Eighth Reader
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Title: Eighth Reader
Editor: James Baldwin
Ida C. Bender
Release date: November 28, 2009 [eBook #30559]
Most recently updated: January 5, 2021
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EIGHTH READER ***
Produced by Carla Foust and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project.)
Transcriber's note
Minor changes have been made to correct typesetter errors; otherwise,
every effort has been made to remain true to the authors' words and
intent.
Characters that could not be displayed directly in Latin-1 are
transcribed as follows:
[)a], [)e], [)i], [)o], [)y] - breve above letter
[=a], [=e], [=i], [=o], [=y] - macron above letter
[:a], [:i], [:o], [:u] - umlaut above letter
[+s] - tack up below letter
[Illustration: David Copperfield at Salem House
(See page 23).]
READING WITH EXPRESSION
EIGHTH READER
BY
JAMES BALDWIN
AUTHOR OF "SCHOOL READING BY GRADES--BALDWIN'S READERS,"
"HARPER'S READERS," ETC.
AND
IDA C. BENDER
SUPERVISOR OF PRIMARY GRADES, BUFFALO, NEW YORK
_EIGHT-BOOK SERIES_
NEW YORK ·:· CINCINNATI ·:· CHICAGO
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY.
ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL, LONDON.
B. & B. EIGHTH READER.
W. P. 2
TO THE TEACHER
The paramount design of this series of School Readers is to help young
people to acquire the art and the habit of reading well--that is, of
interpreting the printed page in such manner as to give pleasure and
instruction to themselves and to those who listen to them. In his eighth
year at school the pupil is supposed to be able to read, with ease and
with some degree of fluency, anything in the English language that may
come to his hand; but, that he may read always with the understanding
and in a manner pleasing to his hearers and satisfactory to himself, he
must still have daily systematic practice in the rendering of selections
not too difficult for comprehension and yet embracing various styles of
literary workmanship and illustrating the different forms of English
composition. The contents of this volume have been chosen and arranged
to supply--or, where not supplying, to suggest--the materials for this
kind of practice.
Particular attention is called both to the high quality and to the wide
variety of the selections herein presented. They include specimens of
many styles of literary workmanship--the products of the best thought of
modern times. It is believed that their study will not only prove
interesting to pupils, but will inspire them with a desire to read still
more upon the same subjects or from the works of the same authors; for
it is only by loving books and learning to know them that any one can
become a really good reader.
The pupils should be encouraged to seek for and point out the particular
passages in each selection that are distinguished for their beauty,
their truth, or their peculiar adaptability to the purpose in view. The
habit should be cultivated of looking for and enjoying the admirable
qualities of any worthy literary production; and special attention
should be given to the style of writing which characterizes and gives
value to the works of various authors. These points should be the
subjects of daily discussions between teacher and pupils.
The notes under the head of "Expression," which follow many of the
lessons, are intended, not only to aid in securing correctness of
expression, but also to afford suggestions for the appreciative reading
of the selections and an intelligent comparison of their literary
peculiarities. In the study of new, difficult, or unusual words, the
pupils should invariably refer to the dictionary.
CONTENTS
PAGE
Brother and Sister _George Eliot_ 11
My Last Day at Salem House _Charles Dickens_ 22
The Departure from Miss Pinkerton's _W. M. Thackeray_ 27
Two Gems from Browning:
I. Incident of the French Camp _Robert Browning_ 36
II. Dog Tray _Robert Browning_ 41
The Discovery of America _Washington Irving_ 43
The Glove and the Lions _Leigh Hunt_ 48
St. Francis, the Gentle _William Canton_ 51
The Sermon of St. Francis _Henry W. Longfellow_ 54
In the Woods _John Burroughs_ 56
Bees and Flowers _Arabella B. Buckley_ 59
Song of the River _Abram J. Ryan_ 64
Song of the Chattahoochee _Sidney Lanier_ 66
War and Peace:
I. War as the Mother of Valor and Civilization
_Andrew Carnegie_ 68
II. Friendship among Nations _Victor Hugo_ 71
III. Soldier, Rest _Sir Walter Scott_ 74
IV. The Soldier's Dream _Thomas Campbell_ 75
V. How Sleep the Brave? _William Collins_ 76
Early Times in New York _Washington Irving_ 77
A Winter Evening in Old New England _J. G. Whittier_ 82
The Old-fashioned Thanksgiving _Donald G. Mitchell_ 84
A Thanksgiving _Robert Herrick_ 92
First Days at Wakefield _Oliver Goldsmith_ 94
Doubting Castle _John Bunyan_ 100
Shooting with the Longbow _Sir Walter Scott_ 108
A Christmas Hymn _Alfred Domett_ 117
Christmas Eve at Fezziwig's _Charles Dickens_ 120
The Christmas Holly _Eliza Cook_ 124
The New Year's Dinner Party _Charles Lamb_ 125
The Town Pump _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 128
Come up from the Fields, Father _Walt Whitman_ 135
The Address at Gettysburg _Abraham Lincoln_ 139
Ode to the Confederate Dead _Henry Timrod_ 140
The Chariot Race _From Sophocles_ 141
The Coliseum at Midnight _Henry W. Longfellow_ 145
The Deacon's Masterpiece _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 147
Dogs and Cats _Alexandre Dumas_ 154
The Owl Critic _James T. Fields_ 157
Mrs. Caudle's Umbrella Lecture _Douglas William Jerrold_ 161
The Dark Day in Connecticut _J. G. Whittier_ 164
Two Interesting Letters:
I. Columbus to the Lord Treasurer of Spain 167
II. Governor Winslow to a Friend in England 171
Poems of Home and Country:
I. "This is My Own, My Native Land" _Sir Walter Scott_ 174
II. The Green Little Shamrock of Ireland _Andrew Cherry_ 175
III. My Heart's in the Highlands _Robert Burns_ 176
IV. The Fatherland _James R. Lowell_ 177
V. Home _Oliver Goldsmith_ 178
The Age of Coal _Agnes Giberne_ 179
Something about the Moon _Richard A. Proctor_ 183
The Coming of the Birds _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 187
The Return of the Birds _John Burroughs_ 188
The Poet and the Bird:
I. The Song of the Lark 193
II. To a Skylark _Percy B. Shelley_ 197
Hark, Hark! the Lark _William Shakespeare_ 201
Echoes of the American Revolution:
I. Patrick Henry's Famous Speech 202
II. Marion's Men _W. Gilmore Simms_ 206
III. In Memory of George Washington _Henry Lee_ 209
Three Great American Poems:
I. Thanatopsis _William Cullen Bryant_ 213
II. The Bells _Edgar Allan Poe_ 219
III. Marco Bozzaris _Fitz-Greene Halleck_ 224
The Indian _Edward Everett_ 228
National Retribution _Theodore Parker_ 231
Who are Blessed _The Bible_ 233
Little Gems from the Older Poets:
I. The Noble Nature _Ben Jonson_ 235
II. A Contented Mind _Joshua Sylvester_ 235
III. A Happy Life _Sir Henry Wotton_ 236
IV. Solitude _Alexander Pope_ 237
V. A Wish _Samuel Rogers_ 238
How King Arthur got his Name _Fiona Macleod_ 239
Antony's Oration over Cæsar's Dead Body _William Shakespeare_ 244
Selections to be Memorized:
I. The Prayer Perfect _James Whitcomb Riley_ 250
II. Be Just and Fear Not _William Shakespeare_ 250
III. If I can Live _Author Unknown_ 251
IV. The Bugle Song _Alfred Tennyson_ 251
V. The Ninetieth Psalm _Book of Psalms_ 252
VI. Recessional _Rudyard Kipling_ 253
Proper Names 255
List of Authors 257
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Acknowledgment and thanks are proffered to Andrew Carnegie for
permission to reprint in this volume his tract on "War as the Mother of
Civilization and Valor"; to the Bobbs-Merrill Company for their courtesy
in allowing us to use "The Prayer Perfect," from James Whitcomb Riley's
_Rhymes of Childhood_; to David Mackay for the poem by Walt Whitman
entitled "Come up from the Fields, Father"; to Charles Scribner's Sons
for the "Song of the Chattahoochee," from the _Poems of Sidney Lanier_;
and, also, to the same publishers for the selection, "The Old-fashioned
Thanksgiving," from _Bound Together_ by Donald G. Mitchell. The
selections from John Burroughs, Ralph Waldo Emerson, James T. Fields,
Nathaniel Hawthorne, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Henry W. Longfellow, and
John G. Whittier are used by permission of, and special arrangement
with, Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers of the works
of those authors.
EIGHTH READER
BROTHER AND SISTER[1]
I. THE HOME COMING
Tom was to arrive early in the afternoon, and there was another
fluttering heart besides Maggie's when it was late enough for the sound
of the gig wheels to be expected. For if Mrs. Tulliver had a strong
feeling, it was fondness for her boy. At last the sound came--that quick
light bowling of the gig wheels.
"There he is, my sweet lad!" Mrs. Tulliver stood with her arms open;
Maggie jumped first on one leg and then on the other; while Tom
descended from the gig, and said, with masculine reticence as to the
tender emotions, "Hallo! Yap--what! are you there?"
Nevertheless he submitted to be kissed willingly enough, though Maggie
hung on his neck in rather a strangling fashion, while his blue eyes
wandered toward the croft and the lambs and the river, where he promised
himself he would begin to fish the first thing to-morrow morning. He was
one of those lads that grow everywhere in England, and at twelve or
thirteen years of age look as much alike as goslings,--a lad with a
physiognomy in which it seems impossible to discern anything but the
generic character of boyhood.
"Maggie," said Tom, confidentially, taking her into a corner, as soon as
his mother was gone out to examine his box, and the warm parlor had
taken off the chill he had felt from the long drive, "you don't know
what I've got in my pockets," nodding his head up and down as a means of
rousing her sense of mystery.
"No," said Maggie. "How stodgy they look, Tom! Is it marbles or
cobnuts?" Maggie's heart sank a little, because Tom always said it was
"no good" playing with her at those games--she played so badly.
"Marbles! no; I've swopped all my marbles with the little fellows, and
cobnuts are no fun, you silly, only when the nuts are green. But see
here!" He drew something half out of his right-hand pocket.
"What is it?" said Maggie, in a whisper. "I can see nothing but a bit of
yellow."
"Why, it's--a--new--guess, Maggie!"
"Oh, I can't guess, Tom," said Maggie, impatiently.
"Don't be a spitfire, else I won't tell you," said Tom, thrusting his
hand back into his pocket, and looking determined.
"No, Tom," said Maggie, imploringly, laying hold of the arm that was
held stiffly in the pocket. "I'm not cross, Tom; it was only because I
can't bear guessing. Please be good to me."
[Illustration: The Home Coming.]
Tom's arm slowly relaxed, and he said, "Well, then, it's a new fish
line--two new ones--one for you, Maggie, all to yourself. I wouldn't go
halves in the toffee and gingerbread on purpose to save the money; and
Gibson and Spouncer fought with me because I wouldn't. And here's hooks;
see here!--I say, won't we go and fish to-morrow down by the Round Pool?
And you shall catch your own fish, Maggie, and put the worms on, and
everything--won't it be fun?"
Maggie's answer was to throw her arms around Tom's neck and hug him, and
hold her cheek against his without speaking, while he slowly unwound
some of the line, saying, after a pause:--
"Wasn't I a good brother, now, to buy you a line all to yourself? You
know, I needn't have bought it, if I hadn't liked."
"Yes, very, very good--I do love you, Tom."
Tom had put the line back in his pocket, and was looking at the hooks
one by one, before he spoke again. "And the fellows fought me, because I
wouldn't give in about the toffee."
"Oh, dear! I wish they wouldn't fight at your school, Tom. Didn't it
hurt you?"
