Then they came in; but when the boy beheld
His mother, he cried out to come to her,
And Allan set him down, and Mary said,
"O Father!--if you let me call you so--
I never came a-begging for myself,
Or William, or this child; but now I come
For Dora. Take her back, she loves you well.
O Sir, when William died, he died at peace
With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said,
He could not ever rue his marrying me--
I had been a patient wife; but, Sir, he said
That he was wrong to cross his father thus,
'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know
The troubles I have gone thro!' Then he turn'd
His face and pass'd--unhappy that I am!
But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you
Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight
His father's memory; and take Dora back,
And let all this be as it was before."
So Mary said, and Dora hid her face
By Mary. There was silence in the room;
And all at once the old man burst in sobs:--
"I have been to blame--to blame. I have kill'd my son.
I have kill'd him--but I loved him--my dear son.
May God forgive me!--I have been to blame.
Kiss me, my children."
Then they clung about
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times.
And all the man was broken with remorse;
And all his love came back a hundred-fold;
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child
Thinking of William.
So those four abode
Within one house together; and as years
Went forward, Mary took another mate;
But Dora lived unmarried till her death.
AN EASTER WITH PAREPA
MYRA S. DELANO
When Parepa was here she was everywhere the people's idol. The great
opera houses in all our cities and towns were thronged. There were none
to criticise or carp. Her young, rich, grand voice was beyond compare.
Its glorious tones are remembered with an enthusiasm like that which
greeted her when she sung.
Her company played in New York during the Easter holidays, and I, as an
old friend, claimed some of her leisure hours. We were friends in Italy,
and this Easter day was to be spent with me.
At eleven in the morning she sang at one of the large churches; I waited
for her, and at last we two were alone in my snug little room. At noon
the sky was overcast and gray. Down came the snow, whitening the streets
and roofs. The wind swept icy breaths from the water as it came up from
the bay and rushed past the city spires and over tall buildings,
whirling around us the snow and storm. We had hurried home, shut and
fastened our blinds, drawn close the curtains, and piled coal higher on
the glowing grate. We had taken off our wraps, and now sat close to the
cheery fire for a whole afternoon's blessed enjoyment.
Parepa said, "Mary, this is perfect rest! We shall be quite alone for
four hours."
"Yes, four long hours!" I replied. "No rehearsals, no engagements.
Nobody knows where you are!"
Parepa laughed merrily at this idea.
"Dinner shall be served in this room, and I won't allow even the servant
to look at you!" I said.
She clasped her dimpled hands together, like a child in enjoyment, and
then sprang up to roll the little center-table near the grate.
The snow had now turned into sleet; a great chill fell over the whole
city. We looked out of our windows, peeping through the shutters, and
pitying the people as they rushed past.
A sharp rap on my door. John thrust in a note.
"MY DEAR FRIEND:--Can you come? Annie has gone. She said you would
be sure to come to her funeral. She spoke of you to the last. She
will be buried at four."
I laid the poor little blotted note in Parepa's hand. How it stormed! We
looked into each other's faces helplessly. I said, "Dear, I must go, but
you sit by the fire and rest. I'll be at home in two hours. And poor
Annie has gone!"
"Tell me about it, Mary, for I am going with you," she answered.
She threw on her heavy cloak, wound her long white woolen scarf closely
about her throat, drew on her woolen gloves, and we set out together in
the wild Easter storm.
Annie's mother was a dressmaker, and sewed for me and my friends. She
was left a widow when her one little girl was five years old. Her
husband was drowned off the Jersey coast, and out of blinding pain and
loss and anguish had grown a sort of idolatry for the delicate,
beautiful child whose brown eyes looked like the young husband's.
For fifteen years this mother had loved and worked for Annie, her whole
being going out to bless her one child. I had grown fond of them; and in
small ways, with books and flowers, outings and simple pleasures, I had
made myself dear to them. The end of the delicate girl's life had not
seemed so near, though her doom had been hovering about her for years.
I had thought it all over as I took the Easter lilies from my
window-shelf and wrapped them in thick papers and hid them out of the
storm under my cloak. I knew there would be no other flowers in their
wretched room. How endless was the way to this East-Side tenement house!
No elevated roads, no rapid transit across the great city then as there
are now. At last we reached the place. On the street stood the
canvas-covered hearse, known only to the poor.
We climbed flight after flight of narrow dark stairs to the small upper
rooms. In the middle of the floor stood a stained coffin, lined with
stiff, rattling cambric and cheap gauze, resting on uncovered trestles
of wood.
We each took the mother's hand and stood a moment with her, silent. All
hope had gone out of her face. She shed no tears, but as I held her cold
hand I felt a shudder go over her, but she neither spoke nor sobbed.
The driving storm had made us late, and the plain, hard-working people
sat stiffly against the walls. Some one gave us chairs and we sat close
to the mother.
The minister came in, a blunt, hard-looking man, self-sufficient and
formal. A woman said the undertaker brought him. Icier than the pitiless
storm outside, yes, colder than ice were his words. He read a few verses
from the Bible, and warned "the bereaved mother against rebellion at the
divine decrees." He made a prayer and was gone.
A dreadful hush fell over the small room. I whispered to the mother and
asked: "Why did you wait so long to send for me? All this would have
been different."
With a kind of stare, she looked at me.
"I can't remember why I didn't send," she said, her hand to her head,
and added: "I seemed to die, too, and forget, till they brought a
coffin. Then I knew it all."
The undertaker came and bustled about. He looked at myself and Parepa,
as if to say: "It's time to go." The wretched funeral service was over.
Without a word Parepa rose and walked to the head of the coffin. She
laid her white scarf on an empty chair, threw her cloak back from her
shoulders, where it fell in long, soft, black lines from her noble
figure like the drapery of mourning. She laid her soft, fair hand on the
cold forehead, passed it tenderly over the wasted delicate face, looked
down at the dead girl a moment, and moved my Easter lilies from the
stained box to the thin fingers, then lifted up her head, and with
illumined eyes sang the glorious melody:
"Angels, ever bright and fair,
Take, oh! take her to thy care."
Her magnificent voice rose and fell in all its richness and power and
pity and beauty! She looked above the dingy room and the tired faces of
men and women, the hard hands and the struggling hearts. She threw back
her head and sang till the choirs of paradise must have paused to listen
to the Easter music of that day.
She passed her hand caressingly over the girl's soft dark hair, and sang
on--and on--"Take--oh! take her to thy care!"
The mother's face grew rapt and white. I held her hands and watched her
eyes. Suddenly she threw my hand off and knelt at Parepa's feet, close
to the wooden trestles. She locked her fingers together, tears and sobs
breaking forth. She prayed aloud that God would bless the angel singing
for Annie. A patient smile settled about her lips, the light came back
into her poor, dulled eyes, and she kissed her daughter's face with a
love beyond all interpretation or human speech. I led her back to her
seat as the last glorious notes of Parepa's voice rose triumphant over
all earthly pain and sorrow.
And I thought that no queen ever went to her grave with a greater
ceremony than this young daughter of poverty and toil, committed to the
care of the angels.
That same night thousands listened to Parepa's matchless voice. Applause
rose to the skies, and Parepa's own face was gloriously swept with
emotion. I joined in the enthusiasm, but above the glitter and
shimmering of jewels and dress, and the heavy odors of Easter flowers,
the sea of smiling faces, and the murmur of voices, I could only behold
by the dim light of a tenement window the singer's uplifted face, the
wondering countenance of the poor on-lookers, and the mother's wide,
startled, tearful eyes; I could only hear above the sleet on the roof
and the storm outside Parepa's voice singing up to heaven: "Take, oh!
take her to thy care!"
THOSE EVENING BELLS
THOMAS MOORE
Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime.
Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so 'twill be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.
GINEVRA
SUSAN COOLIDGE
So it is come! The doctor's glossy smile
Deceives me not. I saw him shake his head,
Whispering, and heard poor Giulia sob without,
As, slowly creeping, he went down the stair.
Were they afraid that I should be afraid?
I, who have died once and been laid in tomb?
They need not.
Little one, look not so pale.
I am not raving. Ah! you never heard
The story. Climb up there upon the bed:
Sit close and listen. After this one day
I shall not tell you stories any more.
How old are you, my rose? What! almost twelve?
Almost a woman! scarcely more than that
Was your fair mother when she bore her bud;
And scarcely more was I when, long years since,
I left my father's house, a bride in May.
You know the house, beside St. Andrea's church,
Gloomy and rich, which stands and seems to frown
On the Mercato, humming at its base.
That was my play-place ever as a child;
And with me used to play a kinsman's son,
Antonio Rondinelli. Ah, dear days!
Two happy things we were, with none to chide,
Or hint that life was anything but play.
Sudden the play-time ended. All at once
"You must wed," they told me. "What is wed?"
I asked; but with the word I bent my brow,
Let them put on the garland, smiled to see
The glancing jewels tied about my neck;
And so, half-pleased, half-puzzled, was led forth
By my grave husband, older than my sire.
O the long years that followed! It would seem
That the sun never shone in all those years,
Or only with a sudden, troubled glint
Flashed on Antonio's curls, as he went by
Doffing his cap, with eyes of wistful love
Raised to my face--my conscious, woeful face.
Were we so much to blame? Our lives had twined
Together, none forbidding, for so long.
They let our childish fingers drop the seed,
Unhindered, which should ripen to tall grain;
They let the firm, small roots tangle and grow,
Then rent them, careless that it hurt the plant.
I loved Antonio, and he loved me.
Life was all shadow, but it was not sin!
I loved Antonio; but I kept me pure,
Not for my husband's sake, but for the sake
Of him, my first-born child, my little child,
Mine for a few short weeks, whose touch, whose look
Thrilled all my soul and thrills it to this day.
I loved: but, hear me swear, I kept me pure!
It was hard
To sit in darkness while the rest had light,
To move to discords when the rest had song,
To be so young and never to have lived.
I bore, as women bear, until one day
Soul said to flesh, "This I endure no more,"
And with the word uprose, tore clay apart,
And what was blank before grew blanker still.
It was a fever, so the leeches said.
I had been dead so long, I did not know
The difference or heed. Oil on my breast,
The garments of the grave about me wrapped,
They bore me forth and laid me in the tomb.
Open the curtain, child. Yes, it is night.
It was night then, when I awoke to feel
That deadly chill, and see by ghostly gleams
Of moonlight, creeping through the grated door,
The coffins of my fathers all about.
Strange, hollow clamors rang and echoed back,
As, struggling out of mine, I dropped and fell.
With frantic strength I beat upon the grate;
It yielded to my touch. Some careless hand
Had left the bolt half-slipped. My father swore
Afterward, with a curse, he would make sure
Next time. Next time! That hurts me even now!
Dead or alive I issued, scarce sure which,
And down the darkling street I wildly fled,
Led by a little, cold, and wandering moon,
Which seemed as lonely and as lost as I.
I had no aim, save to reach warmth and light
And human touch; but still my witless steps
Led to my husband's door, and there I stopped,
By instinct, knocked, and called.
A window oped.
A voice--'twas his--demanded: "Who is there?"
"'Tis I, Ginevra." Then I heard the tone
Change into horror, and he prayed aloud
And called upon the saints, the while I urged,
"O, let me in, Francesco; let me in!
I am so cold, so frightened, let me in!"
Then with a crash, the window was shut fast:
And, though I cried and beat upon the door
And wailed aloud, no other answer came.
Weeping, I turned away, and feebly strove
Down the hard distance toward my father's house.
"They will have pity and will let me in,"
I thought. "They loved me and will let me in."
Cowards! At the high window overhead
They stood and trembled, while I plead and prayed.
"I am your child, Ginevra. Let me in!
I am not dead. In mercy, let me in!"
"The holy saints forbid!" declared my sire.
My mother sobbed and vowed whole pounds of wax
To St. Eustachio, would he but remove
This fearful presence from her door. Then sharp
Came click of lock, and a long tube was thrust
From out the window, and my brother cried,
"Spirit or devil, go! or else I fire!"
Where should I go? Back to the ghastly tomb
And the cold coffined ones! Up the long street,
Wringing my hands and sobbing low, I went.
My feet were bare and bleeding from the stones;
My hands were bleeding too; my hair hung loose
Over my shroud. So wild and strange a shape
Saw never Florence since.
At last I saw a flickering point of light
High overhead, in a dim window set.
I had lain down to die: but at the sight
I rose, crawled on, and with expiring strength
Knocked, sank again, and knew not even then
It was Antonio's door by which I lay.
A window opened, and a voice called out:
"Qui e?" "I am Ginevra." And I thought,
"Now he will fall to trembling, like the rest,
And bid me hence." But, lo, a moment more
The bolts were drawn, and arms whose very touch
Was life, lifted and clasped and bore me in.
"O ghost or angel of my buried love,
I know not, I care not which, be welcome here!
Welcome, thrice welcome, to this heart of mine!"
I heard him say, and then I heard no more.
It was high noontide when I woke again,
To hear fierce voices wrangling by my bed--
My father's and my husband's; for, with dawn,
Gathering up valor, they had sought the tomb,
Had found me gone, and tracked my bleeding feet,
Over the pavement to Antonio's door.
Dead, they cared nothing; living, I was theirs.
Hot raged the quarrel: then came Justice in,
And to the court we swept--I in my shroud--
To try the cause.
This was the verdict given:
"A woman who has been to burial borne,
Made fast and left and locked in with the dead;
Who at her husband's door has stood and plead
For entrance, and has heard her prayer denied;
Who from her father's house is urged and chased,
Must be adjudged as dead in law and fact.
The Court pronounces the defendant--dead!
She can resume her former ties at will,
Or may renounce them, if such be her will.
She is no more a daughter or a spouse,
Unless she choose, and is set free to form
New ties if so she choose."
O, blessed words!
That very day we knelt before the priest,
My love and I, were wed, and life began.
Child of my child, child of Antonio's child,
Bend down and let me kiss your wondering face.
'Tis a strange tale to tell a rose like you.
But time is brief, and, had I told you not,
Haply the story would have met your ears
From them, the Amieris.
Now go, my dearest. When they wake thee up,
To tell thee I am dead, be not too sad.
I who have died once, do not fear to die.
Sweet was that waking, sweeter will be this.
Close to Heaven's gate my own Antonio sits
Waiting, and, spite of all the Frati say,
I know I shall not stand long at that gate,
Or knock and be refused an entrance there,
For he will start up when he hears my voice,
The saints will smile, and he will open quick.
Only a night to part me from that joy.
Jesu Maria! let the dawning come!
THE HIGH TIDE AT LINCOLNSHIRE
JEAN INGELOW
The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,
The ringers rang by two, by three;
"Pull, if ye never pulled before;
Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he.
"Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!
Ply all your changes, all your swells,
Play uppe, 'The Brides of Enderby.'"
Men say it was a stolen tyde--
The Lord that sent it, He knows all;
But in myne ears doth still abide
The message that the bells let fall:
And there was naught of strange, beside
The flight of mews and peewits pied
By millions crouched on the old sea-wall.
I sat and spun within the doore,
My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes;
The level sun, like ruddy ore,
Lay sinking in the barren skies,
And dark against day's golden death
She moved where Lindis wandereth,
My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling
Ere the early dews were falling,
Farre away I heard her song.
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along;
Where the reedy Lindis floweth,
Floweth, floweth,
From the meads where melick groweth,
Faintly came her milking song.
Alle fresh the level pasture lay,
And not a shadowe mote be seene,
Save where full fyve good miles away
The steeple towered from out the greene;
And lo! the great bell farre and wide
Was heard in all the country side
That Saturday at eventide.
I looked without, and lo! my sonne
Came riding down with might and main:
He raised a shout as he drew on,
Till all the welkin rang again,
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"
(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)
"The old sea wall (he cried) is downe,
The rising tide comes on apace,
And boats adrift in yonder towne
Go sailing uppe the market-place."
He shook as one that looks on death:
"God save you, mother!" straight he saith,
"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"
"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away,
With her two bairns I marked her long;
And ere yon bells beganne to play
Afar I heard her milking song."
He looked across the grassy lea,
To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!"
They rang "The Brides of Enderby!"
With that he cried and beat his breast;
For, lo! along the river's bed
A mighty eygre reared his crest,
And uppe the Lindis raging sped.
It swept with thunderous noises loud;
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,
Or like a demon in a shroud.
So farre, so fast the eygre drave,
The heart had hardly time to beat,
Before a shallow, seething wave
Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet.
The feet had hardly time to flee
Before it brake against the knee,
And all the world was in the sea.
Upon the roofe we sat that night,
The noise of bells went sweeping by;
I marked the lofty beacon light
Stream from the church tower, red and high--
A lurid mark and dread to see;
And awesome bells they were to me,
That in the dark rang "Enderby."
They rang the sailor lads to guide
From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed,
And I--my sonne was at my side,
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed;
And yet he moaned beneath his breath,
"O come in life, or come in death!
O lost! my love, Elizabeth."
And didst thou visit him no more?
Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare;
The waters laid thee at his doore,
Ere yet the early dawn was clear,
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,
The lifted sun shone on thy face,
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.
That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea;
A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!
To manye more than myne and me:
But each will mourn his own (she saith),
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.
I shall never hear her more
By the reedy Lindis shore,
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
Ere the early dews be falling;
I shall never hear her song,
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along
Where the sunny Lindis floweth,
Goeth, floweth;
From the meads where melick groweth,
When the water winding down,
Onward floweth to the town.
I shall never see her more
Where the reeds and rushes quiver,
Shiver, quiver;
Stand beside the sobbing river,
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling
To the sandy lonesome shore;
I shall never hear her calling,
"Leave your meadow grasses mellow,
Mellow, mellow;
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot;
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,
Hollow, hollow;
Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow;
Lightfoot, Whitefoot,
From your clovers lift the head;
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow,
Jetty, to the milking-shed."
HOW DID YOU DIE?[5]
EDMUND VANCE COOKE
Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful,
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble is a ton, or a trouble is an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it,
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
But only--how did you take it?
You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?
Come up with a smiling face.
It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there--that's disgrace.
The harder you're thrown, why, the higher you bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts;
It's how did you fight--and why?
And though you be done to the death, what then?
If you battled the best you could,
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why The Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he's slow, or spry,
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
But only--how did you die?
FOOTNOTE:
[5] By permission of Forbes & Co, publishers, and of the author.
THE INDIGO BIRD[6]
JOHN BURROUGHS
Oh, late to come but long to sing,
My little finch of deep-dyed wing,
I welcome thee this day!
Thou comest with the orchard bloom,
The azure days, the sweet perfume
That fills the breath of May.
A winged gem amid the trees,
A cheery strain upon the breeze
From tree-top sifting down;
A leafy nest in covert low;
When daisies come and brambles blow,
A mate in Quaker brown.
But most I prize, past summer's prime,
When other throats have ceased to chime,
Thy faithful tree-top strain;
No brilliant bursts our ears enthrall--
A prelude with a "dying fall,"
That soothes the summer's pain.
Where blackcaps sweeten in the shade,
And clematis a bower hath made,
Or, in the bushy fields,
On breezy slopes where cattle graze,
At noon on dreamy August days,
Thy strain its solace yields.
Oh, bird inured to sun and heat,
And steeped in summer languor sweet,
The tranquil days are thine.
The season's fret and urge are o'er,
Its tide is loitering on the shore;
Make thy contentment mine!
FOOTNOTE:
[6] By permission of Harper & Bros., publishers, and the author.
THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS
R. H. BARHAM
The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!
Bishop and abbot and prior were there;
Many a monk, and many a friar,
Many a knight, and many a squire,
With a great many more of lesser degree,--
In sooth, a goodly company;
And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.
Never, I ween, was a prouder seen,
Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!
In and out through the motley rout,
That little Jackdaw kept hopping about:
Here and there, like a dog in a fair,
Over comfits and cates, and dishes and plates,
Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,
Miter and crosier! he hopped upon all.
With a saucy air, he perched on the chair
Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat,
In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;
And he peered in the face
Of his Lordship's Grace,
With a satisfied look, as if he would say,
"We two are the greatest folks here to-day!"
And the priests with awe, as such freaks they saw,
Said, "The deuce must be in that little Jackdaw!"
The feast was over, the board was cleared,
The flawns and the custards had all disappeared,
And six little singing-boys--dear little souls
In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles--
Came, in order due, two by two,
Marching that grand refectory through!
A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
Embossed and filled with water, as pure
As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,
Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.
Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne;
And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.
One little boy more a napkin bore,
Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink,
And a Cardinal's hat marked in "permanent ink."
The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight
Of these nice little boys dressed all in white;
From his finger he draws his costly turquoise:
And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,
Deposits it straight by the side of his plate,
While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;
Till when nobody's dreaming of any such thing,
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!
There's a cry and a shout, and a terrible rout,
And nobody seems to know what they're about,
But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out;
The friars are kneeling, and hunting and feeling
The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.
The Cardinal drew off each plum-colored shoe,
And left his red stockings exposed to the view;
He peeps, and he feels in the toes and the heels;
They turn up the dishes, they turn up the plates,
They take up the poker and poke out the grates,
They turn up the rugs, they examine the mugs;
But, no! no such thing,--they can't find THE RING!
The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,
He called for his candle, his bell, and his book!
In holy anger and pious grief
He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!
Never was heard such a terrible curse!
But what gave rise to no little surprise,
Nobody seemed one penny the worse!
The day was gone, the night came on,
The monks and the friars they searched till dawn;
When the sacristan saw, on crumpled claw,
Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw!
No longer gay, as on yesterday;
His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way;
His pinions drooped, he could hardly stand,--
His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;
His eye so dim, so wasted each limb,
Regardless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT'S HIM!
That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing,
That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's ring!"
The poor little Jackdaw, when the monks he saw,
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;
And turned his bald head as much as to say,
"Pray be so good as to walk this way!"
Slower and slower he limped on before,
Till they came to the back of the belfry-door,
Where the first thing they saw,
Midst the sticks and the straw,
Was the RING, in the nest of the little Jackdaw!
Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book,
And off that terrible curse he took;
The mute expression served in lieu of confession,
And, being thus coupled with full restitution,
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!