"Hurt me? no," said Tom, putting up the hooks again, taking out a large
pocketknife, and slowly opening the largest blade, which he looked at
meditatively as he rubbed his finger along it. Then he added--"I gave
Spouncer a black eye, I know--that's what he got by wanting to leather
me; I wasn't going to go halves because anybody leathered me."
"Oh, how brave you are, Tom! I think you're like Samson. If there came a
lion roaring at me, I think you'd fight him--wouldn't you, Tom?"
"How can a lion come roaring at you, you silly thing? There's no lions,
only in the shows."
"No; but if we were in the lion countries--I mean in Africa, where it's
very hot--the lions eat people there. I can show it to you in the book
where I read it."
"Well, I should get a gun and shoot him."
"But if you hadn't got a gun--we might have gone out, you know, not
thinking just as we go fishing; and then a great lion might run toward
us roaring, and we couldn't get away from him. What should you do, Tom?"
Tom paused, and at last turned away contemptuously, saying, "But the
lion isn't coming. What's the use of talking?"
"But I like to fancy how it would be," said Maggie, following him. "Just
think what you would do, Tom."
"Oh, don't bother, Maggie! you're such a silly--I shall go and see my
rabbits."
II. THE FALLING OUT
Maggie's heart began to flutter with fear. She dared not tell the sad
truth at once, but she walked after Tom in trembling silence as he went
out, thinking how she could tell him the news so as to soften at once
his sorrow and his anger; for Maggie dreaded Tom's anger of all
things--it was quite a different anger from her own. "Tom," she said
timidly, when they were out of doors, "how much money did you give for
your rabbits?"
"Two half crowns and a sixpence," said Tom.
"I think I've got a great deal more than that in my steel purse
upstairs. I'll ask mother to give it to you."
"What for?" said Tom. "I don't want your money, you silly thing. I've
got a great deal more money than you, because I'm a boy. I always have
half sovereigns and sovereigns for my Christmas boxes, because I shall
be a man, and you only have five-shilling pieces, because you're only a
girl."
"Well, but, Tom--if mother would let me give you two half crowns and a
sixpence out of my purse to put into your pocket and spend, you know;
and buy some more rabbits with it?"
"More rabbits? I don't want any more."
"Oh, but, Tom, they're all dead."
Tom stopped immediately in his walk and turned round toward Maggie. "You
forgot to feed 'em, then, and Harry forgot," he said, his color
heightening for a moment, but soon subsiding. "I'll pitch into
Harry--I'll have him turned away. And I don't love you, Maggie. You
shan't go fishing with me to-morrow. I told you to go and see the
rabbits every day."
He walked on again.
"Yes, but I forgot--and I couldn't help it, indeed, Tom. I'm so very
sorry," said Maggie, while the tears rushed fast.
"You're a naughty girl," said Tom, severely; "and I'm sorry I bought you
the fish line. I don't love you."
"Oh, Tom, it's very cruel," sobbed Maggie. "I'd forgive you, if you
forgot anything--I wouldn't mind what you did--I'd forgive you and love
you."
"Yes, you're a silly--but I never do forget things--I don't."
"Oh, please forgive me, Tom; my heart will break," said Maggie, shaking
with sobs, clinging to Tom's arm, and laying her wet cheek on his
shoulder.
Tom shook her off, and stopped again, saying in a peremptory tone, "Now,
Maggie, you just listen. Aren't I a good brother to you?"
"Ye-ye-es," sobbed Maggie, her chin rising and falling convulsedly.
"Didn't I think about your fish line all this quarter, and mean to buy
it, and saved my money o' purpose, and wouldn't go halves in the toffee,
and Spouncer fought me because I wouldn't?"
"Ye-ye-es--and I--lo-lo-love you so, Tom."
"But you're a naughty girl. Last holidays you licked the paint off my
lozenge box, and the holidays before that you let the boat drag my fish
line down when I'd set you to watch it, and you pushed your head through
my kite, all for nothing."
"But I didn't mean," said Maggie; "I couldn't help it."
"Yes, you could," said Tom, "if you'd minded what you were doing. And
you're a naughty girl, and you shan't go fishing with me to-morrow."
With this terrible conclusion, Tom ran away from Maggie toward the mill.
Maggie stood motionless, except for her sobs, for a minute or two; then
she turned round and ran into the house, and up to her attic, where she
sat on the floor, and laid her head against the worm-eaten shelf, with a
crushing sense of misery. Tom was come home, and she had thought how
happy she should be--and now he was cruel to her. What use was anything,
if Tom didn't love her? Oh, he was very cruel! Hadn't she wanted to give
him the money, and said how very sorry she was? She had never been
naughty to Tom--had never meant to be naughty to him.
"Oh, he is cruel!" Maggie sobbed aloud, finding a wretched pleasure in
the hollow resonance that came through the long empty space of the
attic. She was too miserable to be angry.
III. THE MAKING UP
Maggie soon thought she had been hours in the attic, and it must be tea
time, and they were all having their tea, and not thinking of her. Well,
then, she would stay up there and starve herself--hide herself behind
the tub, and stay there all night; and then they would all be
frightened, and Tom would be sorry. Thus Maggie thought as she crept
behind the tub; but presently she began to cry again at the idea that
they didn't mind her being there.
Tom had been too much interested in going the round of the premises, to
think of Maggie and the effect his anger had produced on her. He meant
to punish her, and that business having been performed, he occupied
himself with other matters, like a practical person. But when he had
been called in to tea, his father said, "Why, where's the little wench?"
and Mrs. Tulliver, almost at the same moment, said, "Where's your little
sister?"--both of them having supposed that Maggie and Tom had been
together all the afternoon.
"I don't know," said Tom. He didn't want to "tell" of Maggie, though he
was angry with her; for Tom Tulliver was a lad of honor.
"What! hasn't she been playing with you all this while?" said the
father. "She'd been thinking of nothing but your coming home."
"I haven't seen her this two hours," says Tom, commencing on the plum
cake.
"Goodness heart! She's got drowned!" exclaimed Mrs. Tulliver, rising
from her seat and running to the window. "How could you let her do so?"
she added, as became a fearful woman, accusing she didn't know whom of
she didn't know what.
"Nay, nay, she's none drowned," said Mr. Tulliver. "You've been naughty
to her, I doubt, Tom?"
"I'm sure I haven't, father," said Tom, indignantly. "I think she's in
the house."
"Perhaps up in that attic," said Mrs. Tulliver, "a-singing and talking
to herself, and forgetting all about mealtimes."
"You go and fetch her down, Tom," said Mr. Tulliver, rather sharply, his
perspicacity or his fatherly fondness for Maggie making him suspect that
the lad had been hard upon "the little un," else she would never have
left his side. "And be good to her, do you hear? Else I'll let you know
better."
Tom never disobeyed his father, for Mr. Tulliver was a peremptory man;
but he went out rather sullenly, carrying his piece of plum cake, and
not intending to reprieve Maggie's punishment, which was no more than
she deserved. Tom was only thirteen, and had no decided views in grammar
and arithmetic, regarding them for the most part as open questions, but
he was particularly clear and positive on one point--namely, that he
would punish everybody who deserved it; why, he wouldn't have minded
being punished himself, if he deserved it; but, then, he never did
deserve it.
It was Tom's step, then, that Maggie heard on the stairs, when her need
of love had triumphed over her pride, and she was going down with her
swollen eyes and disheveled hair to beg for pity. At least her father
would stroke her head and say, "Never mind, my wench."
But she knew Tom's step, and her heart began to beat violently with the
sudden shock of hope. He only stood still at the top of the stairs and
said, "Maggie, you're to come down." But she rushed to him and clung
round his neck, sobbing, "O Tom, please forgive me--I can't bear it--I
will always be good--always remember things--do love me--please, dear
Tom!"
Maggie and Tom were still very much like young animals, and so she could
rub her cheek against his, and kiss his ear in a random, sobbing way;
and there were tender fibers in the lad that had been used to answer to
Maggie's fondling; so that he behaved with a weakness quite inconsistent
with his resolution to punish her as much as she deserved; he actually
began to kiss her in return, and say:--
"Don't cry, then, Magsie--here, eat a bit o' cake." Maggie's sobs began
to subside, and she put out her mouth for the cake and bit a piece; and
then Tom bit a piece, just for company, and they ate together and rubbed
each other's cheeks and brows and noses together, while they ate, with a
humiliating resemblance to two friendly ponies.
"Come along, Magsie, and have tea," said Tom at last, when there was no
more cake except what was downstairs.
So ended the sorrows of this day.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 1: From "The Mill on the Floss," by George Eliot.]
MY LAST DAY AT SALEM HOUSE[2]
I pass over all that happened at school, until the anniversary of my
birthday came round in March. The great remembrance by which that time
is marked in my mind seems to have swallowed up all lesser
recollections, and to exist alone.
It is even difficult for me to believe there was a gap of full two
months between my return to Salem House and the arrival of that
birthday. I can only understand that the fact was so, because I know it
must have been so; otherwise I should feel convinced there was no
interval, and that the one occasion trod upon the other's heels.
How well I recollect the kind of day it was! I smell the fog that hung
about the place; I see the hoar-frost ghostly, through it; I feel my
rimy hair fall clammy on my cheek; I look along the dim perspective of
the schoolroom, with a spluttering candle here and there to light up the
foggy morning, and the breath of the boys wreathing and smoking in the
raw cold as they blow upon their fingers, and tap their feet upon the
floor.
It was after breakfast, and we had been summoned in from the playground,
when Mr. Sharp entered and said, "David Copperfield is to go into the
parlor."
I expected a hamper from home, and brightened at the order. Some of the
boys about me put in their claim not to be forgotten in the distribution
of the good things, as I got out of my seat with great alacrity.
"Don't hurry, David," said Mr. Sharp. "There's time enough, my boy,
don't hurry."
I might have been surprised by the feeling tone in which he spoke, if I
had given it a thought; but I gave it none until afterward. I hurried
away to the parlor; and there I found Mr. Creakle, sitting at his
breakfast with the cane and newspaper before him, and Mrs. Creakle with
an opened letter in her hand. But no hamper.
"David Copperfield," said Mrs. Creakle, leading me to a sofa, and
sitting down beside me, "I want to speak to you very particularly. I
have something to tell you, my child."
Mr. Creakle, at whom of course I looked, shook his head without looking
at me, and stopped up a sigh with a very large piece of buttered toast.
"You are too young to know how the world changes every day," said Mrs.
Creakle, "and how the people in it pass away. But we all have to learn
it, David; some of us when we are young, some of us when we are old,
some of us at all times of our lives."
I looked at her earnestly.
"When you came away from home at the end of the vacation," said Mrs.
Creakle, after a pause, "were they all well?" After another pause, "Was
your mamma well?"
I trembled without distinctly knowing why, and still looked at her
earnestly, making no attempt to answer.
"Because," said she, "I grieve to tell you that I hear this morning your
mamma is very ill."
A mist rose between Mrs. Creakle and me, and her figure seemed to move
in it for an instant. Then I felt the burning tears run down my face,
and it was steady again.
"She is very dangerously ill," she added.
I knew all now.
"She is dead." There was no need to tell me so. I had already broken out
into a desolate cry, and felt an orphan in the wide world.
She was very kind to me. She kept me there all day, and left me alone
sometimes; and I cried and wore myself to sleep, and awoke and cried
again. When I could cry no more, I began to think; and then the
oppression on my breast was heaviest, and my grief a dull pain that
there was no ease for.
And yet my thoughts were idle; not intent on the calamity that weighed
upon my heart, but idly loitering near it. I thought of our house shut
up and hushed. I thought of the little baby, who, Mrs. Creakle said, had
been pining away for some time, and who, they believed, would die too. I
thought of my father's grave in the churchyard, by our house, and of my
mother lying there beneath the tree I knew so well.
I stood upon a chair when I was left alone, and looked into the glass to
see how red my eyes were, and how sorrowful my face. I considered, after
some hours were gone, if my tears were really hard to flow now, as they
seemed to be, what, in connection with my loss, it would affect me most
to think of when I drew near home--for I was going home to the funeral.
I am sensible of having felt that a dignity attached to me among the
rest of the boys, and that I was important in my affliction.
If ever child were stricken with sincere grief, I was. But I remembered
that this importance was a kind of satisfaction to me, when I walked in
the playground that afternoon while the boys were in school. When I saw
them glancing at me out of the windows, as they went up to their
classes, I felt distinguished, and looked more melancholy, and walked
slower. When school was over, and they came out and spoke to me, I felt
it rather good in myself not to be proud to any of them, and to take
exactly the same notice of them all, as before.
I was to go home next night; not by the mail, but by the heavy night
coach, which was called the Farmer, and was principally used by country
people traveling short intermediate distances upon the road. We had no
story telling that evening, and Traddles insisted on lending me his
pillow. I don't know what good he thought it would do me, for I had one
of my own; but it was all he had to lend, poor fellow, except a sheet of
letter paper full of skeletons; and that he gave me at parting, as a
soother of my sorrows and a contribution to my peace of mind.
I left Salem House upon the morrow afternoon. I little thought then that
I left it, never to return. We traveled very slowly all night, and did
not get into Yarmouth before nine or ten o'clock in the morning. I
looked out for Mr. Barkis, but he was not there; and instead of him a
fat, short-winded, merry-looking little old man in black, with rusty
little bunches of ribbons at the knees of his breeches, black stockings,
and a broad-brimmed hat, came puffing up to the coach window, and said,
"Master Copperfield?"
"Yes, sir."
"Will you come with me, young sir, if you please," he said, opening the
door, "and I shall have the pleasure of taking you home!"
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 2: From "David Copperfield," by Charles Dickens.]
EXPRESSION: The two stories which you have just read were written
by two of the greatest masters of fiction in English literature.
Talk with your teacher about George Eliot and Charles Dickens, and
learn all that you can about their works. Which of these two
stories do you prefer? Why?
Reread the conversation on pages 14 and 15. Imagine yourself to be
Tom or Maggie, and speak just as he or she did. Read the
conversation on pages 16 and 17 in the same way. Reread other
portions that you like particularly well.
In what respect does the second story differ most strongly from the
first? Select the most striking passage and read it with expression
sad feeling.
THE DEPARTURE FROM MISS PINKERTON'S[3]
I
One sunshiny morning in June, there drove up to the great iron gate of
Miss Pinkerton's Academy for young ladies, on Chiswick Mall, a large
family coach, with two fat horses in blazing harness, driven by a fat
coachman in a three-cornered hat and wig, at the rate of four miles an
hour.
A black servant, who reposed on the box beside the fat coachman,
uncurled his bandy legs as soon as the equipage drew up opposite Miss
Pinkerton's shining brass plate; and as he pulled the bell, at least a
score of young heads were seen peering out of the narrow windows of the
stately old brick house. Nay, the acute observer might have recognized
the little red nose of good-natured Miss Jemima Pinkerton herself,
rising over some geranium pots in the window of that lady's own drawing
room.
"It is Mrs. Sedley's coach, sister," said Miss Jemima. "Sambo, the black
servant, has just rung the bell; and the coachman has a new red
waistcoat."
"Have you completed all the necessary preparations incident to Miss
Sedley's departure?" asked Miss Pinkerton, that majestic lady, the
friend of the famous literary man, Dr. Johnson, the author of the great
"Dixonary" of the English language, called commonly the great
Lexicographer.
"The girls were up at four this morning, packing her trunks, sister,"
answered Miss Jemima. "We have made her a bowpot."
"Say a bouquet, sister Jemima; 'tis more genteel."
"Well, a booky as big almost as a haystack. I have put up two bottles of
the gillyflower water for Mrs. Sedley, and the receipt for making it is
in Amelia's box."
"And I trust, Miss Jemima, you have made a copy of Miss Sedley's
account. That is it, is it? Very good! Ninety-three pounds, four
shillings. Be kind enough to address it to John Sedley, Esquire, and to
seal this billet which I have written to his lady."
II
In Miss Jemima's eyes an autograph letter of her sister, Miss Pinkerton,
was an object of as deep veneration as would have been a letter from a
sovereign. Only when her pupils quitted the establishment, or when they
were about to be married, and once when poor Miss Birch died of the
scarlet fever, was Miss Pinkerton known to write personally to the
parents of her pupils.
In the present instance Miss Pinkerton's "billet" was to the following
effect:--
_The Mall, Chiswick, June 15._
MADAM:
After her six years' residence at the Mall, I have the honor and
happiness of presenting Miss Amelia Sedley to her parents, as a
young lady not unworthy to occupy a fitting position in their
polished and refined circle. Those virtues which characterize the
young English gentlewomen; those accomplishments which become her
birth and station, will not be found wanting in the amiable Miss
Sedley, whose industry and obedience have endeared her to her
instructors, and whose delightful sweetness of temper has charmed
her aged and her youthful companions.
In music, dancing, in orthography, in every variety of embroidery
and needle-work she will be found to have realized her friends'
fondest wishes. In geography there is still much to be desired; and
a careful and undeviating use of the back-board, for four hours
daily during the next three years, is recommended as necessary to
the acquirement of that dignified deportment and carriage so
requisite for every young lady of fashion.
In the principles of religion and morality, Miss Sedley will be
found worthy of an establishment which has been honored by the
presence of The Great Lexicographer and the patronage of the
admirable Mrs. Chapone. In leaving them all, Miss Amelia carries
with her the hearts of her companions and the affectionate regards
of her mistress, who has the honor to subscribe herself,
Madam your most obliged humble servant,
BARBARA PINKERTON.
P.S.--Miss Sharp accompanies Miss Sedley. It is particularly
requested that Miss Sharp's stay in Russell Square may not exceed
ten days. The family of distinction with whom she is engaged as
governess desire to avail themselves of her services as soon as
possible.
This letter completed, Miss Pinkerton proceeded to write her own name
and Miss Sedley's in the flyleaf of a Johnson's Dictionary, the
interesting work which she invariably presented to her scholars on their
departure from the Mall. On the cover was inserted a copy of "Lines
addressed to a Young Lady on quitting Miss Pinkerton's School, at the
Mall; by the late revered Dr. Samuel Johnson." In fact, the
Lexicographer's name was always on the lips of this majestic woman, and
a visit he had paid to her was the cause of her reputation and her
fortune.
Being commanded by her elder sister to get "The Dixonary" from the
cupboard, Miss Jemima had extracted two copies of the book from the
receptacle in question. When Miss Pinkerton had finished the inscription
in the first, Jemima, with rather a dubious and timid air, handed her
the second.
"For whom is this, Miss Jemima?" said Miss Pinkerton with awful
coldness.
"For Becky Sharp," answered Jemima, trembling very much, and blushing
over her withered face and neck, as she turned her back on her sister.
"For Becky Sharp. She's going, too."
"MISS JEMIMA!" exclaimed Miss Pinkerton, in the largest capitals. "Are
you in your senses? Replace the Dixonary in the closet, and never
venture to take such a liberty in future."
With an unusual display of courage, Miss Jemima mildly protested: "Well,
sister, it's only two and nine-pence, and poor Becky will be miserable
if she doesn't get one."
"Send Miss Sedley instantly to me," was Miss Pinkerton's only answer.
And, venturing not to say another word, poor Jemima trotted off,
exceedingly flurried and nervous, while the two pupils, Miss Sedley and
Miss Sharp, were making final preparations for their departure for Miss
Sedley's home.
III
Well, then. The flowers, and the presents, and the trunks, and the
bonnet boxes of Miss Sedley having been arranged by Mr. Sambo in the
carriage, together with a very small and weather-beaten old cowskin
trunk with Miss Sharp's card neatly nailed upon it, which was delivered
by Sambo with a grin, and packed by the coachman with a corresponding
sneer, the hour for parting came; and the grief of that moment was
considerably lessened by the admirable discourse which Miss Pinkerton
addressed to her pupil.
Not that the parting speech caused Amelia to philosophize, or that it
armed her in any way with a calmness, the result of argument; but it was
intolerably dull, and having the fear of her schoolmistress greatly
before her eyes, Miss Sedley did not venture, in her presence, to give
way to any ablutions of private grief. A seed cake and a bottle of wine
were produced in the drawing room, as on the solemn occasions of the
visits of parents; and these refreshments being partaken of, Miss Sedley
was at liberty to depart.
"You'll go in and say good-by to Miss Pinkerton, Becky!" said Miss
Jemima to that young lady, of whom nobody took any notice, and who was
coming downstairs with her own bandbox.
"I suppose I must," said Miss Sharp calmly, and much to the wonder of
Miss Jemima; and the latter having knocked at the door, and receiving
permission to come in, Miss Sharp advanced in a very unconcerned manner,
and said in French, and with a perfect accent, "_Mademoiselle, je viens
vous faire mes adieux_."[4]
Miss Pinkerton did not understand French, as we know; she only directed
those who did. Biting her lips and throwing up her venerable and
Roman-nosed head, she said, "Miss Sharp, I wish you a good morning."
As she spoke, she waved one hand, both by way of adieu and to give Miss
Sharp an opportunity of shaking one of the fingers of the hand, which
was left out for that purpose. Miss Sharp only folded her own hands with
a very frigid smile and bow, and quite declined to accept the proffered
honor; on which Miss Pinkerton tossed up her turban more indignantly
than ever. In fact, it was a little battle between the young lady and
the old one, and the latter was worsted.
"Come away, Becky," said Miss Jemima, pulling the young woman away in
great alarm; and the drawing room door closed upon her forever.
[Illustration: The Parting.]
Then came the struggle and parting below. Words refuse to tell it. All
the servants were there in the hall--all the dear friends--all the young
ladies--even the dancing master, who had just arrived; and there was
such a scuffling and hugging, and kissing, and crying, with the
hysterical _yoops_ of Miss Schwartz, the parlor boarder, as no pen can
depict, and as the tender heart would feign pass over.
The embracing was finished; they parted--that is, Miss Sedley parted
from her friends. Miss Sharp had demurely entered the carriage some
minutes before. Nobody cried for leaving _her_.
Sambo of the bandy legs slammed the carriage door on his young weeping
mistress. He sprang up behind the carriage.
"Stop!" cried Miss Jemima, rushing to the gate with a parcel.
"It's some sandwiches, my dear," she called to Amelia. "You may be
hungry, you know; and, Becky--Becky Sharp--here's a book for you, that
my sister--that is, I--Johnson's Dixonary, you know. You mustn't leave
us without that. Good-by! Drive on, coachman!--God bless you! Good-by."
Then the kind creature retreated into the garden, overcome with emotion.
But lo! and just as the coach drove off, Miss Sharp suddenly put her
pale face out of the window, and flung the book back into the
garden--flung it far and fast--watching it fall at the feet of
astonished Miss Jemima; then sank back in the carriage, exclaiming, "So
much for the 'Dixonary'; and thank God I'm out of Chiswick!"
The shock of such an act almost caused Jemima to faint with terror.
"Well, I never--" she began. "What an audacious--" she gasped. Emotion
prevented her from completing either sentence.
The carriage rolled away; the great gates were closed; the bell rang for
the dancing lesson. The world is before the two young ladies; and so,
farewell to Chiswick Mall!
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 3: From "Vanity Fair," by William Makepeace Thackeray.]
[Footnote 4: "Madam, I have come to tell you good-by."]