When these words were heard, the poor little bird
Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd:
He grew slick and fat; in addition to that,
A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!
His tail waggled more even than before;
But no longer it wagged with an impudent air,
No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair.
He hopped now about with a gait devout;
At matins, at vespers, he never was out;
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads.
If any one lied, or if any one swore,
Or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore,
That good Jackdaw would give a great "Caw!"
As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!"
While many remarked, as his manners they saw,
That they never had known such a pious Jackdaw!
He long lived the pride of that country side,
And at last in the order of sanctity died:
When, as words were too faint his merits to paint,
The Conclave determined to make him a Saint.
And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know,
It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow,
So they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow!
JAFFAR
LEIGH HUNT
Jaffar the Barmecide, the good vizier,
The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer,
Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust;
And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust
Of what the good, and e'en the bad, might say,
Ordained that no man living, from that day,
Should dare to speak his name on pain of death.
All Araby and Persia held their breath;
All but the brave Mondeer; he, proud to show
How far for love a grateful soul could go,
And facing death for very scorn and grief
(For his great heart wanted a great relief),
Stood forth in Bagdad, daily, in the square
Where once had stood a happy house, and there
Harangued the tremblers at the scimitar
On all they owed to the divine Jaffar.
"Bring me this man," the caliph cried; the man
Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began
To bind his arms. "Welcome, brave cords," cried he,
"From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me;
From wants, from shames, from loveliest household fears,
Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears;
Restored me, loved me, put me on a par
With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?"
Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this
The mightiest vengeance could not fall amiss,
Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate
Might smile upon another half as great.
He said, "Let worth grow frenzied if it will;
The caliph's judgment shall be master still.
Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem,
The richest in the Tartar's diadem,
And hold the giver as thou deemest fit!"
"Gifts!" cried the friend; he took, and holding it
High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star,
Exclaimed, "This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar!"
JIM BLUDSOE[7]
JOHN HAY
Wall, no! I can't tell where he lives,
Because he don't live, you see;
Leastways, he's got out of the habit
Of livin' like you and me.
Whar have you been for the last three years,
That you haven't heard folks tell
How Jimmy Bludsoe passed in his checks,
The night of the Prairie Belle?
He warn't no saint--them engineers
Is all pretty much alike--
One wife in Natchez-Under-the-Hill,
And another one here in Pike.
A careless man in his talk was Jim,
And an awkward man in a row--
But he never flunked, and he never lied--
I reckon he never knowed how.
And this was all the religion he had--
To treat his engine well;
Never be passed on the river;
To mind the pilot's bell;
And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire;
A thousand times he swore,
He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last soul got ashore.
All boats has their day on the Mississip',
And her day came at last--
The Movastar was a better boat,
But the Belle, she wouldn't be passed,
And so came a-tearin' along that night,
The oldest craft on the line,
With a nigger squat on her safety-valve,
And her furnaces crammed, rosin and pine.
The fire burst out as she cleared the bar,
And burnt a hole in the night,
And quick as a flash she turned and made
For that willer-bank on the right.
Ther' was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out
Over all the infernal roar,
"I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last galoot's ashore."
Thro' the hot black breath of the burnin' boat
Jim Bludsoe's voice was heard,
And they all had trust in his cussedness,
And know'd he would keep his word.
And sure's you're born, they all got off
Afore the smokestacks fell,
And Bludsoe's ghost went up alone
In the smoke of Prairie Belle.
He warn't no saint--but at judgment
I'd run my chance with Jim
Longside of some pious gentleman
That wouldn't shook hands with him.
He'd seen his duty, a dead sure thing,
And went fer it thar and then;
And Christ ain't a-goin' to be too hard
On a man that died for men.
FOOTNOTE:
[7] By permission of Mrs. Hay.
KING ROBERT OF SICILY[8]
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Appareled in magnificent attire,
With retinue of many a knight and squire,
On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat,
And heard the priests chant the Magnificat,
And as he listened, o'er and o'er again
Repeated, like a burden or refrain,
He caught the words, "Deposuit potentes
De sede et exultavit humiles;"
And slowly lifting up his kingly head,
He to the learned clerk beside him said,
"What mean those words?" The clerk made answer meet,
"He has put down the mighty from their seat,
And has exalted them of low degree."
Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully,
"'Tis well that such seditious words are sung
Only by priests and in the Latin tongue;
For unto priests and people be it known,
There is no power can push me from my throne!"
And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep,
Lulled by the chant, monotonous and deep.
When he awoke it was already night;
The church was empty, and there was no light,
Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint,
Lighted a little space before some saint.
He started from his seat and gazed around,
But saw no living thing and heard no sound.
He groped toward the door, but it was locked;
He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked,
And uttered awful threatenings and complaints,
And imprecations upon men and saints.
The sounds reëchoed from the roof and walls
As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls.
At length the sexton hearing from without
The tumult of the knocking and the shout,
And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer,
Came with his lantern asking, "Who is there?"
Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said,
"Open: 'Tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?"
The frightened sexton muttering with a curse,
"This is some drunken vagabond or worse!"
Turned the great key and flung the portal wide;
A man rushed by him at a single stride,
Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak,
Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke,
But leaped into the blackness of the night,
And vanished like a spectre from his sight.
Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Despoiled of his magnificent attire,
Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire,
With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,
Strode on and thundered at the palace gate;
Rushed through the courtyard, thrusting in his rage
To right and left each seneschal and page,
And hurried up the broad and sounding stair,
His white face ghastly in the torches' glare.
From hall to hall he rushed in breathless speed,
Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed,
Until at last he reached the banquet room,
Blazing with light and breathing with perfume.
There on the dais sat another king,
Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet ring,
King Robert's self in feature, form and height,
But all transfigured with angelic light.
It was an Angel; and his presence there
With a divine effulgence filled the air,
An exaltation piercing the disguise,
Though none the hidden Angel recognize.
A moment speechless, motionless, amazed,
The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed,
Who met his look of anger and surprise
With the divine compassion of his eyes;
Then said, "Who art thou, and why comest thou here?"
To which King Robert answered with a sneer,
"I am the King, and come to claim my own
From an imposter, who usurps my throne!"
And suddenly, at these audacious words,
Up sprang the angry guests and drew their swords!
The Angel answered with unruffled brow,
"Nay, not the king, but the king's Jester, thou
Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape,
And for thy counselor shalt lead an ape;
Thou shalt obey my servants when they call,
And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!"
Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers,
They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs;
A group of tittering pages ran before,
And as they opened wide the folding doors,
His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms,
The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms,
And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring
With the mock plaudits of "Long live the King!"
Next morning, waking with the day's first beam,
He said within himself, "It was a dream!"
But the straw rustled as he turned his head,
There were the cap and bells beside his bed,
Around him rose the bare discolored walls,
Close by the steeds were champing in their stalls,
And in the corner, a revolting shape,
Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape.
It was no dream; the world he loved so much
Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch!
Days came and went; and now returned again
To Sicily the old Saturnian reign;
Under the Angel's governance benign
The happy island danced with corn and wine,
And deep within the mountain's burning breast
Enceladus, the giant, was at rest.
Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate,
Sullen and silent and disconsolate,
Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear,
With look bewildered and a vacant stare,
Close shaven above the ears as monks are shorn,
By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn,
His only friend the ape, his only food
What others left,--he still was unsubdued.
And when the Angel met him on his way,
And half in earnest, half in jest, would say,
Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel,
The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel,
"Art thou the King?" the passion of his woe,
Burst from him in resistless overflow,
And, lifting high his forehead he would fling
The haughty answer back, "I am, I am, the King!"
Almost three years were ended, when there came
Ambassadors of great repute and fame
From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane
By letter summoned them forthwith to come
On Holy Thursday to his City of Rome.
The Pope received them with great pomp and blare
Of bannered trumpets, on St. Peter's Square,
Giving his benediction and embrace,
Fervent, and full of apostolic grace.
While with congratulations and with prayers
He entertained the Angel unawares.
Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd,
Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud,
"I am the King! Look and behold in me
Robert, your brother, King of Sicily!
This man who wears my semblance in your eyes,
Is an imposter in a king's disguise.
Do you not know me? Does no voice within
Answer my cry, and say we are akin?"
The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien,
Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene;
The Emperor, laughing said, "It is strange sport
To keep a madman for thy fool at court!"
And the poor baffled Jester in disgrace
Was hustled back among the populace.
In solemn state the Holy Week went by,
And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky;
The presence of the Angel, with its light,
Before the sun rose, made the city bright,
And with new fervor filled the hearts of men,
Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again.
Even the Jester, on his bed of straw,
With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw,
He felt within a power unfelt before,
And, kneeling humbly on the chamber floor,
He heard the rushing garments of the Lord
Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward.
And now the visit ending, and once more
Valmond returning to the Danube's shore,
Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again
The land was made resplendent with his train,
Flashing along the towns of Italy
Unto Salerno, and from thence by sea.
And when once more within Palermo's wall,
And, seated on the throne in his great hall,
He heard the Angelus from convent towers,
As if a better world conversed with ours,
He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher,
And with a gesture bade the rest retire;
And when they were alone, the Angel said,
"Art thou the King?" Then, bowing down his head,
King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast,
And meekly answered him: "Thou knowest best!
My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence,
And in some cloister's school of penitence,
Across those stones that pave the way to heaven,
Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul be shriven!"
The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face
A holy light illumined all the place,
And through the open window, loud and clear,
They heard the monks chant in the chapel near,
Above the noise and tumult of the street:
"He has put down the mighty from their seat,
And has exalted them of low degree!"
And through the chant a second melody
Rose like the throbbing of a single string:
"I am an Angel, and thou art the King!"
King Robert, who was standing near the throne,
Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone!
But all appareled as in days of old,
With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold,
And when his courtiers came, they found him there
Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer.
FOOTNOTE:
[8] Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton,
Mifflin, & Co., authorized publishers of his works.
THE LADY OF SHALOTT
ALFRED LORD TENNYSON
PART I
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs forever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle embowers
The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow-veil'd
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot.
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."
PART II
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colors gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear,
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.
PART III
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight forever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick jewel'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.
PART IV
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
_The Lady of Shalott_.
And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lying robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right--
The leaves upon her falling light--
Thro' the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reached upon the tide
The first house by the water side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
_The Lady of Shalott_.
Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in His mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."
A LEGEND OF SERVICE[9]
HENRY VAN DYKE
It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise his name!)
To hear, one day, report from those who came
With pitying sorrow, or exultant joy,
To tell of earthly tasks in His employ;
For some were sorry when they saw how slow
The stream of heavenly love on earth must flow;
And some were glad because their eyes had seen,
Along its banks, fresh flowers and living green.
So, at a certain hour, before the throne
The youngest angel, Asmiel, stood alone;
Nor glad, nor sad, but full of earnest thought,
And thus his tidings to the Master brought:
"Lord, in the city Lupon I have found
Three servants of thy holy name, renowned
Above their fellows. One is very wise,
With thoughts that ever range above the skies;
And one is gifted with the golden speech
That makes men glad to hear when he will teach;
And one, with no rare gift or grace endued,
Has won the people's love by doing good.
With three such saints Lupon is trebly blest;
But, Lord, I fain would know which loves thee best?"