EXPRESSION: By many able critics, Thackeray is regarded as a
greater novelist than either Dickens or George Eliot. Compare this
extract from one of his best works with the two selections which
precede it. Which of the three stories is the most interesting to
you? Which sounds the best when read aloud? Which is the most
humorous? Which is the most pathetic?
Reread the three selections very carefully. Now tell what you
observe about the style of each. In what respects is the style of
the third story different from that of either of the others? Reread
Miss Pinkerton's letter. What peculiarities do you observe in it?
Select and reread the most humorous passage in this last story.
TWO GEMS FROM BROWNING
I. INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP
In the small kingdom of Bavaria, on the south bank of the Danube River,
there is a famous old city called Ratisbon. It is not a very large city,
but its history can be traced far back to the time when the Romans had a
military camp there which they used as an outpost against the German
barbarians. At one time it ranked among the most flourishing towns of
Germany.
It is now of little commercial importance--a quaint and quiet old place,
with a fine cathedral and many notable buildings which testify to its
former greatness.
During the earlier years of the nineteenth century, Napoleon Bonaparte,
emperor of the French, was engaged in bitter warfare with Austria and
indeed with nearly the whole of Europe. In April, 1809, the Austrian
army, under Grand Duke Charles, was intrenched in Ratisbon and the
neighboring towns. There it was attacked by the French army commanded by
Napoleon himself and led by the brave Marshal Lannes, Duke of
Montebello.
The battle raged, first on this side of the city, then on that, and for
several days no one could tell which of the combatants would be
victorious. At length Napoleon decided to end the matter by storming the
city and, if possible, driving the archduke from his stronghold. He,
therefore, sent Marshal Lannes forward to direct the battle, while he
watched the conflict and gave commands from a distance. For a long time
the issue seemed doubtful, and not even Napoleon could guess what the
result would be. Late in the day, however, French valor prevailed, the
Austrians were routed, and Marshal Lannes forced his way into the city.
It was at this time that the incident described so touchingly in the
following poem by Robert Browning is supposed to have taken place. We do
not know, nor does any one know, whether the story has any foundation in
fact. It illustrates, however, the spirit of bravery and self-sacrifice
that prevailed among the soldiers of Napoleon; and such an incident
might, indeed, have happened not only at Ratisbon, but at almost any
place where the emperor's presence urged his troops to victory. For,
such was Napoleon's magic influence and such was the love which he
inspired among all his followers, that thousands of young men were ready
cheerfully to give their lives for the promotion of his selfish
ambition.
The poem, which is now regarded as one of the classics of our language,
was first published in 1843, in a small volume entitled "Dramatic
Lyrics." The same volume contained the well-known rime of "The Pied
Piper of Hamelin." Robert Browning was at that time a young man of
thirty, and most of the poems which afterwards made him famous were
still unwritten.
BROWNING'S POEM
You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:
A mile or so away,
On a little mound, Napoleon
Stood on our storming day:
With neck outthrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.
Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans
That soar, to earth may fall,
Let once my army leader Lannes
Waver at yonder wall,"--
Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full galloping; nor bridle drew
Until he reached the mound.
Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect
By just his horse's mane, a boy:
You hardly could suspect--
(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through)
You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.
[Illustration: "We've got you Ratisbon!"]
"Well," cried he, "Emperor by God's grace
We've got you Ratisbon!
The Marshal's in the market place,
And you'll be there anon
To see your flag bird flap his vans
Where I, to heart's desire,
Perched him!" The chiefs eye flashed; his plans
Soared up again like fire.
The chief's eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother eagle's eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes;
"You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride
Touched to the quick, he said:
"I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,
Smiling, the boy fell dead.
EXPRESSION: This is a difficult selection to read properly and with
spirit and feeling. Study each stanza until you understand it
thoroughly. Practice reading the following passages, giving the
proper emphasis and inflections.
_You know, we French stormed Ratisbon.
With neck outthrust you fancy how.
"We've got you Ratisbon!"
"You're wounded!" "Nay, I'm killed, Sire!"_
WORD STUDY: _Napoleon_, _Ratisbon_, _Bavaria_, _Lannes_; _anon_,
_vans_, _sheathes_, _eaglet_, _Sire_.
Explain: "_To see your flag bird flap his vans._" "_His plans
soared up again like fire._"
[Illustration]
II. DOG TRAY[5]
A beggar child
Sat on a quay's edge: like a bird
Sang to herself at careless play,
And fell into the stream. "Dismay!
Help, you standers-by!" None stirred.
Bystanders reason, think of wives
And children ere they risk their lives.
Over the balustrade has bounced
A mere instinctive dog, and pounced
Plumb on the prize. "How well he dives!"
"Up he comes with the child, see, tight
In mouth, alive, too, clutched from quite
A depth of ten feet--twelve, I bet!
Good dog! What, off again? There's yet
Another child to save? All right!"
"How strange we saw no other fall!
It's instinct in the animal.
Good dog! But he's a long time under:
If he got drowned, I should not wonder--
Strong current, that against the wall!
"Here he comes, holds in mouth this time
--What may the thing be? Well, that's prime!
Now, did you ever? Reason reigns
In man alone, since all Tray's pains
Have fished--the child's doll from the slime!"
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 5: By Robert Browning.]
EXPRESSION: Read the story silently, being sure that you understand
it clearly. Then read each passage aloud, giving special attention
to emphasis and inflections. Answer these questions by reading from
the poem:
Where was the child? What did she do?
What did some one cry out?
Why did not the bystanders help?
What did the dog do?
What did one bystander say?
What did another say when the dog came up?
What did he say when the dog went back?
Read correctly: "_Well, that's prime!_" "_Now, did you ever?_"
"_All right!_" "_If he got drowned, I should not wonder._"
In what respects do these two poems differ from your favorite poems
by Longfellow or Tennyson? Do you think there is much music in
them?
THE DISCOVERY OF AMERICA[6]
It was on Friday morning, the 12th of October, that Columbus first
beheld the New World. As the day dawned he saw before him a level
island, several leagues in extent, and covered with trees like a
continual orchard. Though apparently uncultivated, it was populous, for
the inhabitants were seen issuing from all parts of the woods and
running to the shore. They stood gazing at the ships, and appeared, by
their attitudes and gestures, to be lost in astonishment.
Columbus made signal for the ships to cast anchor and the boats to be
manned and armed. He entered his own boat richly attired in scarlet and
holding the royal standard; while Martin Alonzo Pinzon and his brother
put off in company in their boats, each with a banner of the enterprise
emblazoned with a green cross, having on either side the letters F and
Y, the initials of the Castilian monarchs Fernando and Ysabel,
surmounted by crowns.
As he approached the shore, Columbus, who was disposed for all kinds of
agreeable impressions, was delighted with the purity and suavity of the
atmosphere, the crystal transparency of the sea, and the extraordinary
beauty of the vegetation. He beheld also fruits of an unknown kind upon
the trees which overhung the shores. On landing he threw himself on his
knees, kissed the earth, and returned thanks to God with tears of joy.
His example was followed by the rest, whose hearts indeed overflowed
with the same feelings of gratitude. Columbus then rising drew his
sword, displayed the royal standard, and, assembling round him the two
captains and the rest who had landed, he took solemn possession in the
name of the Castilian sovereigns, giving the island the name of San
Salvador. Having complied with the requisite forms and ceremonies, he
called upon all present to take the oath of obedience to him as admiral
and viceroy, representing the persons of the sovereigns.
The feelings of the crew now burst forth in the most extravagant
transports. They had recently considered themselves devoted men hurrying
forward to destruction; they now looked upon themselves as favorites of
fortune and gave themselves up to the most unbounded joy. They thronged
around the admiral with overflowing zeal, some embracing him, others
kissing his hands.
Those who had been most mutinous and turbulent during the voyage were
now most devoted and enthusiastic. Some begged favors of him, as if he
had already wealth and honors in his gift. Many abject spirits, who had
outraged him by their insolence, now crouched at his feet, begging
pardon for all the trouble they had caused him and promising the
blindest obedience for the future.
The natives of the island, when at the dawn of day they had beheld the
ships hovering on their coast, had supposed them monsters which had
issued from the deep during the night. They had crowded to the beach and
watched their movements with awful anxiety. Their veering about
apparently without effort, and the shifting and furling of their sails,
resembling huge wings, filled them with astonishment. When they beheld
their boats approach the shore, and a number of strange beings clad in
glittering steel, or raiment of various colors, landing upon the beach,
they fled in affright to the woods.
Finding, however, that there was no attempt to pursue or molest them,
they gradually recovered from their terror and approached the Spaniards
with great awe, frequently prostrating themselves on the earth and
making signs of adoration. During the ceremonies of taking possession,
they remained gazing in timid admiration at the complexion, the beards,
the shining armor and splendid dress of the Spaniards. The admiral
particularly attracted their attention, from his commanding height, his
air of authority, his dress of scarlet, and the deference which was paid
him by his companions; all which pointed him out to be the commander.
When they had still further recovered from their fears, they approached
the Spaniards, touched their beards and examined their hands and faces,
admiring their whiteness. Columbus was pleased with their gentleness and
confiding simplicity, and soon won them by his kindly bearing. They now
supposed that the ships had sailed out of the crystal firmament which
bounded their horizon, or had descended from above on their ample wings,
and that these marvelous beings were inhabitants of the skies.
The natives of the island were no less objects of curiosity to the
Spaniards, differing as they did from any race of men they had ever
seen. Their appearance gave no promise of either wealth or civilization,
for they were entirely naked and painted with a variety of colors. With
some it was confined merely to a part of the face, the nose, or around
the eyes; with others it extended to the whole body and gave them a wild
and fantastic appearance.
Their complexion was of a tawny, or copper hue, and they were entirely
destitute of beards. Their hair was not crisped, like the recently
discovered tribes of the African coast, under the same latitude, but
straight and coarse, partly cut short above the ears, but some locks
were left long behind and falling upon their shoulders. Their features,
though obscured and disfigured by paint, were agreeable; they had lofty
foreheads and remarkably fine eyes. They were of moderate stature and
well shaped.
As Columbus supposed himself to have landed on an island at the
extremity of India, he called the natives by the general name of
Indians, which was universally adopted before the true nature of his
discovery was known, and has since been extended to all the aboriginals
of the New World.
The islanders were friendly and gentle. Their only arms were lances,
hardened at the end by fire, or pointed with a flint, or the teeth or
bone of a fish. There was no iron to be seen, nor did they appear
acquainted with its properties; for, when a drawn sword was presented to
them, they unguardedly took it by the edge.
Columbus distributed among them colored caps, glass beads, hawks' bells
and other trifles, such as the Portuguese were accustomed to trade with
among the nations of the gold coast of Africa. They received them
eagerly, hung the beads round their necks, and were wonderfully pleased
with their finery, and with the sound of the bells. The Spaniards
remained all day on shore refreshing themselves, after their anxious
voyage, amid the beautiful groves of the island, and returned on board
late in the evening, delighted with all they had seen.
The island where Columbus had thus, for the first time, set his foot
upon the New World, was called by the natives Guanahane. It still
retains the name of San Salvador, which he gave to it, though called by
the English Cat Island.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 6: From "The Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus," by
Washington Irving.]
THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS[7]
King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;
The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride,
And 'mong them sat the Count de Lorge with one for whom he sighed:
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valor, and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their
paws;
With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another,
Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thundrous smother;
The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air;
Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."
[Illustration: The Glove and the Lions.]
De Lorge's love o'erheard the King,--a beauteous lively dame
With smiling lips and sharp, bright eyes, which always seemed the same:
She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be;
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me;
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;
I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine."
She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled;
He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild:
His leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place,
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.
"Well done!" cried Francis, "bravely done!" and he rose from where he
sat:
"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 7: By Leigh Hunt, an English essayist and poet (1784-1859).]
EXPRESSION: Read this poem silently, trying to understand fully the
circumstances of the story: (1) the time; (2) the place; (3) the
character of the leading actors. Then read aloud each stanza with
feeling and expression.
ST. FRANCIS, THE GENTLE[8]
Seven hundred years ago, Francis the gentlest of the saints was born in
Assisi, the quaint Umbrian town among the rocks; and for twenty years
and more he cherished but one thought, and one desire, and one hope; and
these were that he might lead the beautiful and holy and sorrowful life
which our Master lived on earth, and that in every way he might resemble
Him in the purity and loveliness of his humanity.
Not to men alone but to all living things on earth and air and water was
St. Francis most gracious and loving. They were all his little brothers
and sisters, and he forgot them not, still less scorned or slighted
them, but spoke to them often and blessed them, and in return they
showed him great love and sought to be of his fellowship. He bade his
companions keep plots of ground for their little sisters the flowers,
and to these lovely and speechless creatures he spoke, with no great
fear that they would not understand his words. And all this was a
marvelous thing in a cruel time, when human life was accounted of slight
worth by fierce barons and ruffling marauders.
For the bees he set honey and wine in the winter, lest they should feel
the nip of the cold too keenly; and bread for the birds, that they all,
but especially "my brother Lark," should have joy of Christmastide, and
at Rieti a brood of redbreasts were the guests of the house and raided
the tables while the brethren were at meals; and when a youth gave St.
Francis the turtledoves he had snared, the Saint had nests made for
them, and there they laid their eggs and hatched them, and fed from the
hands of the brethren.
Out of affection a fisherman once gave him a great tench, but he put it
back into the clear water of the lake, bidding it love God; and the fish
played about the boat till St. Francis blessed it and bade it go.
"Why dost thou torment my little brothers the Lambs," he asked of a
shepherd, "carrying them bound thus and hanging from a staff, so that
they cry piteously?" And in exchange for the lambs he gave the shepherd
his cloak. And at another time seeing amid a flock of goats one white
lamb feeding, he was concerned that he had nothing but his brown robe to
offer for it (for it reminded him of our Lord among the Pharisees); but
a merchant came up and paid for it and gave it him, and he took it with
him to the city and preached about it so that the hearts of those
hearing him were melted. Afterwards the lamb was left in the care of a
convent of holy women, and to the Saint's great delight, these wove him
a gown of the lamb's innocent wool.
Fain would I tell of the coneys that took refuge in the folds of his
habit, and of the swifts which flew screaming in their glee while he was
preaching; but now it is time to speak of the sermon which he preached
to a great multitude of birds in a field by the roadside, when he was on
his way to Bevagno. Down from the trees flew the birds to hear him, and
they nestled in the grassy bosom of the field, and listened till he had
done. And these were the words he spoke to them:--
"Little birds, little sisters mine, much are you holden to God your
Creator; and at all times and in every place you ought to praise Him.
Freedom He has given you to fly everywhere; and raiment He has given
you, double and threefold. More than this, He preserved your kind in the
Ark, so that your race might not come to an end. Still more do you owe
Him for the element of air, which He has made your portion. Over and
above, you sow not, neither do you reap; but God feeds you, and gives
you streams and springs for your thirst; the mountains He gives you, and
the valleys for your refuge, and the tall trees wherein to build your
nests. And because you cannot sew or spin, God takes thought to clothe
you, you and your little ones. It must be, then, that your Creator loves
you much, since He has granted you so many benefits. Be on your guard
then against the sin of ingratitude, and strive always to give God
praise."
And when the Saint ceased speaking, the birds made such signs as they
might, by spreading their wings and opening their beaks, to show their
love and pleasure; and when he had blessed them with the sign of the
cross, they sprang up, and singing songs of unspeakable sweetness, away
they streamed in a great cross to the four quarters of heaven.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 8: By William Canton, an English journalist and poet (1845- ).]
THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS[9]
Up soared the lark into the air,
A shaft of song, a winged prayer,
As if a soul, released from pain,
Were flying back to heaven again.
St. Francis heard; it was to him
An emblem of the Seraphim;
The upward motion of the fire,
The light, the heat, the heart's desire.
Around Assisi's convent gate
The birds, God's poor who cannot wait,
From moor and mere and darksome wood,
Came flocking for their dole of food.
"O brother birds," St. Francis said,
"Ye come to me and ask for bread,
But not with bread alone to-day
Shall ye be fed and sent away.
"Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds,
With manna of celestial words;
Not mine, though mine they seem to be,
Not mine, though they be spoken through me.
"Oh, doubly are ye bound to praise
The great creator in your lays;
He giveth you your plumes of down,
Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown.
"He giveth you your wings to fly
And breathe a purer air on high,
And careth for you everywhere
Who for yourselves so little care."
With flutter of swift wings and songs
Together rose the feathered throngs
And, singing, scattered far apart;
Deep peace was in St. Francis' heart.
He knew not if the brotherhood
His homily had understood;
He only knew that to one ear
The meaning of his words was clear.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 9: By Henry W. Longfellow.]
EXPRESSION: Talk with your teacher about the life, work, and
influence of St. Francis. Refer to cyclopedias for information.
Read aloud the prose version of his sermon to the birds; the
poetical version. Compare the two versions. What is said in one
that is not said in the other?
IN THE WOODS[10]
Years ago, when quite a youth, I was rambling in the woods one day with
my brothers, gathering black birch and wintergreens.
As we lay upon the ground, gazing vaguely up into the trees, I caught
sight of a bird, the like of which I had never before seen or heard of.
It was the blue yellow-backed warbler, which I have found since; but to
my young fancy it seemed like some fairy bird, so curiously marked was
it, and so new and unexpected. I saw it a moment as the flickering
leaves parted, noted the white spot on its wing, and it was gone.
It was a revelation. It was the first intimation I had had that the
woods we knew so well held birds that we knew not at all. Were our eyes
and ears so dull? Did we pass by the beautiful things in nature without
seeing them? Had we been blind then? There were the robin, the bluejay,
the yellowbird, and others familiar to every one; but who ever dreamed
that there were still others that not even the hunters saw, and whose
names few had ever heard?
The surprise that awaits every close observer of birds, the thrill of
delight that accompanies it, and the feeling of fresh eager inquiry that
follows can hardly be awakened by any other pursuit.
There is a fascination about it quite overpowering.
It fits so well with other things--with fishing, hunting, farming,
walking, camping out--with all that takes one to the fields and the
woods. One may go blackberrying and make some rare discovery; or, while
driving his cow to pasture, hear a new song, or make a new observation.
Secrets lurk on all sides. There is news in every bush. Expectation is
ever on tiptoe. What no man ever saw may the next moment be revealed to
you.
What a new interest this gives to the woods! How you long to explore
every nook and corner of them! One must taste it to understand. The
looker-on sees nothing to make such a fuss about. Only a little glimpse
of feathers and a half-musical note or two--why all this ado? It is not
the mere knowledge of birds that you get, but a new interest in the
fields and woods, the air, the sunshine, the healing fragrance and
coolness, and the getting away from the worry of life.
Yesterday was an October day of rare brightness and warmth. I spent the
most of it in a wild, wooded gorge of Rock Creek. A tree which stood
upon the bank had dropped some of its fruit in the water. As I stood
there, half-leg deep, a wood duck came flying down the creek.
Presently it returned, flying up; then it came back again, and sweeping
low around a bend, prepared to alight in a still, dark reach in the
creek which was hidden from my view. As I passed that way about half an
hour afterward, the duck started up, uttering its wild alarm note. In
the stillness I could hear the whistle of its wings and the splash of
the water when it took flight. Near by I saw where a raccoon had come
down to the water for fresh clams, leaving its long, sharp track in the
mud and sand. Before I had passed this hidden stretch of water, a pair
of strange thrushes flew up from the ground and perched on a low branch.
Who can tell how much this duck, this footprint on the sand, and these
strange thrushes from the far North enhanced the interest and charm of
the autumn woods?
Birds cannot be learned satisfactorily from books. The satisfaction is
in learning them from nature. One must have an original experience with
the birds. The books are only the guide, the invitation. But let me say
in the same breath that the books can by no manner of means be dispensed
with.
In the beginning one finds it very difficult to identify a bird in any
verbal description. First find your bird; observe its ways, its song,
its calls, its flight, its haunts. Then compare with your book. In this
way the feathered kingdom may soon be conquered.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 10: By John Burroughs, an American writer on nature (1837- ).]
EXPRESSION: This and the selection which follows are fine examples
of descriptive writing. Read them so that your hearers will
understand every statement clearly and without special effort on
their part. Talk about the various objects that are mentioned, and
tell what you have learned about them from other sources.
BEES AND FLOWERS[11]
Fancy yourself to be in a pretty country garden on a hot summer's
morning. Perhaps you have been walking, or reading, or playing, but it
is getting too hot now to do anything. So you have chosen the shadiest
nook under the walnut tree, close to some pretty flower bed.
As you lie there you notice a gentle buzzing near you, and you see that
on the flower bed close by several bees are working busily among the
flowers. They do not seem to mind the heat, nor do they wish to rest;
and they fly so lightly, and look so happy over their work, that it is
pleasant to watch them.
That great bumblebee takes it leisurely enough as she goes lumbering
along, poking her head into the larkspurs; she remains so long in each
that you might almost think she had fallen asleep. The brown hive-bee,
on the other hand, moves busily and quickly among the stocks, sweet
peas, and mignonette. She is evidently out on active duty, and means to
get all she can from each flower, so as to carry a good load back to the
hive. In some blossoms she does not stay a moment, but draws her head
back almost as soon as she has popped it in, as if to say, "No honey
there." But over other flowers she lingers a little, and then scrambles
out again with her drop of honey, and goes off to seek more.
Let us watch her a little more closely. There are many different plants
growing in the flower bed, but, curiously enough, she does not go first
to one kind and then to another, but keeps to one the whole time.
Now she flies away. Rouse yourself to follow her, and you will see she
takes her way back to the hive. We all know why she makes so many
journeys between the garden and the hive, and that she is collecting
drops of nectar from the flowers and carrying it to the hive to be
stored up in the honeycomb for the winter's food. When she comes back
again to the garden, we will follow her in her work among the flowers,
and see what she is doing for them in return for their gifts to her.
No doubt you have already learned that plants can make better and
stronger seeds when they can get the pollen dust from other plants. But
I am sure that you will be very much surprised to hear that the colors,
the scent, and the curious shapes of the flowers are all so many baits
to attract insects. And for what reason? In order that the insects may
come and carry the pollen dust from one plant to another.
So far as we know, it is entirely for this purpose that the plants form
honey in different parts of the flower. This food they prepare for the
insects, and then they have all sorts of contrivances to entice the
little creatures to come and get it. The plants hang out gay-colored
signs, as much as to say:--
"Come to me, and I will give you honey, if you will bring me pollen dust
in exchange."
If you watch the different kinds of grasses, sedges, and rushes, which
have such tiny flowers that you can scarcely see them, you will find
that no insects visit them. Neither will you ever find bees buzzing
round oak trees, elms, or birches. But on the pretty and sweet-smelling
apple blossoms you will find bees, wasps, and other insects.
The reason of this is that grasses, sedges, rushes, and oak trees have a
great deal of pollen dust. As the wind blows them to and fro it wafts
the dust from one flower to another. And so these plants do not need to
give out honey, or to have gaudy or sweet-scented flowers to attract
insects.
But the brilliant poppy, the large-flowered hollyhock, the flaunting
dandelion, and the bright blue forget-me-not,--all these are visited by
insects, which easily catch sight of them and hasten to sip their honey.