Then spake the Lord of Angels, to whose look
The hearts of all are like an open book:
"In every soul the secret thought I read,
And well I know who loves me best indeed.
But every life has pages vacant still,
Whereon a man may write the thing he will;
Therefore I read in silence, day by day,
And wait for hearts untaught to learn my way.
But thou shalt go to Lupon, to the three
Who serve me there, and take this word from me:
Tell each of them his Master bids him go
Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow;
There he shall find a certain task for me,
But what, I do not tell to them nor thee.
Give thou the message, make my word the test,
And crown for me the one who answers best."
Silent the angel stood, with folded hands,
To take the imprint of his Lord's commands;
Then drew one breath, obedient and elate,
And passed the self-same hour, through Lupon's gate.
First to the Temple door he made his way;
And then because it was an holy-day,
He saw the folk by thousands thronging, stirred
By ardent thirst to hear the preacher's word.
Then, while the echoes murmured Bernol's name,
Through aisles that hushed behind him, Bernol came;
Strung to the keenest pitch of conscious might,
With lips prepared and firm, and eyes alight.
One moment at the pulpit step he knelt
In silent prayer, and on his shoulder felt
The angel's hand:--"The Master bids thee go
Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow,
To serve Him there." Then Bernol's hidden face
Went white as death, and for about the space
Of ten slow heart-beats there was no reply;
Till Bernol looked around and whispered, "Why?"
But answer to this question came there none;
The angel sighed, and with a sigh was gone.
Within the humble house where Malvin spent
His studious years, on holy things intent,
Sweet stillness reigned; and there the angel found
The saintly sage immersed in thought profound,
Weaving with patient toil and willing care
A web of wisdom, wonderful and fair:
A seamless robe for Truth's great bridal meet,
And needing but one thread to be complete.
Then Asmiel touched his hand and broke the thread
Of fine-spun thought, and very gently said,
"The One of whom thou thinkest bids thee go
Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow,
To serve Him there." With sorrow and surprise
Malvin looked up, reluctance in his eyes.
The broken thought, the strangeness of the call,
The perilous passage of the mountain-wall,
The solitary journey, and the length
Of ways unknown, too great for his frail strength,
Appalled him. With a doubtful brow
He scanned the doubtful task, and muttered, "How?"
But Asmiel answered, as he turned to go,
With cold disheartened voice, "I do not know."
Now as he went, with fading hope, to seek
The third and last, to whom God bade him speak,
Scarce twenty steps away whom should he meet
But Fermor, hurrying cheerful down the street,
With ready heart that faced his work like play,
And joyed to find it greater day by day!
The angel stopped him with uplifted hand,
And gave without delay his Lord's command:
"He whom thou servest here would have thee go
Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow,
To serve Him there." Ere Asmiel breathed again
The eager answer leaped to meet him, "When?"
The angel's face with inward joy grew bright,
And all his figure glowed with heavenly light;
He took the golden circlet from his brow
And gave the crown to Fermor, answering; "Now!
For thou hast met the Master's bidden test,
And I have found the man who loves Him best.
Not thine, nor mine, to question or reply
When He commands us, asking 'how?' or 'why?'
He knows the cause; His ways are wise and just;
Who serves the King must serve with perfect trust."
FOOTNOTE:
[9] From "Music and other Poems," copyright, 1904, by Charles Scribner's
Sons.
LITTLE BOY BLUE
EUGENE FIELD
The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and stanch he stands;
And the little tin soldier is red with rust,
And his musket molds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new
And the soldier was passing fair,
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.
"Now, don't you go till I come," he said;
"And don't you make any noise!"
So toddling off to his trundle bed
He dreamt of the pretty toys.
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue--
Oh, the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true.
Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place.
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face.
And they wonder, as waiting these long years through,
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of that Little Boy Blue
Since he kissed them and put them there.
MARY'S NIGHT RIDE[10]
GEORGE W. CABLE
Mary Richling, the heroine of the story, was the wife of John Richling,
a resident of New Orleans. At the breaking out of the Civil War she went
to visit her parents in Milwaukee. About the time of the bombardment of
New Orleans she received news of the dangerous illness of her husband,
and she decided at once to reach his bedside, if possible. Taking with
her, her baby daughter, a child of three years, she proceeded southward,
where, after several unsuccessful attempts to secure a pass, she finally
determined to break through the lines.
About the middle of the night Mary Richling was sitting very still and
upright on a large, dark horse that stood champing his Mexican bit in
the black shadow of a great oak. Alice rested before her, fast asleep
against her bosom. Mary held by the bridle another horse, whose naked
saddle-tree was empty. A few steps in front of her the light of the full
moon shone almost straight down upon a narrow road that just there
emerged from the shadow of woods on either side, and divided into a main
right fork and a much smaller one that curved around to Mary's left. Off
in the direction of the main fork the sky was all aglow with camp-fires.
Only just here on the left there was a cool and grateful darkness.
She lifted her head alertly. A twig crackled under a tread, and the next
moment a man came out of the bushes at the left, and without a word took
the bridle of the old horse from her fingers and vaulted into the
saddle. The hand that rested a moment on the cantle as he rose grasped a
"navy six." He was dressed in dull homespun, but he was the same who had
been dressed in blue. He turned his horse and led the way down the
lesser road.
"If we'd gone on three hundred yards further," he whispered, falling
back and smiling broadly, "we'd 'a' run into the pickets. I went nigh
enough to see the videttes settin' on their hosses in the main road.
This here ain't no road; it just goes up to a nigger quarters. I've got
one o' the niggers to show us the way."
"Where is he?" whispered Mary; but before her companion could answer, a
tattered form moved from behind a bush a little in advance and started
ahead in the path, walking and beckoning. Presently they turned into a
clear, open forest, and followed the long, rapid, swinging stride of the
negro for nearly an hour. Then they halted on the bank of a deep, narrow
stream. The negro made a motion for them to keep well to the right when
they should enter the water. The white man softly lifted Alice to his
arms, directed and assisted Mary to kneel in her saddle, with her skirts
gathered carefully under her, and so they went down into the cold
stream, the negro first, with arms outstretched above the flood; then
Mary, and then the white man,--or, let us say plainly, the spy--with the
unawakened child on his breast. And so they rose out of it on the
farther side without a shoe or garment wet, save the rags of their dark
guide.
Again they followed him, along a line of stake-and-rider fence, with the
woods on one side and the bright moonlight flooding a field of young
cotton on the other. Now they heard the distant baying of house-dogs,
now the doleful call of the chuck-will's-widow, and once Mary's blood
turned, for an instant, almost to ice at the unearthly shriek of the
hoot owl just above her head. At length they found themselves in a dim,
narrow road, and the negro stopped.
"Dess keep dish yeh road fo' 'bout half mile, an' you strak 'pon de
broad, main road. Tek de left, an' you go whah yo' fancy tek you."
"Good-by," whispered Mary.
"Good-by, Miss," said the negro, in the same low voice; "good-by, boss;
don't you fo'git you promise tek me thoo to de Yankee' when you come
back. I 'feered you gwine fo'git it, boss."
The spy said he would not, and they left him. The half-mile was soon
passed, though it turned out to be a mile and a half, and at length
Mary's companion looked back as they rode single file with Mary in the
rear, and said softly:
"There's the road," pointing at its broad, pale line with his
six-shooter.
As they entered it and turned to the left, Mary, with Alice again in her
arms, moved somewhat ahead of her companion, her indifferent
horsemanship having compelled him to drop back to avoid a prickly bush.
His horse was just quickening his pace to regain the lost position, when
a man sprang up from the ground on the farther side of the highway,
snatched a carbine from the earth and cried: "Halt!"
The dark recumbent forms of six or eight others could be seen, enveloped
in their blankets, lying about a few red coals. Mary turned a frightened
look backward and met the eyes of her companion.
"Move a little faster," said he, in a low, clear voice. As she promptly
did so she heard him answer the challenge, as his horse trotted softly
after hers.
"Don't stop us, my friend; we're taking a sick child to the doctor."
"Halt, you hound!" the cry rang out; and as Mary glanced back three or
four men were just leaping into the road. But she saw also her
companion, his face suffused with an earnestness that was almost an
agony, rise in his stirrups with the stoop of his shoulders all gone,
and wildly cry:
"Go!"
She smote the horse and flew. Alice woke and screamed.
"Hush, my darling," said the mother, laying on the withe; "mamma's here.
Hush, darling, mamma's here. Don't be frightened, darling baby. O God,
spare my child!" and away she sped.
The report of a carbine rang out and went rolling away in a thousand
echoes through the wood. Two others followed in sharp succession, and
there went close by Mary's ear the waspish whine of a minie-ball. At the
same moment she recognized, once,--twice,--thrice,--just at her back
where the hoofs of her companion's horse were clattering--the tart
rejoinders of his navy six.
"Go!" he cried again. "Lay low! lay low! cover the child!" But his words
were needless. With head bowed forward and form crouched over the
crying, clinging child, with slackened rein and fluttering dress, and
sun-bonnet and loosened hair blown back upon her shoulders, with lips
compressed and silent prayers, Mary was riding for life and liberty and
her husband's bedside.
"O mamma, mamma," wailed the terrified little one.
"Go on! Go on!" cried the voice behind; "they're--saddling up! Go! go!
We're goin' to make it! We're going to make it! Go-o-o!"
And they made it!
FOOTNOTE:
[10] From "Dr. Sevier."
NYDIA, THE BLIND GIRL[11]
EDWARD BULWER LYTTON
As Glaucus, a young Athenian, now a resident of Pompeii, was strolling
with his friend Clodius through the streets of that renowned city, their
steps were arrested by a crowd gathered round an open space where three
streets met; and just where the porticoes of a light, graceful temple
threw their shade, there stood a young girl, with a flower-basket on her
right arm and a small three-stringed instrument of music in her left
hand, to whose low and soft tones she was modulating a low, plaintive
air.
"It is my poor, blind Thessalian," said Glaucus, stopping; "I have not
seen her since my return to Pompeii. Hush! let us listen to her song."
THE BLIND FLOWER GIRL'S SONG
Buy my flowers, O buy, I pray!
The blind girl comes from afar;
If the earth be as fair as I hear them say,
These flowers her children are!
Do they her beauty keep?
They are fresh from her lap, I know,
For I caught them fast asleep
In her arms an hour ago.
Ye have a world of light,
Where love in the loved rejoices;
But the blind girl's home is the house of night,
And its beings are empty voices.
Come buy,--buy, come buy!--
Hark! how the sweet things sigh
(For they have a voice like ours)
O buy--O buy the flowers!
"I must have that bunch of violets, sweet Nydia," said Glaucus, "your
voice is more charming than ever."
The blind girl started forward as she heard the Athenian's voice; then
as suddenly paused, while a blush of timidity flushed over neck, cheeks,
and temples.
"So you are returned!" she said in a low voice.
"Yes, child, I have not been at Pompeii above a few days. My garden
wants your care, you will visit it, I trust, to-morrow, and mind, no
garlands at my house shall be woven by any hands but those of the pretty
Nydia."
Nydia smiled joyously but did not answer; and Glaucus, placing in his
breast the violets he had selected, turned gaily and carelessly from the
crowd.