We must not forget what the fragrance of the flowers can do. Have you
ever noticed the delicious odor which comes from beds of mignonette,
mint, or sweet alyssum? These plants have found another way of
attracting the insects; they have no need of bright colors, for their
fragrance is quite as true and certain a guide. You will be surprised if
you once begin to count them up, how many dull-looking flowers are
sweet-scented, while some gaudy flowers have little or no scent. Still
we find some flowers, like the beautiful lily, the lovely rose, and the
delicate hyacinth, which have color and fragrance and graceful shapes
all combined.
But there are still other ways by which flowers secure the visits of
insects. Have you not observed that different flowers open and close at
different times? The daisy receives its name "day's eye" because it
opens at sunrise and closes at sunset, while the evening primrose
spreads out its flowers just as the daisy is going to bed.
What do you think is the reason of this? If you go near a bed of evening
primroses just when the sun is setting, you will soon be able to guess.
They will then give out such a sweet odor that you will not doubt for a
moment that they are calling the evening moths to come and visit them.
The daisy, however, opens by day and is therefore visited by day
insects.
Again, some flowers close whenever rain is coming. Look at the daisies
when a storm is threatening. As the sky grows dark and heavy, you will
see them shrink and close till the sun shines again. They do this
because in the center of the flower there is a drop of honey which would
be spoiled if it were washed by the rain.
And now you will see why the cup-shaped flowers so often droop their
heads,--think of the snowdrop, the lily-of-the-valley, and a host of
others. How pretty they look with their bells hanging so modestly from
the slender stalk! They are bending down to protect the honey within
their cups.
We are gradually learning that everything which a plant does has its
meaning, if we can only find it out. And when we are aware of this, a
flower garden may become a new world to us if we open our eyes to all
that is going on in it. And so we learn that even among insects and
flowers, those who do most for others receive most in return. The bee
and the flower do not reason about the matter; they only live their
little lives as nature guides them, helping and improving each other.
I have been able to tell you but very little about the hidden work that
is going on around us, and you must not for a moment imagine that we
have fully explored the fairy land of nature. But at least we have
passed through the gates, and have learned that there is a world of
wonder which we may visit if we will. And it lies quite close to us,
hidden in every dewdrop and gust of wind, in every brook and valley, in
every little plant and animal.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 11: From "The Fairy Land of Nature," by Arabella B. Buckley.]
EXPRESSION: Make a list of all the natural objects that are
mentioned in this selection. Read what is said of each. Describe as
many of them as you can in your own words. Tell what you have
observed about bees and flowers. The daisy that is referred to is
the true European daisy. The daisy, or whiteweed, of the United
States does not open and close in the manner here described.
SONG OF THE RIVER[12]
A river went singing a-down to the sea,
A-singing--low--singing--
And the dim rippling river said softly to me,
"I'm bringing, a-bringing--
While floating along--
A beautiful song
To the shores that are white where the waves are so weary,
To the beach that is burdened with wrecks that are dreary.
"A song sweet and calm
As the peacefullest psalm;
And the shore that was sad
Will be grateful and glad,
And the weariest wave from its dreariest dream
Will wake to the sound of the song of the stream;
And the tempests shall cease
And there shall be peace."
From the fairest of fountains
And farthest of mountains,
From the stillness of snow
Came the stream in its flow.
Down the slopes where the rocks are gray,
Through the vales where the flowers are fair--
Where the sunlight flashed--where the shadows lay
Like stories that cloud a face of care,
The river ran on--and on--and on,
Day and night, and night and day.
Going and going, and never gone,
Longing to flow to the "far away."
Staying and staying, and never still,--
Going and staying, as if one will
Said, "Beautiful river, go to the sea,"
And another will whispered, "Stay with me"--
And the river made answer, soft and low,
"I go and stay--I stay and go."
"But what is the song?" I said at last
To the passing river that never passed;
And a white, white wave whispered, "List to me,
I'm a note in the song for the beautiful sea,
A song whose grand accents no earth din may sever,
And the river flows on in the same mystic key
That blends in one chord the 'forever and never.'"
[Footnote 12: By Abram J. Ryan, an American clergyman and poet.]
EXPRESSION: Read aloud the three lines which introduce the song of
the river. Read them in such a manner as to call up a mental
picture of the river on its way to the sea. Read the first five
lines of the third stanza in a similar way, and tell what picture
is now called up in your mind. Now read the river's song. Read what
the white wave said. Read the whole poem with spirit and feeling.
Notice the words "a-down," "a-singing," "a-bringing." What effect
is produced by the use of these unusual forms?
SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE[13]
Out of the hills of Habersham,
Down the valleys of Hall,
I hurry amain to reach the plain,
Run the rapid and leap the fall,
Split at the rock and together again,
Accept my bed or narrow or wide,
And flee from folly on every side
With a lover's pain to attain the plain
Far from the hills of Habersham,
Far from the valleys of Hall.
All down the hills of Habersham,
All through the valleys of Hall,
The rushes cried, "Abide, abide,"
The willful waterweeds held me thrall,
The loving laurel turned my tide,
The ferns and the fondling grass said, "Stay,"
The dewberry dipped for to work delay,
And the little reeds sighed, "Abide, abide,"
Here in the hills of Habersham,
Here in the valleys of Hall.
High o'er the hills of Habersham,
Veiling the valleys of Hall,
The hickory told me manifold
Fair tales of shade; the poplar tall
Wrought me her shadowy self to hold;
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,
Said, "Pass not so cold, these manifold
Deep shades of the hills of Habersham,
These glades in the valleys of Hall."
And oft in the hills of Habersham,
And oft in the valleys of Hall,
The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook stone
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl;
And many a luminous jewel lone
(Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,
Ruby, garnet, or amethyst)
Made lures with the lights of streaming stone
In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,
In the beds of the valleys of Hall.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 13: By Sidney Lanier, an American musician and poet
(1842-1881). From the _Poems of Sidney Lanier_, published by Charles
Scribner's Sons.]
EXPRESSION: Compare this poem with the one which precedes it.
Compare them both with Tennyson's "Song of the Brook" ("Fifth
Reader," p. 249). Which is the most musical? Which is the best
simply as a description?
Make a list of the unusual words in this last poem, and refer to
the dictionary for their meaning. In what state is the
Chattahoochee River? "Habersham" and "Hall" are the names of two
counties in the same state.
If you have access to a library, find Southey's poem, "The Cataract
of Lodore," and read it aloud.
WAR AND PEACE
I. WAR AS THE MOTHER OF VALOR AND CIVILIZATION[14]
We still hear war extolled at times as the mother of valor and the prime
agency in the world's advancement. By it, we are told, civilization has
spread and nations have been created, slavery has been abolished and the
American Union preserved. It is even held that without war human
progress would have been impossible.
The answer: Men were at first savages who preyed upon each other like
wild beasts, and so they developed a physical courage which they shared
with the brutes. Moral courage was unknown to them. War was almost their
sole occupation. Peace existed only for short periods that tribes might
regain strength to resume the sacred duty of killing each other.
Advancement in civilization was impossible while war reigned. Only as
wars became less frequent and long intervals of peace supervened could
civilization, the mother of true heroism, take root. Civilization has
advanced just as war has receded, until in our day peace has become the
rule and war the exception.
Arbitration of international disputes grows more and more in favor.
Successive generations of men now live and die without seeing war; and
instead of the army and navy furnishing the only careers worthy of
gentlemen, it is with difficulty that civilized nations can to-day
obtain a sufficient supply of either officers or men.
In the past, man's only method for removing obstacles and attaining
desired ends was to use brute courage. The advance of civilization has
developed moral courage. We use more beneficent means than men did of
old. Britain in the eighteenth century used force to prevent American
independence. In more recent times she graciously grants Canada the
rights denied America.
The United States also receives an award of the powers against China,
and, finding it in excess of her expenditures, in the spirit of newer
time, returns ten million dollars. Won by this act of justice, China
devotes the sum to the education of Chinese students in the republic's
universities. The greatest force is no longer that of brutal war, but
the supreme force of gentlemen and generosity--the golden rule.
The pen is rapidly superseding the sword. Arbitration is banishing war.
More than five hundred international disputes have already been
peacefully settled. Civilization, not barbarism, is the mother of true
heroism. Our lately departed poet and disciple of peace, Richard Watson
Gilder, has left us the answer to the false idea that brute force
employed against our fellows ranks with heroic moral courage exerted to
save or serve them:--
'Twas said: "When roll of drum and battle's roar
Shall cease upon the earth, oh, then no more
The deed, the race, of heroes in the land."
But scarce that word was breathed when one small hand
Lifted victorious o'er a giant wrong
That had its victims crushed through ages long;
Some woman set her pale and quivering face,
Firm as a rock, against a man's disgrace;
A little child suffered in silence lest
His savage pain should wound a mother's breast;
Some quiet scholar flung his gauntlet down
And risked, in Truth's great name, the synod's frown;
A civic hero, in the calm realm of laws,
Did that which suddenly drew a world's applause;
And one to the pest his lithe young body gave
That he a thousand thousand lives might save.
On the field of carnage men lose all human instincts in the struggle to
protect themselves. The true heroism inspired by moral courage prompts
firemen, policemen, sailors, miners, and others to volunteer and risk
their lives to save the lives of their fellowmen. Such heroism is now of
everyday occurrence.
In our age there is no more reason for permitting war between civilized
nations than for relaxing the reign of law within nations, which compels
men to submit their personal disputes to peaceful courts, and never
dreams that by so doing they will be made less heroic....
When war ceases, the sense of human brotherhood will be strengthened and
"heroism" will no longer mean to kill, but only to serve or save our
fellows.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 14: By Andrew Carnegie, a Scottish-American manufacturer and
philanthropist (1837- ).]
II. FRIENDSHIP AMONG NATIONS[15]
Let us suppose that four centuries ago some far-seeing prophet dared to
predict to the duchies composing the kingdom of France that the day
would come when they would no longer make war upon each other. Let us
suppose him saying:--
"You will have many disputes to settle, interests to contend for,
difficulties to resolve; but do you know what you will select instead of
armed men, instead of cavalry, and infantry, of cannon, lances, pikes,
and swords?
"You will select, instead of all this destructive array, a small box of
wood, which you will term a ballot-box, and from what shall issue--what?
An assembly--an assembly in which you shall all live; an assembly which
shall be, as it were, the soul of all; a supreme and popular council,
which shall decide, judge, resolve everything; which shall say to each,
'Here terminates your right, there commences your duty: lay down your
arms!'
"And in that day you will all have one common thought, common interests,
a common destiny; you will embrace each other, and recognize each other
as children of the same blood and of the same race; that day you shall
no longer be hostile tribes--you will be a people; you will be no longer
merely Burgundy, Normandy, Brittany, Provence--you will be France!
You will no longer make appeals to war; you will do so to civilization."
If, at that period I speak of, some one had uttered these words, all men
would have cried out: "What a dreamer! what a dream! How little this
pretended prophet is acquainted with the human heart!" Yet time has gone
on and on, and we find that this dream has been realized.
Well, then, at this moment we who are assembled here say to France, to
England, to Spain, to Italy, to Russia: "A day will come, when from your
hands also the arms they have grasped shall fall. A day will come, when
war shall appear as impossible, and will be as impossible, between Paris
and London, between St. Petersburg and Berlin, as it is now between
Rouen and Amiens, between Boston and Philadelphia.
"A day will come, when you, France; you, Russia; you, Italy; you,
England; you, Germany; all of you nations of the continent, shall,
without losing your distinctive qualities and your glorious
individuality, be blended into a superior unity, and shall constitute an
European fraternity, just as Normandy, Brittany, Burgundy, Lorraine,
have been blended into France. A day will come when the only battle
field shall be the market open to commerce, and the mind open to new
ideas. A day will come when bullets and shells shall be replaced by
votes, by the universal suffrage of nations, by the arbitration of a
great sovereign senate.
Nor is it necessary for four hundred years to pass away for that day to
come. We live in a period in which a year often suffices to do the work
of a century.
Suppose that the people of Europe, instead of mistrusting each other,
entertaining jealousy of each other, hating each other, become fast
friends; suppose they say that before they are French or English or
German they are men, and that if nations form countries, human kind
forms a family. Suppose that the enormous sums spent in maintaining
armies should be spent in acts of mutual confidence. Suppose that the
millions that are lavished on hatred, were bestowed on love, given to
peace instead of war, given to labor, to intelligence, to industry, to
commerce, to navigation, to agriculture, to science, to art.
If this enormous sum were expended in this manner, know you what would
happen? The face of the world would be changed. Isthmuses would be cut
through. Railroads would cover the continents; the merchant navy of the
globe would be increased a hundredfold. There would be nowhere barren
plains nor moors nor marshes. Cities would be found where now there are
only deserts. Asia would be rescued to civilization; Africa would be
rescued to man; abundance would gush forth on every side, from every
vein of the earth at the touch of man, like the living stream from the
rock beneath the rod of Moses.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 15: By Victor Hugo, a celebrated French writer (1802-1885).]
III. SOLDIER, REST[16]
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil nor night of waking.
No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armor's clang, or war steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here
Mustering clan or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the daybreak from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,
Here's no war steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 16: By Sir Walter Scott, a Scottish novelist and poet
(1771-1832).]
IV. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM[17]
Our bugles sang truce, for the night cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain;
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track;
'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;
I heard my own mountain goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of heart.
"Stay, stay with us--rest, thou art weary and worn;"
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 17: By Thomas Campbell, a Scottish poet (1777-1844).]
V. HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE[18]
How sleep the brave who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mold,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung:
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 18: By William Collins, an English poet (1721-1759).]
EXPRESSION: Which one of these three poems requires to be read with
most spirit and enthusiasm? Which is the most pathetic? Which is
the most musical? Which calls up the most pleasing mental pictures?
Talk with your teacher about the three authors of these poems, and
learn all you can about their lives and writings.
EARLY TIMES IN NEW YORK.[19]
In those good old days of simplicity and sunshine, a passion for
cleanliness was the leading principle in domestic economy, and the
universal test of an able housewife.
The front door was never opened, except for marriages, funerals, New
Year's Day, the festival of St. Nicholas, or some such great occasion.
It was ornamented with a gorgeous brass knocker, which was curiously
wrought,--sometimes in the device of a dog, and sometimes in that of a
lion's head,--and daily burnished with such religious zeal that it was
often worn out by the very precautions taken for its preservation.
The whole house was constantly in a state of inundation, under the
discipline of mops and brooms and scrubbing brushes; and the good
housewives of those days were a kind of amphibious animal, delighting
exceedingly to be dabbling in water,--insomuch that an historian of the
day gravely tells us that many of his townswomen grew to have webbed
fingers, "like unto ducks."
The grand parlor was the _sanctum sanctorum_, where the passion for
cleaning was indulged without control. No one was permitted to enter
this sacred apartment, except the mistress and her confidential maid,
who visited it once a week for the purpose of giving it a thorough
cleaning. On these occasions they always took the precaution of leaving
their shoes at the door, and entering devoutly in their stocking feet.
After scrubbing the floor, sprinkling it with fine white sand,--which
was curiously stroked with a broom into angles and curves and
rhomboids,--after washing the windows, rubbing and polishing the
furniture, and putting a new branch of evergreens in the fireplace, the
windows were again closed to keep out the flies, and the room was kept
carefully locked, until the revolution of time brought round the weekly
cleaning day.
As to the family, they always entered in at the gate, and generally
lived in the kitchen. To have seen a numerous household assembled round
the fire, one would have imagined that he was transported to those happy
days of primeval simplicity which float before our imaginations like
golden visions.
The fireplaces were of a truly patriarchal magnitude, where the whole
family, old and young, master and servant, black and white,--nay, even
the very cat and dog,--enjoyed a community of privilege, and had each a
right to a corner. Here the old burgher would sit in perfect silence,
puffing his pipe, looking in the fire with half-shut eyes, and thinking
of nothing, for hours together; the good wife, on the opposite side,
would employ herself diligently in spinning yarn or knitting stockings.
The young folks would crowd around the hearth, listening with breathless
attention to some old crone of a negro, who was the oracle of the
family, and who, perched like a raven in a corner of the chimney, would
croak forth, for a long winter afternoon, a string of incredible stories
about New England witches, grisly ghosts, and bloody encounters among
Indians.
In those happy days, fashionable parties were generally confined to the
higher classes, or _noblesse_; that is to say, such as kept their own
cows, and drove their own wagons. The company usually assembled at three
o'clock, and went away about six, unless it was in winter time, when the
fashionable hours were a little earlier, that the ladies might reach
home before dark.
The tea table was crowned with a huge earthen dish, well stored with
slices of fat pork, fried brown, cut up into morsels, and swimming in
gravy. The company seated round the genial board, evinced their
dexterity in launching their forks at the fattest pieces in this mighty
dish,--in much the same manner that sailors harpoon porpoises at sea, or
our Indians spear salmon in the lakes.
Sometimes the table was graced with immense apple pies, or saucers full
of preserved peaches and pears; but it was always sure to boast an
enormous dish of balls of sweetened dough, fried in hog's fat and called
doughnuts or _olykoeks_, a delicious kind of cake, at present little
known in this city, except in genuine Dutch families.
The tea was served out of a majestic Delft teapot, ornamented with
paintings of fat little Dutch shepherds and shepherdesses tending
pigs,--with boats sailing in the air, and houses built in the clouds,
and sundry other ingenious Dutch fancies. The beaux distinguished
themselves by their adroitness in replenishing this pot from a huge
copper teakettle. To sweeten the beverage, a lump of sugar was laid
beside each cup, and the company alternately nibbled and sipped with
great decorum; until an improvement was introduced by a shrewd and
economic old lady, which was to suspend, by a string from the ceiling, a
large lump directly over the tea table, so that it could be swung from
mouth to mouth.
At these primitive tea parties, the utmost propriety and dignity
prevailed,--no flirting nor coquetting; no romping of young ladies; no
self-satisfied struttings of wealthy gentlemen, with their brains in
their pockets, nor amusing conceits and monkey divertisements of smart
young gentlemen, with no brains at all.
On the contrary, the young ladies seated themselves demurely in their
rush-bottomed chairs, and knit their own woolen stockings; nor ever
opened their lips, excepting to say "_Yah, Mynheer_," or "_Yah, yah,
Vrouw_," to any question that was asked them; behaving in all things
like decent, well-educated damsels. As to the gentlemen, each of them
tranquilly smoked his pipe, and seemed lost in contemplation of the blue
and white tiles with which the fireplaces were decorated; wherein sundry
passages of Scripture were piously portrayed. Tobit and his dog figured
to great advantage; Haman swung conspicuously on his gibbet; and Jonah
appeared most manfully leaping from the whale's mouth, like Harlequin
through a barrel of fire.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 19: From Diedrich Knickerbocker's, "History of New York," by
Washington Irving.]
NOTES: More than two hundred and fifty years have passed since the
"good old days" described in this selection. New York in 1660 was a
small place. It was called New Amsterdam, and its inhabitants were
chiefly Dutch people from Holland. Knickerbocker's "History of New
York" gives a delightfully humorous account of those early times.
The festival of St. Nicholas occurs on December 6, and with the
Dutch colonists was equivalent to our Christmas.
WORD STUDY: _sanctum sanctorum_, a Latin expression meaning "holy
of holies," a most sacred place.
_noblesse_, persons of high rank.
_olykoeks_ (_[)o]l´ y cooks_), doughnuts, or crullers.
_Mynheer_ (_m[=i]n h[=a]r´_), sir, Mr.
_Vrouw_ (_vrou_), madam, lady.
_Tobit_, a pious man of ancient times whose story is related in
"The Book of Tobit."
_Haman_ (_ha´ man_), the prime minister of the king of Babylon, who
was hanged on a gibbet which he had prepared for another. See "The
Book of Esther."
_Har´ le quin_, a clown well known in Italian comedy.
Look in the dictionary for: _gorgeous_, _rhomboids_, _primeval_,
_patriarchal_, _burgher_, _crone_, _porpoises_, _beverage_,
_divertisements_.
A WINTER EVENING IN OLD NEW ENGLAND
Shut in from all the world without,
We sat the clean-winged hearth about,
Content to let the north wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door,
While the red logs before us beat
The frost line back with tropic heat;
And ever, when a louder blast
Shook beam and rafter as it passed,
The merrier up its roaring draft
The great throat of the chimney laughed.
The house dog on his paws outspread
Laid to the fire his drowsy head,
The cat's dark silhouette on the wall
A couchant tiger's seemed to fall;
And, for the winter fireside meet,
Between the andirons' straddling feet
The mug of cider simmered slow,
And apples sputtered in a row.
And, close at hand, the basket stood
With nuts from brown October's woods.
What matter how the night behaved?
What matter how the north wind raved?
Blow high, blow low, not all its snow
Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow.
[Illustration: A Winter Evening in Old New England.]
THE OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING[20]
I do not know but it is that old New England holiday of Thanksgiving
which, for one of New England birth, has most of home associations tied
up with it, and most of gleeful memories. I know that they are very
present ones.
We all knew when it was coming; we all loved turkey--not Turkey on the
map, for which we cared very little after we had once bounded it--by the
Black Sea on the east, and by something else on the other sides--but
basted turkey, brown turkey, stuffed turkey. Here was richness!
We had scored off the days until we were sure, to a recitation mark,
when it was due--well into the end of November, when winds would be
blowing from the northwest, with great piles of dry leaves all down the
sides of the street and in the angles of pasture walls.
I cannot for my life conceive why any one should upset the old order of
things by marking it down a fortnight earlier. A man in the country
wants his crops well in and housed before he is ready to gush out with a
round, outspoken Thanksgiving; but everybody knows, who knows anything
about it, that the purple tops and the cow-horn turnips are, nine times
in ten, left out till the latter days of November, and husking not half
over.
We all knew, as I said, when it was coming. We had a stock of empty
flour barrels on Town-hill stuffed with leaves, and a big pole set in
the ground, and a battered tar barrel, with its bung chopped out, to put
on top of the pole. It was all to beat the last year's bonfire--and it
did. The country wagoners had made their little stoppages at the back
door. We knew what was to come of that. And if the old cook--a monstrous
fine woman, who weighed two hundred if she weighed a pound--was brusque
and wouldn't have us "round," we knew what was to come of that, too.
Such pies as hers demanded thoughtful consideration: not very large, and
baked in scalloped tins, and with such a relishy flavor to them, as on
my honor, I do not recognize in any pies of this generation....
The sermon on that Thanksgiving (and we all heard it) was long. We boys
were prepared for that too. But we couldn't treat a Thanksgiving sermon
as we would an ordinary one; we couldn't doze--there was too much ahead.
It seemed to me that the preacher made rather a merit of holding us in
check--with that basted turkey in waiting. At last, though, it came to
an end; and I believe Dick and I both joined in the doxology.
All that followed is to me now a cloud of misty and joyful expectation,
until we took our places--a score or more of cousins and kinsfolk; and
the turkey, and celery, and cranberries, and what nots, were all in
place.
Did Dick whisper to me as we went in, "Get next to me, old fellow"?
I cannot say; I have a half recollection that he did. But bless me! what
did anybody care for what Dick said?
And the old gentleman who bowed his head and said grace--there is no
forgetting him. And the little golden-haired one who sat at his
left--his pet, his idol--who lisped the thanksgiving after him, shall I
forget her, and the games of forfeit afterwards at evening that brought
her curls near to me?