Though of gentle birth, for her cradle was rocked at the foot of
Olympus, Nydia had been sold when quite young to Burbo, a gladiator of
the amphitheater. She was cruelly treated by the wife of Burbo.
Glaucus bought her, took her to his home, and her sweetest joy was to
minister to the comfort and entertainment of her deliverer. The vines
that grew upon the walls of the peristyle were not more graceful, their
tendrils not more trusting and tender, nor the flowers woven into
wreaths and garlands by her skillful fingers more beautiful than the
blind flower-girl of the house of Glaucus.
As the months went on what wonder that the kind words and sympathetic
voice which had been the first that had sounded musically to her ear
should awaken in the breast of Nydia a deeper love than that which
springs from gratitude alone! What wonder that in her innocence and
blindness she knew no reason why the most brilliant and the most
graceful of the young nobles of Pompeii should entertain none other than
feelings of friendship for her! When the Athenian drew her unconsciously
to his breast, deeming her still a child--when he kissed her cheek and
wound his arm around her trembling form, Nydia felt that those feelings
she had innocently cherished were of love.
What wonder then that into her wild and passionate soul should creep the
pangs of jealousy when another claimed the homage of him who was all to
her!
Glaucus loved Ione, a beautiful young Neapolitan of Greek parentage who
had lately come to Pompeii. She was one of those brilliant characters
which seldom flash across our career. She united in the highest
perfection the rarest of earthly gifts,--Genius and Beauty. No one ever
possessed superior intellectual qualities without knowing them. In the
person of Ione, Glaucus found the long-sought idol of his dreams; and so
infatuated was he, that he could talk of no one else. No song was sweet
but that which breathed of love, and to him love was but a synonym of
Ione.
"Play to us, dear Nydia,--play, and give us one of thy songs; whether it
be of magic or not as thou wilt--let it at least be of love."
"Of love! wish you that I should sing of love?"
"Yes."
She moved a little way from Ione, who had learned to love her more as a
sister than a slave, and placing her light, graceful instrument on her
knee, after a short prelude, she sang the following strain, in which
with touching pathos, her own sighs were represented by the _Wind_, the
brightness of the beautiful Ione by the _Sun-beam_, and the personality
of Glaucus by his favorite flower, the _Rose_.
I
The Wind and the Beam loved the Rose,
And the Rose loved one;
For who seeks the Wind where it blows?
Or loves not the Sun?
II
None knew where the humble Wind stole,
Poor sport of the skies--
None dreamt that the Wind had a soul,
In its mournful sighs!
III
Oh, happy Beam! how canst thou prove
That bright love of thine?
In thy light is the proof of thy love,
Thou hast but--to shine!
IV
How can the Wind its love reveal?
Unwelcome its sigh;
Mute--mute to its Rose be it still--
Its proof is--to die!
Alike in their mornings at the house of Ione, and in their evening
excursions, Nydia was usually their constant, and often their sole
companion. They did not guess the secret fires which consumed her; the
flames of which were ever fanned by the unconscious breath of the two
lovers. Yet her fidelity arose above her pitiful pangs of jealousy and
in the hour of need she was the tried and trusted.
The scene changes; where only the brightness of uninterrupted love had
hitherto fallen, now creep the black shadows of tragic sorrow.
Ione falls into the clutches of Arbaces, a subtle, crafty Egyptian, who
attempted by the magic of his dark sorcery, to win her away from
Glaucus. In pursuit of his base designs, Arbaces murders Apæcides, the
brother of Ione, imprisons the priest Calenus, the only witness of the
deed, and with great cunning weaves a convicting web of circumstantial
evidence around Glaucus, his hated rival. Glaucus is tried, convicted,
and doomed to be thrown to the lion. Ione and Nydia are also prisoners
in the house of Arbaces. Glaucus has been placed in that gloomy and
narrow cell in which the criminals of the arena awaited their last and
fearful struggle.
Alas! how faithless are the friendships made around an epicurean board!
Where were the gay loiterers who once lingered at the feasts and drank
the rich wines of the house of Glaucus? Only Sallust shed a tear, but he
was powerless against Arbaces who was backed by the corrupt priesthood
of Isis.
What ministering angel should now come forth as a light out of darkness
bearing, even in her blindness, the conditions of deliverance, but
Nydia. From the slaves of Arbaces she learned the approaching fate of
Glaucus. Working upon the superstition of her special guard Sosia, she
manages to escape his vigilance for a time, and creeping along a dark
passage she overhears the cries of the priest Calenus lately
incarcerated in an adjoining dungeon cell. From him she learns the
circumstances of the crime of Arbaces for which the innocent Glaucus was
doomed to die. A few hours later she was captured by Sosia and replaced
in her cell.
Yet knowing that the sole chance for the life of Glaucus rested on her,
this young girl, frail, passionate, and acutely susceptible as she
was--resolved not to give way to despair. Glaucus was in deadly peril,
but she should save him! Sosia was her only hope, the only instrument
with which she could tamper.
As if afraid he would be again outwitted, Sosia refrained from visiting
her until a late hour of the following day.
"Kind Sosia, chide me not," said Nydia, "I cannot endure to be so long
alone, the solitude appalls me. Sit with me, I pray, a little while.
Nay, fear not that I should attempt to escape; place thy seat before the
door. Sosia, how much dost thou require to make up thy freedom?"
"How much?" said he, "why, about 2000 sesterces."
"The Gods be praised! not more? Seest thou these bracelets and this
chain? they are worth double that sum. I will give them thee if thou
wilt let me out, only for one little hour! let me out at midnight--I
will return ere to-morrow's dawn; nay, thou canst go with me."
"No," said Sosia, sturdily, "a slave once disobeying Arbaces is never
heard of more."
"Well, then, thou wilt not, at least, refuse to take a letter for me;
thy master cannot kill thee for that."
"To whom?"
"To Sallust, the gay Sallust. Glaucus was my master, he purchased me
from a cruel lord. He alone has been kind to me. He is to die to-morrow.
I shall never live happily if I cannot, in this hour of trial and doom,
let him know that one heart is grateful to him. Sallust is his friend;
he will convey my message."
"Well, give me the trinkets, and I will take the letter."
Nydia carefully prepared the epistle, but ere she placed it in the hands
of Sosia she thus addressed him:
"Sosia, I am blind and in prison. Thou mayst think to deceive me--thou
mayst pretend only to take the letter to Sallust--thou mayst not fulfill
thy charge; but here I solemnly dedicate thy head to vengeance, thy soul
to the infernal powers, if thou wrongest thy trust; and I call upon thee
to place thy right hand of faith in mine, and repeat after me these
words;--'_By the ground on which we stand--by the elements which contain
life and which can curse life--by Orcus, the all-avenging--by the
Olympian Jupiter, the all-seeing--I swear that I will honestly discharge
my trust, and faithfully deliver this letter into the hands of
Sallust_.' Enough! I trust thee--take thy reward. It is already
dark--depart at once."
Sosia was true to his trust--Sallust read the letter, she wrote,--"_I am
a prisoner in the house of Arbaces. Hasten to the Prætor! procure my
release, and we yet shall save Glaucus from the lion. There is another
prisoner within these walls, whose witness can exonerate the Athenian
from the charge against him;--one who saw the crime--who can prove the
criminal to be a villain hitherto unsuspected. Fly! hasten! quick!
quick! Bring with you armed men, lest resistance be made,--and a cunning
and dexterous smith; for the dungeon of my fellow-prisoner is thick and
strong. Oh! by thy right hand, and thy father's ashes, lose not a
moment!_"
The day for the sports in the amphitheater had come and all the seats
were filled with eager and expectant people. The gladiatorial fights and
other games of the arena were completed.
"Bring forth the lion and Glaucus the Athenian," said the editor.
Just then a loud cry was heard at one of the entrances of the arena; the
crowd gave way and suddenly Sallust appeared on the senatorial benches,
his hair disheveled; breathless; half exhausted--he cast his eyes
hastily around the ring.
"Remove the Athenian," he cried, "haste,--he is innocent. Arrest Arbaces
the Egyptian. He is the murderer of Apæcides."
"Art thou mad, O Sallust?" said the prætor, "what means this raving?"
"Remove the Athenian--quick, or his blood be on your head. I bring with
me the eye-witness to the death of Apæcides. Room there--stand
back--give way. People of Pompeii, fix every eye on Arbaces--there he
sits--room there for the priest Calenus."
"Enough at present," said the prætor. "The details must be reserved for
a more suiting time and place. Ho! guards! remove the accused Glaucus,
arrest Arbaces, guard Calenus! Sallust, we hold you responsible for your
accusation. Let the sports be resumed."
As the prætor gave the word of release, there was a cry of joy--a female
voice--a child voice--and it was of joy! It rang through the heart of
the assembly with electric force--it was touching, it was holy, that
child's voice!
"Silence!" said the grave prætor--"who is there?"
"The blind girl--Nydia," answered Sallust; "it is her hand that raised
Calenus from the grave and delivered Glaucus from the lion."
Stunned by his reprieve, doubting that he was awake, Glaucus had been
led by the officers of the arena into a small cell within the walls of
the theater. They threw a loose robe over his form and crowded around in
congratulation and wonder. There was an impatient and fretful cry
without the cell; the throng gave way, and the blind girl flung herself
at the feet of Glaucus.
"It is I who saved thee," she sobbed, "now let me die!"
"Nydia, my child!--my preserver!"
"Oh, let me feel thy touch--thy breath! yes, yes, thou livest! We are
not too late! That dread door methought would never yield! But thou
livest! Thou livest yet!--and I--I have saved thee!"
FOOTNOTE:
[11] Adapted by Robt. I. Fulton from "Last Days of Pompeii."
O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN![12]
ON THE DEATH OF LINCOLN
WALT WHITMAN
O Captain, my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But, O heart, heart, heart! O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead.
O Captain, my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the shores
a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here, Captain, dear father! this arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck, you've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My Captain does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage is closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! but I with mournful tread
Walk the deck where my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead.
FOOTNOTE:
[12] By permission of David McKay, publisher.
ON THE OTHER TRAIN
A CLOCK'S STORY
ANONYMOUS
"There, Simmons, you blockhead! Why didn't you trot that old woman
aboard her train? She'll have to wait here now until the 1.05 A.M."
"You didn't tell me."
"Yes, I did tell you. 'Twas only your confounded stupid carelessness."
"She--"
"She! You blockhead! What else could you expect of her! Probably she
hasn't any wit; besides, she isn't bound on a very jolly journey--got a
pass up the road to the poorhouse. I'll go and tell her, and if you
forget her to-night, see if I don't make mince-meat of you!" and our
worthy ticket agent shook his fist menacingly at his subordinate.
"You've missed your train, marm," he remarked, coming forward to a
queer-looking bundle in the corner.
A trembling hand raised the faded black veil, and revealed the sweetest
old face I ever saw.
"Never mind," said a quivering voice.
"'Tis only three o'clock now; you'll have to wait until the night train,
which doesn't go up until 1.05."
"Very well, sir; I can wait."
"Wouldn't you like to go to some hotel? Simmons will show you the way."
"No, thank you, sir. One place is as good as another to me. Besides, I
haven't any money."
"Very well," said the agent, turning away indifferently. "Simmons will
tell you when it's time."
All the afternoon she sat there so quiet that I thought sometimes she
must be asleep, but when I looked more closely I could see every once
in a while a great tear rolling down her cheek, which she would wipe
away hastily with her cotton handkerchief.
The depot was crowded, and all was bustle and hurry until the 9.50 train
going east came due; then every passenger left except the old lady. It
is very rare, indeed, that any one takes the night express, and almost
always after ten o'clock the depot becomes silent and empty.
The ticket agent put on his greatcoat, and, bidding Simmons keep his
wits about him for once in his life, departed for home.
But he had no sooner gone than that functionary stretched himself out
upon the table, as usual, and began to snore vociferously.
Then it was I witnessed such a sight as I never had before and never
expect to again.
The fire had gone down--it was a cold night, and the wind howled
dismally outside. The lamps grew dim and flared, casting weird shadows
upon the wall. By and by I heard a smothered sob from the corner, then
another. I looked in that direction. She had risen from her seat, and
oh! the look of agony on the poor pinched face.
"I can't believe it," she sobbed, wringing her thin, white hands. "Oh! I
can't believe it! My babies! my babies! how often have I held them in my
arms and kissed them; and how often they used to say back to me, 'Ise
love you, mamma,' and now, O God! they've turned against me. Where am I
going? To the poorhouse! No! no! no! I cannot! I will not! Oh, the
disgrace!"
And sinking upon her knees, she sobbed out in prayer:
"O God! spare me this and take me home! O God, spare me this disgrace;
spare me!"
The wind rose higher and swept through the crevices, icy cold. How it
moaned and seemed to sob like something human that is hurt. I began to
shake, but the kneeling figure never stirred. The thin shawl had
dropped from her shoulders unheeded. Simmons turned over and drew his
blanket more closely about him.
Oh, how cold! Only one lamp remained, burning dimly; the other two had
gone out for want of oil. I could hardly see, it was so dark.
At last she became quieter and ceased to moan. Then I grew drowsy, and
kind of lost the run of things after I had struck twelve, when some one
entered the depot with a bright light. I started up. It was the
brightest light I ever saw, and seemed to fill the room full of glory. I
could see 'twas a man. He walked to the kneeling figure and touched her
upon the shoulder. She started up and turned her face wildly around. I
heard him say:--
"'Tis train time, ma'am. Come!"
A look of joy came over her face.
"I am ready," she whispered.
"Then give me your pass, ma'am."
She reached him a worn old book, which he took, and from it read
aloud:--
"Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you
rest."
"That's the pass over our road, ma'am. Are you ready?"
The light died away, and darkness fell in its place. My hand touched the
stroke of one. Simmons awoke with a start and snatched his lantern. The
whistle sounded down brakes; the train was due. He ran to the corner and
shook the old woman.
"Wake up, marm; 'tis train time."
But she never heeded. He gave one look at the white set face, and,
dropping his lantern, fled.
The up train halted, the conductor shouted "All aboard," but no one made
a move that way.
The next morning, when the ticket agent came, he found her frozen to
death. They whispered among themselves, and the coroner made out the
verdict "apoplexy," and it was in some way hushed up.
But the last look on the sweet old face, lit up with a smile so
unearthly, I keep with me yet; and when I think of the occurrence of
that night, I know she went out on the other train, that never stopped
at the poorhouse.
THE PANSY
ANONYMOUS
Of all the bonny buds that blow,
In bright or cloudy weather,
Of all the flowers that come and go,
The whole twelve moons together,
This little purple pansy brings,
Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest things.
I had a little lover once,
Who used to give me posies;
His eyes were blue as hyacinths,
His lips were red as roses;
And everybody loved to praise
His pretty looks and winsome ways.
The girls that went to school with me
Made little jealous speeches,
Because he brought me royally
His biggest plums and peaches,
And always at the door would wait,
To carry home my books and slate.
They couldn't see--with pout and fling--
"The mighty fascination
About that little snub-nosed thing,
To win such admiration;
As if there weren't a dozen girls
With nicer eyes and longer curls!"
And this I knew as well as they,
And never could see clearly
Why, more than Marion or May,
I should be loved so dearly.
So once I asked him, why was this;
He only answered with a kiss;
Until I teased him: "Tell me why,
I want to know the reason."
Then from the garden-bed close by
(The pansies were in season)
He plucked and gave a flower to me,
With sweet and simple gravity.
"The garden is in bloom," he said,
"With lilies pale and slender,
With roses and verbenas red,
And fuchsias' purple splendor;
But over and above the rest,
This little heart's-ease suits me best."
"Am I your little heart's-ease, then?"
I asked with blushing pleasure.
He answered "Yes!" and "Yes!" again--
"Heart's-ease and dearest treasure;"
That the round world and all the sea
Held nothing half so sweet as me!
I listened with a proud delight,
Too rare for words to capture,
Nor ever dreamed what sudden blight,
Would come to chill my rapture.
Could I foresee the tender bloom
Of pansies round a little tomb?
Life holds some stern experience,
As most of us discover,
And I've had other losses since
I lost my little lover;
But still this purple pansy brings
Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest things.
"THE REVENGE"
A BALLAD OF THE FLEET, 1591
ALFRED LORD TENNYSON
At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,
And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away:
"Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!"
Then spake Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God I am no coward;
But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,
And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick,
We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?"
Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward;
You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.
But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore;
I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,
To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain."
So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day,
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven;
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land
Very carefully and slow,
Men of Bideford and Devon,
And we laid them on the ballast down below;
For we brought them all aboard,
And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain,
To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.
He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight,
And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight
With his huge sea castles heaving upon the weather bow.
"Shall we fight or shall we fly?
Good Sir Richard, let us know,
For to fight is but to die!
There'll be little of us left, by the time this sun be set."
And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good Englishmen;
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil,
For I never turned my back upon Don or Devil yet."
Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so
The little "Revenge" ran on, sheer into the heart of the foe,
With her hundred fighters on deck and her ninety sick below;
For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were
seen,
And the little "Revenge" ran on, thro' the long sea-lane between.
Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and
laugh'd,
Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft
Running on and on, till delay'd
By their mountain-like "San Philip," that, of fifteen hundred tons,
And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns,
Took the breath from our sails and we stay'd.
And while now the great "San Philip" hung above us like a cloud
Whence the thunderbolt will fall
Long and loud,
Four galleons drew away
From the Spanish fleet that day,
And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay,
And the battle-thunder broke from them all.
And the sun went down, and the stars came out, far over the summer
sea,
But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.
Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons
came,
Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and
flame;
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and
her shame,
For some were sunk, and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us
no more--
God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?
For he said: "Fight on! fight on!"
Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck;
And it chanced that, when half of the summer night was gone,
With a grisly wound to be dressed, he had left the deck,
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead,
And himself he was wounded again, in the side and the head,
And he said: "Fight on! fight on!"
And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer
sea,
And the Spanish fleet, with broken sides, lay round us, all in a
ring;
But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still
could sting,
So they watched what the end would be.
And we had not fought them in vain,
But in perilous plight were we,
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,
And half of the rest of us maim'd for life
In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife.
And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold,
And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it
spent;
And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side;
But Sir Richard cried in his English pride:
"We have fought such a fight for a day and a night
As may never be fought again!
We have won great glory, my men!
And a day less or more
At sea or ashore,
We die--does it matter when?
Sink me the ship, Master Gunner--sink her, split her in twain!
Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!"
And the gunner said: "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply:
"We have children, we have wives,
And the Lord hath spared our lives.
We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go;
We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow."
And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.
And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,
Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last.
And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace;
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:
"I have fought for Queen and Faith, like a valiant man and true;
I have only done my duty, as a man is bound to do;
With a joyful spirit, I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!"
And he fell upon their decks, and he died.
And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true,
And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap,
That he dared her with one little ship and his English few;
Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew,
But they sank his body with honor down into the deep,
And they mann'd the "Revenge" with a swarthier alien crew,
And away she sail'd with her loss, and long'd for her own;
When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep,
And the water began to heave, and the weather to moan,
And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew,
And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew,
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and
their flags,
And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of
Spain,
And the little "Revenge" herself went down by the island crags,
To be lost evermore in the main.
THE RIDER OF THE BLACK HORSE
GEORGE LIPPARD
It was the 7th of October, 1777. Horatio Gates stood before his tent,
gazing steadfastly upon the two armies now arrayed in order of battle.
It was a clear, bracing day, mellow with the richness of autumn. The sky
was cloudless, the foliage of the wood scarce tinged with purple and
gold, the buckwheat in yonder fields frostened into snowy ripeness. But
the tread of legions shook the ground, from every bush shot the glimmer
of the rifle barrel, on every hillside blazed the sharpened bayonet.
Gates was sad and thoughtful, as he watched the evolutions of the two
armies. But all at once a smoke arose, a thunder shook the ground and a
chorus of shouts and groans yelled along the darkened air. The play of
death had begun. The two flags, this of the stars, that of the red
cross, tossed amid the smoke of battle, while the sky was clouded with
leaden folds, and the earth throbbed with the pulsations of a mighty
heart.
Suddenly, Gates and his officers were startled. Along the height on
which they stood came a rider on a black horse, rushing towards the
distant battle. There was something in the appearance of this horse and
his rider that struck them with surprise. Look! he draws his sword, the
sharp blade quivers through the air, he points to the distant battle and
lo! he is gone; gone through those clouds, while his shout echoes over
the plains. Wherever the fight is thickest, there through intervals of
cannon-smoke you may see riding madly forward that strange soldier,
mounted on his steed black as death. Look at him, as with face red with
British blood he waves his sword and shouts to his legions. Now you may
see him fighting in that cannon's glare, and the next moment he is away
off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up that steep cliff. Is it not a
magnificent sight, to see that strange soldier and that noble black
horse dashing, like a meteor, down the long columns of battle?
Let us look for a moment into those dense war-clouds. Over this thick
hedge bursts a band of American militiamen, their rude farmer-coats
stained with blood, while scattering their arms by the way, they flee
before that company of red-coat hirelings, who come rushing forward,
their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle light. At this
moment of their flight, a horse comes crashing over the plains. The
unknown rider reins his steed back on his haunches, right in the path of
a broad-shouldered militiaman. "Now, cowards! advance another step and
I'll strike you to the heart!" shouts the unknown, extending a pistol
in either hand. "What! are you Americans, men, and fly before British
soldiers? Back again, and face them once more, or I myself will ride you
down!"
This appeal was not without its effect. The militiaman turns; his
comrades, as if by one impulse, follow his example. In one line, but
thirty men in all, they confront thirty sharp bayonets. The British
advance. "Now upon the rebels, charge!" shouts the red-coat officer.
They spring forward at the same bound. Look! their bayonets almost touch
the muzzles of their rifles. At this moment the voice of the unknown
rider was heard: "Now let them have it! Fire!" A sound is heard, a smoke
is seen, twenty Britons are down, some writhing in death, some crawling
along the soil, and some speechless as stone. The remaining ten start
back. "Club your rifles and charge them home!" shouts the unknown. That
black horse springs forward, followed by the militiamen. Then a confused
conflict, a cry for quarter, and a vision of twenty farmers grouped
around the rider of the black horse, greeting him with cheers.
Thus it was all the day long. Wherever that black horse and his rider
went, there followed victory. At last, towards the setting of the sun,
the crisis of the conflict came. That fortress yonder, on Bemus Heights,
must be won, or the American cause is lost! That cliff is too
steep--that death is too certain. The officers cannot persuade the men
to advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even Morgan, that iron
man among iron men, leans on his rifle and despairs of the field. But
look yonder! In this moment when all is dismay and horror, here,
crashing on, comes the black horse and his rider. That rider bends upon
his steed, his frenzied face covered with sweat and dust and blood; he
lays his hand upon that bold rifleman's shoulder, and as though living
fire had been poured into his veins, he seizes his rifle and starts
toward the rock. And now look! now hold your breath, as that black
steed crashes up that steep cliff. That steed quivers! he totters! he
falls! No! No! Still on, still up the cliff, still on towards the
fortress. The rider turns his face and shouts, "Come on, men of Quebec!
come on!" That call is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on the
rock. Now, British cannon, pour your fires, and lay your dead in tens
and twenties on the rock. Now, red-coat hirelings, shout your battle-cry
if you can! For look! there, in the gate of the fortress, as the smoke
clears away, stands the black horse and his rider. That steed falls
dead, pierced by an hundred balls; but his rider, as the British cry for
quarter, lifts up his voice and shouts afar to Horatio Gates waiting
yonder in his tent, "Saratoga is won!" As that cry goes up to heaven, he
falls with his leg shattered by a cannon-ball.
Who was the rider of the black horse? Do you not guess his name? Then
bend down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you will see that it
bears the mark of a former wound. That wound was received in the
storming of Quebec. The rider of the black horse was Benedict Arnold.
SAILING BEYOND SEAS
JEAN INGELOW
Methought the stars were blinking bright,
And the old brig's sails unfurl'd;
I said: "I will sail to my love this night,
At the other side of the world."
I stepp'd aboard--we sail'd so fast--
The sun shot up from the bourn;
But a dove that perch'd upon the mast
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.
O fair dove! O fond dove!
And dove with the white, white breast--
Let me alone, the dream is my own,
And my heart is full of rest.
My true love fares on this great hill,
Feeding his sheep for aye;
I look'd in his hut, but all was still,
My love was gone away.
I went to gaze in the forest creek,
And the dove mourn'd on apace;
No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek
Rose up to show me his place.
O last love! O first love!
My love with the true, true heart,
To think I have come to this your home,
And yet--we are apart!
My love! He stood at my right hand,
His eyes were grave and sweet;
Methought he said: "In this far land,
O, is it thus we meet?
Ah, maid most dear, I am not here;
I have no place, no part,
No dwelling more by sea or shore,
But only in thy heart."
O fair dove! O fond dove!
Till night rose over the bourn,
The dove on the mast, as we sail'd fast,
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.
THE SANDS OF DEE
CHARLES KINGSLEY
"O Mary go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
Across the sands o' Dee!"
The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam,
And all alone went she.
The creeping tide came up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see;
The blinding mist came down and hid the land--
And never home came she.
"Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair--
A tress o' golden hair,
O' drowned maiden's hair
Above the nets at sea?
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,
Among the stakes o' Dee."
They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel, crawling foam,
The cruel, hungry foam,--
To her grave beside the sea;
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,
Across the sands o' Dee.
THE SCHOOL OF SQUEERS[13]
CHARLES DICKENS
The following advertisement appeared in the morning papers:
EDUCATION.--At Mr. Wackford Squeers's Academy, Dotheboys Hall at
the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in
Yorkshire, Youth are boarded, clothed, booked, furnished with
pocket money, provided with all necessaries, instructed in all
languages living and dead, mathematics, orthography, geometry,
astronomy, trigonometry, the use of the globes, algebra,
single-stick, if required, writing, arithmetic, fortification, and
every other branch of classical literature. Terms twenty guineas
per annum. No extras, no vacations, and diet unparalleled. Mr.
Squeers is in town and attends daily, from one till four, at the
Saracen's Head, Snow Hill. N.B. An able assistant wanted. Annual
salary, five pounds. A Master of Arts would be preferred.
Nicholas Nickleby obtained the above situation, having found that it was
not absolutely necessary to have acquired the degree, and arrived at the
inn, to join Mr. Squeers, at eight o'clock of a November morning. He
found that learned gentleman sitting at breakfast, with five little boys
in a row on the opposite seat. Mr. Squeers had before him a small
measure of coffee, a plate of hot toast, and a cold round of beef; but
he was at that moment intent on preparing breakfast for the little boys.
"This is two penn'orth of milk, is it, waiter?" said Squeers, looking
down into a large blue mug, and slanting it gently, so as to get an
accurate view of the quantity of liquid contained in it.
"That's two penn'orth, sir," replied the waiter.
"What a rare article milk is, to be sure, in London! Just fill that mug
up with lukewarm water, William, will you?"
"To the very top, sir? Why, the milk will be drowned."
"Never you mind that. Serve it right for being so dear. You ordered that
thick bread and butter for three, did you?"
"Coming directly, sir."
"You needn't hurry yourself, there's plenty of time. Conquer your
passions, boys, and don't be eager after vittles." As he uttered this
moral precept, Mr. Squeers took a large bite out of the cold beef, and
recognized Nicholas.
"Sit down, Mr. Nickleby. Here we are, a-breakfasting, you see! Oh!
that's the milk and water, is it, William? Very good; don't forget the
bread and butter presently. Ah! here's richness! Think of the many
beggars and orphans in the streets that would be glad of this, little
boys. A shocking thing hunger is, isn't it, Mr. Nickleby?"
"Very shocking, sir," said Nicholas.
"When I say number one, the boy on the left hand nearest the window may
take a drink; and when I say number two, the boy next him will go in,
and so till we come to number five which is the last boy. Are you ready?
"Yes, sir," cried all the little boys.
"That's right, keep ready till I tell you to begin. Subdue your
appetites, boys, and you've conquered human nature. This is the way we
inculcate strength of mind, Mr. Nickleby. Number one may take a drink."
Number one seized the mug ravenously, and had just drunk enough to make
him wish for more, when Mr. Squeers gave the signal for number two, who
gave up at the same interesting moment to number three; and the process
was repeated until the milk and water terminated with number five.
"And now," said Squeers, dividing the bread for three into as many
portions as there were children, "You had better look sharp with your
breakfast, for the horn will blow in a minute or two, and then every boy
leaves off.--Ah! I thought it wouldn't be long; put what you haven't had
time to eat in here, boys! You'll want it on the road." Which they
certainly did, for the air was cool, and the journey was long and
tiresome. However, they arrived quite safely; and Nicholas, weary,
retired to rest.
In the morning he was taken to the school-room accompanied by Squeers.
"There, this is our shop, Nickleby." It was a crowded scene. A bare and
dirty room, with a couple of windows, whereof a tenth part might be of
glass, the remainder being stopped up with old copybooks and paper. Pale
and haggard faces, lank and bony figures, little faces, which should
have been handsome, darkened with the scowl of sullen, dogged suffering.
There was childhood with the light of its eye quenched, its beauty gone
and its helplessness alone remaining--truly an incipient Hell. A few
minutes having elapsed, Squeers called up the first class.
"This is the first class in English, spelling, and philosophy,
Nickleby. We'll get up a Latin one, and hand that over to you. Now then,
where's the first boy?"
"Please, sir, he's cleaning the back parlor window."
"So he is, to be sure. We go upon the practical mode of teaching,
Nickleby, the regular educational system. C-l-e-a-n, clean. Verb active.
To make bright, to scour. W-i-n, win, d-e-r, der, winder. A casement.
When a boy knows this out of his book he goes and does it. It's just the
same principle as the use of the globes. Where's the second boy?"
"Please, sir, he's weeding the garden."
"To be sure, so he is. B-o-t, bot, t-i-n, tin, bottin, n-e-y, ney,
bottinney. Noun substantive. A knowledge of plants. When a boy learns
that bottinney is a knowledge of plants, he goes and knows 'em. That's
our system, Nickleby. Third boy, what's a horse?"
"A beast, sir."
"So it is. A horse is a quadruped, and quadruped is Latin for beast, as
everybody that's gone through the grammar knows, or else where's the use
of havin' grammars at all? As you're perfect in that, go and look after
my horse, and rub him down well or I'll rub you down. The rest of the
class go and draw water up, till somebody tells you to leave off, for
it's washing day to-morrow and they want the coppers filled."
So saying, he dismissed his first class to their experiments in
practical philosophy.
It was Squeers's custom to call the boys together, and make a sort of
report, after every half-yearly visit to the metropolis. They were
therefore soon recalled from the house, window, garden, stable, and cow
yard, and Mr. Squeers entered the room. A deathlike silence immediately
prevailed.
"Boys, I've been to London, and have returned to my family and you as
strong and as well as ever."
According to half-yearly custom, the boys gave three feeble cheers at
this refreshing intelligence. Such cheers! Sighs of extra strength with
the chill on.
"I have seen the parents of some boys, and they're so glad to hear how
their sons are getting on, that there's no prospect at all of their
going away, which of course is a very pleasant thing to reflect upon for
all parties. But I've had disappointments to contend against. Bolder's
father was two pound ten short. Where is Bolder?
"Here he is, please, sir."
"Come here, Bolder," said Squeers.
An unhealthy boy with warts all over his hands, stepped from his place
to the Master's desk, and raised his eyes imploringly to Squeers's face.
"Bolder, if your father thinks that because--why, what's this, sir?"
As Squeers spoke, he caught up the boy's hand by the cuff of his jacket,
and surveyed the warts with an edifying aspect of horror and disgust.
"What do you call this, sir?"
"I can't help it, indeed, sir. They will come; it's the dirty work, I
think, sir--at least I don't know what it is, sir, but it's not my
fault."
"Bolder, you're an incorrigible young scoundrel, and as the last
thrashing did you no good, we'll see what another will do towards
beating it out of you."
With this, and wholly disregarding a piteous cry for mercy, Mr. Squeers
fell upon the boy and caned him soundly; not leaving off, indeed, until
his arm was tired out.
"There, rub away as hard as you like, you won't rub that off in a hurry.
Now let us see. A letter for Cobbey. Stand up, Cobbey. Oh! Cobbey's
grandmother is dead, and his uncle John has took to drinking, which is
all the news his sister sends, except eighteen pence, which will just
pay for that broken square of glass. Mrs. Squeers, my dear, will you
take the money?
"Graymarsh, he's the next. Stand up, Graymarsh. Graymarsh's aunt is very
glad to hear he's so well and happy, and sends her respectful
compliments to Mrs. Squeers and thinks she must be an angel. She
likewise thinks that Mr. Squeers is too good for this world, but hopes
he may long be spared to carry on the business. Would have sent the two
pairs of stockings as desired, but is short of money, so forwards a
tract instead, and hopes that Graymarsh will put his trust in
Providence. Hopes, above all, that he will study in everything to please
Mr. and Mrs. Squeers, and look upon them as his only friends; and that
he will love master Squeers, and not object to sleeping five in a bed,
which no Christian should. Ah! a delightful letter. Very affecting
indeed.
"Mobbs!--Mobbs's mother-in-law took to her bed on hearing that he
wouldn't eat fat, and has been very ill ever since. She wishes to know,
by an early post, where he expects to go to if he quarrels with his
vittles; and with what feelings he could turn up his nose at the cow's
liver broth, after his good master had asked a blessing on it. This was
told her in the London newspapers--not by Mr. Squeers, for he's too kind
and good to set anybody against anybody. She is sorry to find he is
discontented, which is sinful and horrid, and hopes Mr. Squeers will
flog him into a happier state of mind. With which view she has also
stopped his half penny a week pocket-money, and given a double-bladed
knife with a cork-screw in it to the missionaries, which she had bought
on purpose for him. A sulky state of feeling won't do. Cheerfulness and
contentment must be kept up. Mobbs, come to me!"
Mobbs moved slowly towards the desk, rubbing his eyes in anticipation of
good cause for doing so; and he soon afterwards retired, with as good
cause as a boy need have.
This business dispatched, a few slovenly lessons were performed, and
Squeers retired to his fireside, leaving Nicholas to take care of the
boys in the school-room which was very cold, and where a meal of bread
was served out shortly after dark.
There was a small stove at that corner of the room which was nearest
the master's desk, and by it Nicholas sat down, depressed and
self-degraded.
As he was absorbed in his meditations, he all at once encountered the
upturned face of Smike, who was on his knees before the stove, picking a
few stray cinders from the hearth and planting them on the fire. He had
paused to steal a look at Nicholas, and when he saw that he was
observed, shrank back, as if expecting a blow.
"You need not fear me. Are you cold?"
"N-n-o."
"You are shivering."
"I'm not cold. I'm used to it."
There was such an obvious fear of giving offense in his manner, and he
was such a timid, broken-spirited creature, that Nicholas could not help
exclaiming, "Poor fellow!"
"Oh dear, oh dear! my heart will break. It will, it will!" said Smike.
"Hush! Be a man; you are nearly one by years. God help you!"
"By years! Oh dear, dear, how many of them! How many of them since I was
a little child, younger than any that are here now! Where are they all?"
"Of whom do you speak? Tell me."
"My friends, myself--my--oh! what sufferings mine have been!"
"There is always hope."
"No, no; none for me. Do you remember the boy that died here?"
"I was not here, you know."
"Why, I was with him at night, and when it was all silent, he cried no
more for friends he wished to come and sit with him, but began to see
faces round his bed that came from home. He said they smiled, and talked
to him; and he died at last lifting his head to kiss them. Do you
hear?"
"Yes, yes," rejoined Nicholas.
"What faces will smile on me when I die? Who will talk to me in those
long nights? They cannot come from home; they would frighten me if they
did, for I shouldn't know them. Pain and fear, pain and fear for me,
alive or dead. No hope, no hope!"
The bell rang to bed; and the boy, subsiding at the sound into his usual
listless state, crept away as if anxious to avoid notice. It was with a
heavy heart that Nicholas soon afterwards--no, not retired, there was no
retirement there--followed to his dirty and crowded dormitory.
FOOTNOTE:
[13] Adapted by E. P. Trueblood from "Nicholas Nickleby."
THE SECRET OF DEATH
EDWIN ARNOLD
"She is dead!" they said to him; "come away;
Kiss her and leave her,--thy love is clay!"
They smoothed her tresses of dark-brown hair;
On her forehead of stone they laid it fair;
Over her eyes, that gazed too much,
They drew the lids with a gentle touch;
With a tender touch they closed up well
The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;
About her brows and beautiful face
They tied her veil and her marriage lace,
And drew on her feet her white silk shoes--
Which were the whitest no eye could choose--
And over her bosom they crossed her hands.
"Come away!" they said; "God understands."
And there was silence, and nothing there
But silence, and scents of eglantere,
And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary;
And they said, "As a lady should lie, lies she."
And they held their breath till they left the room,
With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom.
But he who loved her too well to dread
The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,--
He lit his lamp, and took the key
And turned it,--alone again,--he and she.
He and she; but she would not speak,
Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek.
He and she; yet she would not smile,
Though he called her the name she loved erewhile.
He and she; still she did not move
To any one passionate whisper of love.
Then he said: "Cold lips and breasts without breath,
Is there no voice, no language of death?
"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense,
But to heart and to soul distinct, intense?
"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear;
What was the secret of dying, dear?
"Was it the infinite wonder of all
That you ever could let life's flower fall?
"Or was it a greater marvel to feel
The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?
"Was the miracle greater to find how deep
Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?
"Did life roll back its records, dear,
And show, as they say it does, past things clear?
"And was it the innermost heart of the bliss
To find out so, what a wisdom love is?
"Oh, perfect dead! Oh, dead most dear,
I hold the breath of my soul to hear!
"I listen as deep as to horrible hell,
As high as to heaven, and you do not tell.
"There must be pleasure in dying, sweet,
To make you so placid from head to feet!
"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead,
And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,--
"I would say, though the Angel of Death had laid
His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid.
"You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes,
Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise,
"The very strangest and suddenest thing
Of all the surprises that dying must bring."
Ah, foolish world! Oh, most kind dead!
Though he told me, who will believe it was said?
Who will believe that he heard her say,
With the sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way:
"The utmost wonder is this,--I hear
And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;
"And am your angel, who was your bride,
And know that, though dead, I have never died."
SHAMUS O'BRIEN
A TALE OF '98, AS RELATED BY AN IRISH PEASANT
JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU
Jist after the war, in the year '98,
As soon as the Boys wor all scattered and bate,
'Twas the custom, whenever a peasant was got,
To hang him by trial--barrin' such as was shot.
An' the bravest an' hardiest Boy iv them all
Was Shamus O'Brien, from the town iv Glingall.
An' it's he was the Boy that was hard to be caught,
An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought;
An' it's many the one can remember right well
The quare things he did: an' it's oft I heerd tell
How he frightened the magistrates in Chirbally,
An' 'scaped through the sojers in Aherlow valley;
How he leathered the yeoman, himself agin four,
An' stretched the two strongest on ould Golteemore.
But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest,
An' treachery prey on the blood iv the best;
Afther many a brave action of power and pride,
An' many a hard night on the mountain's bleak side,
An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast,
In the darkness of night he was taken at last.
Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon,
For the door of the prison must close on you soon.
Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill,
An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still.
Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' wake,
And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake!
An' twelve sojers brought him to Maryborough jail,
An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail.
Well, as soon as a few weeks were over and gone,
The terrible day iv the thrial kem on,
There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand,
An' sojers on guard, an' Dragoons sword-in-hand;
An' the courthouse so full that the people were bothered,
An' attorneys an' criers on the point iv bein' smothered;
An' counsellors almost gev over for dead,
An' the jury sittin' up in their box overhead;
An' the judge settled out so detarmined an' big
With his gown on his back, and an illegant wig;
An' silence was called, an' the minute 'twas said
The court was as still as the heart of the dead,
An' they heard but the openin' of one prison lock,
An' Shamus O'Brien kem into the dock.
For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng,
An' he looked at the bars so firm and so strong,
An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend,
A chance to escape, nor a word to defend;
An' he folded his arms as he stood there alone,
As calm and as cold as a statue of stone;
And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste,
An' Jim didn't understand it nor mind it a taste,
An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says,
"Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, av you plase?"
An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread,
An' Shamus O'Brien made answer and said:
"My lord, if you ask me, if in my lifetime
I thought any treason, or did any crime
That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here,
The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear,
Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow
Before God and the world I would answer you, No!
But if you would ask me, as I think it like,
If in the Rebellion I carried a pike,
An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to the close,
An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes,
I answer you, Yes; and I tell you again,
Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that then
In her cause I was willin' my veins should run dhry,
An' that now for her sake I am ready to die."
Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright,
An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light;
By my sowl, it's himself was the crabbed ould chap!
In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap.
Then Shamus's mother, in the crowd standin' by,
Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry:
"O judge! darlin', don't, O, don't say the word!
The crather is young, have mercy, my lord;
He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin';
You don't know him, my lord--O, don't give him to ruin!
He's the kindliest crathur, the tindherest-hearted;
Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted!
Judge mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord,
An' God will forgive you--O, don't say the word!"
That was the first minute O'Brien was shaken,
When he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken;
An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother,
The big tears wor runnin' fast, one afther th' other;
An' two or three times he endeavored to spake,
But the sthrong manly voice used to falther and break;
But at last, by the strength of his high-mountin' pride,
He conquered and masthered his grief's swelling tide;
"An'," says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart,
For, sooner or later, the dearest must part;
And God knows it's better than wand'ring in fear
On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer,
To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast,
From labor and sorrow, forever shall rest.
Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more,
Don't make me seem broken, in this my last hour;
For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven,
No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!"
Then toward the Judge Shamus bent down his head,
An' that minute the solemn death-sentence was said.
The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high,
An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky;
But why are the men standin' idle so late?
An' why do the crowds gather fast in the strate?
What come they to talk of? what come they to see?
An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree?
O Shamus O'Brien! pray fervent and fast,
May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last;
Pray fast an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh,
When, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die!--
At last they threw open the big prison-gate,
An' out came the sheriffs and sojers in state,
An' a cart in the middle an' Shamus was in it,
Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute.
An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien,
Wid prayin' and blessin', and all the girls cryin',
A wild, wailin' sound kem on by degrees,
Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees.
On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone,
An' the cart an' the sojers go steadily on;
An' at every side swellin' around of the cart,
A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart.
Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand,
An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand;
An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground,
An' Shamus O'Brien throws one last look round.
Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still,
Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turned chill;
An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare,
For the grip of the life-strangling cord to prepare;
An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer.
But the good priest did more, for his hands he unbound,
An' with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the ground;
Bang! bang! go the carbines, and clash go the sabers;
He's not down! he's alive! now stand to him, neighbors!
Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd,--
By the heavens, he's free!--than thunder more loud,
By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken--
One shout that the dead of the world might awaken.
The sojers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that,
An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat;
To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe Glin,
An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in.
Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang,
But if you want hangin', it's yourselves you must hang.
MY SHIPS[14]
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX
If all the ships I have at sea--
Should come a-sailing home to me,
Ah well! the harbor could not hold
So many ships as there would be,
If all my ships came home to me.
If half my ships now out at sea
Should come a-sailing home to me,
Ah well! I should have wealth as great
As any king that sits in state,
So rich the treasure there would be
In half my ships now out at sea.
If but one ship I have at sea
Should come a-sailing home to me,
Ah well! the storm clouds then might frown,
For if the others all went down,
Still rich and glad and proud I'd be,
If that one ship came home to me.
If that one ship went down at sea,
And all the others came to me,
Weighed down with gems and wealth untold,
Of riches, glory, honor, gold,
The poorest soul on earth I'd be,
If that one ship came not to me.
Oh, skies, be calm, oh, winds, blow free!
Blow all my ships safe home to me!
But if thou sendest some awrack,
To never more come sailing back,
Send any--all that skim the sea,
But send my love ship back to me.
FOOTNOTE:
[14] By permission
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