These fifty years she has been gone from sight, and is dust. What an
awful tide of Thanksgivings has drifted by since she bowed her golden
locks, and clasped her hand, and murmured, "Our Father, we thank thee
for this, and for all thy bounties!"
Who else? Well, troops of cousins--good, bad, and indifferent. No man is
accountable for his cousins, I think; or if he is, the law should be
changed. If a man can't speak honestly of cousinhood, to the third or
fourth degree, what _can_ he speak honestly of? Didn't I see little Floy
(who wore pea-green silk) make a saucy grimace when I made a false cut
at that rolypoly turkey drumstick and landed it on the tablecloth?
There was that scamp Tom, too, who loosened his waistcoat before he went
into dinner. I saw him do it. Didn't he make faces at me, till he caught
a warning from Aunt Polly's uplifted finger?
[Illustration: A Thanksgiving Reunion.]
How should I forget that good, kindly Aunt Polly--very severe in her
turban, and with her meeting-house face upon her, but full of a great
wealth of bonbons and dried fruits on Saturday afternoons, in I know not
what capacious pockets; ample, too, in her jokes and in her laugh;
making that day a great maelstrom of mirth around her?
H---- sells hides now, and is as rich as Croesus, whatever that may
mean; but does he remember his venturesome foray for a little bit of
crisp roast pig that lay temptingly on the edge of the dish that day?
There was Sarah, too,--turned of seventeen, education complete, looking
down on us all--terribly learned (I know for a fact that she kept Mrs.
Hemans in her pocket); terribly self-asserting, too. If she had not
married happily, and not had a little brood about her in after years
(which she did), I think she would have made one of the most terrible
Sorosians of our time. At least that is the way I think of it now,
looking back across the basted turkey (which she ate without gravy) and
across the range of eager Thanksgiving faces.
There was Uncle Ned--no forgetting him--who had a way of patting a boy
on the head so that the patting reached clear through to the boy's
heart, and made him sure of a blessing hovering over. That was the
patting I liked. _That's_ the sort of uncle to come to a Thanksgiving
dinner--the sort that eat double filberts with you, and pay up next day
by noon with a pocketknife or a riding whip. Hurrah for Uncle Ned!
And Aunt Eliza--is there any keeping her out of mind? I never liked the
name much; but the face and the kindliness which was always ready to
cover, as well as she might, what wrong we did, and to make clear what
good we did, make me enrol her now--where she belongs evermore--among
the saints. So quiet, so gentle, so winning, making conquest of all of
us, because she never sought it; full of dignity, yet never asserting
it; queening it over all by downright kindliness of heart. What a wife
she would have made! Heigho! how we loved her, and made our boyish love
of her--a Thanksgiving!
Were there oranges? I think there were, with green spots on the
peel--lately arrived from Florida. Tom boasted that he ate four. I dare
say he told the truth--he looked peaked, and was a great deal the worse
for the dinner next day, I remember.
Was there punch, or any strong liquors? No; so far as my recollection
now goes, there was none.
Champagne?
I have a faint remembrance of a loud pop or two which set some cousinly
curls over opposite me into a nervous shake. Yet I would not like to
speak positively. Good bottled cider or pop beer may possibly account
for all the special phenomena I call to mind.
Was there coffee, and were there olives? Not to the best of my
recollection; or, if present, I lose them in the glamour of mince pies
and Marlborough puddings.
How we ever sidled away from that board when that feast was done I have
no clear conception. I am firm in the belief that thanksgiving was said
at the end, as at the beginning. I have a faint recollection of a gray
head passing out at the door, and of a fleece of golden curls beside
him, against which I jostle--not unkindly.
Dark?
Yes; I think the sun had gone down about the time when the mince pies
had faded.
Did Dick and Tom and the rest of us come sauntering in afterwards when
the rooms were empty, foraging for any little tidbits of the feast that
might be left, the tables showing only wreck under the dim light of a
solitary candle?
How we found our way with the weight of that stupendous dinner by us to
the heights of Town-hill it is hard to tell. But we did, and when our
barrel pile was fairly ablaze, we danced like young satyrs round the
flame, shouting at our very loudest when the fire caught the tar barrel
at the top, and the yellow pile of blaze threw its lurid glare over hill
and houses and town.
Afterwards I have recollection of an hour or more in a snug square
parlor, which is given over to us youngsters and our games, dimly
lighted, as was most fitting; but a fire upon the hearth flung out a red
glory on the floor and on the walls.
Was it a high old time, or did we only pretend that it was?
Didn't I know little Floy in that pea-green silk, with my hands clasped
round her waist and my eyes blinded--ever so fast? Didn't I give Dick an
awful pinch in the leg, when I lay _perdu_ under the sofa in another one
of those tremendous games? Didn't the door that led into the hall show a
little open gap from time to time--old faces peering in, looking very
kindly in the red firelight flaring on them? And didn't those we loved
best look oftenest? Don't they always?
Well, well--we were fagged at last: little Floy in a snooze before we
knew it; Dick, pretending not to be sleepy, but gaping in a prodigious
way. But the romps and the fatigue made sleep very grateful when it came
at last: yet the sleep was very broken; the turkey and the nuts had
their rights, and bred stupendous Thanksgiving dreams. What gorgeous
dreams they were, to be sure!
I seem to dream them again to-day.
Once again I see the old, revered gray head bowing in utter
thankfulness, with the hands clasped.
Once again, over the awful tide of intervening years--so full, and yet
so short--I seem to see the shimmer of _her_ golden hair--an aureole of
light blazing on the borders of boyhood: "_For this, and all thy
bounties, our Father, we thank thee._"
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 20: From "Bound Together," by Donald G. Mitchell, published by
Charles Scribner's Sons.]
A THANKSGIVING[21]
Lord, thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell--
A little house, whose humble roof
Is weatherproof--
Under the spans of which I lie
Both soft and dry,
Where thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me while I sleep.
Low is my porch as is my fate--
Both void of state--
And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor
Who hither come, and freely get
Good words or meat.
Like as my parlor, so my hall
And kitchen's small.
A little buttery, and therein
A little bin.
Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipt, unfled.
Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier
Make me a fire
Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.
Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
The pulse is thine,
And all those other bits that be
There placed by thee.
'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth
With guiltless mirth,
And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.
Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand
That soils my land,
And giv'st me for my bushel sown
Twice ten for one.
All these and better thou dost send
Me to this end,--
That I should render for my part,
A thankful heart;
Which, fired with incense, I resign
As wholly thine--
But the acceptance, that must be,
My God, by thee.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 21: By Robert Herrick, an English poet (1591-1674).]
FIRST DAYS AT WAKEFIELD[22]
_A proof that even the humblest fortune may grant happiness, which
depends not on circumstances but constitution._
The place of our retreat was in a little neighborhood consisting of
farmers, who tilled their own grounds, and were equal strangers to
opulence and poverty. As they had almost all the conveniences of life
within themselves, they seldom visited towns or cities in search of
superfluity. Remote from the polite, they still retained the primeval
simplicity of manners; and frugal by habit, they scarcely knew that
temperance was a virtue.
They wrought with cheerfulness on days of labor; but observed festivals
as intervals of idleness and pleasure. They kept up the Christmas carol,
sent true love knots on Valentine morning, ate pancakes on Shrovetide,
showed their wit on the first of April, and religiously cracked nuts on
Michaelmas Eve.
Being apprised of our approach, the whole neighborhood came out to meet
their minister, dressed in their finest clothes, and preceded by a pipe
and tabor. A feast also was provided for our reception, at which we sat
cheerfully down; and what the conversation wanted in wit was made up in
laughter.
Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a slopping bill,
sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and a prattling river
before; on one side a meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted of
about twenty acres of excellent land, having given a hundred pounds for
my predecessor's goodwill. Nothing could exceed the neatness of my
little inclosures, the elms and hedgerows appearing with inexpressible
beauty.
My house consisted of but one story, and was covered with thatch, which
gave it an air of great snugness; the walls on the inside were nicely
whitewashed, and my daughters undertook to adorn them with pictures of
their own designing. Though the same room served us for parlor and
kitchen, that only made it the warmer. Besides, as it was kept with the
utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, and coppers being well scoured, and
all disposed in bright rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably
relieved, and did not want richer furniture. There were three other
apartments,--one for my wife and me, another for our two daughters, and
the third, with two beds, for the rest of the children.
The little republic to which I gave laws was regulated in the following
manner: by sunrise we all assembled in our common apartment, the fire
being previously kindled by the servant. After we had saluted each other
with proper ceremony--for I always thought fit to keep up some
mechanical forms of good breeding, without which freedom ever destroys
friendship--we all bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us another
day.
This duty being performed, my son and I went to pursue our usual
industry abroad, while my wife and daughters employed themselves in
providing breakfast, which was always ready at a certain time. I allowed
half an hour for this meal and an hour for dinner, which time was taken
up in innocent mirth between my wife and daughters, and in philosophical
arguments between my son and me.
As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labors after it was
gone down, but returned home to the expecting family, where smiling
looks, a neat hearth, and pleasant fire were prepared for our reception.
Nor were we without guests: sometimes Farmer Flamborough, our talkative
neighbor, and often the blind piper would pay us a visit, and taste our
gooseberry wine, for the making of which we had lost neither the receipt
nor the reputation.
The night was concluded in the manner we began the morning, my youngest
boys being appointed to read the lessons of the day, and he that read
loudest, distinctest and best was to have a halfpenny on Sunday to put
in the poor's box.
When Sunday came it was indeed a day of finery, which all my sumptuary
edicts could not restrain. How well soever I fancied my lectures against
pride had conquered the vanity of my daughters, yet I still found them
secretly attached to all their former finery; they still loved laces,
ribbons, bugles, and catgut; my wife herself retained a passion for her
crimson paduasoy, because I formerly happened to say it became her.
[Illustration: The First Sunday at Wakefield.]
The first Sunday in particular their behavior served to mortify me; I
had desired my girls the preceding night to be dressed early the next
day; for I always loved to be at church a good while before the rest of
the congregation. They punctually obeyed my directions; but when we were
to assemble in the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and daughters
dressed out all in their former splendor; their hair plastered up with
pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their trains bundled up in a heap
behind, and rustling at every motion.
I could not help smiling at their vanity, particularly that of my wife,
from whom I expected more discretion. In this exigence, therefore, my
only resource was to order my son, with an important air, to call our
coach. The girls were amazed at the command; but I repeated it with more
solemnity than before.
"Surely, my dear, you jest," cried my wife; "we can walk it perfectly
well; we want no coach to carry us now."
"You mistake, child," returned I, "we do want a coach; for if we walk to
church in this trim, the very children in the parish will hoot after
us."
"Indeed," replied my wife, "I always imagined that my Charles was fond
of seeing his children neat and handsome about him."
"You may be as neat as you please," interrupted I, "and I shall love you
the better for it; but all this is not neatness, but frippery. These
rufflings and pinkings and patchings will only make us hated by all the
wives of all our neighbors. No, my children," continued I, more gravely,
"those gowns may be altered into something of a plainer cut; for finery
is very unbecoming in us, who want the means of decency. I do not know
whether such flouncing and shredding is becoming even in the rich, if we
consider, upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the
indigent world may be clothed from the trimmings of the vain."
This remonstrance had the proper effect; they went with great composure,
that very instant, to change their dress; and the next day I had the
satisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own request, employed in
cutting up their trains into Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the
two little ones; and what was still more satisfactory, the gowns seemed
improved by this curtailing.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 22: From "The Vicar of Wakefield," by Oliver Goldsmith, a
celebrated English author (1728-1774).]
EXPRESSION: In this selection and the two which follow we have
three other specimens of English prose fiction. You will observe
that they are very different in style, as well as in subject, from
the three specimens at the beginning of this book. Compare them
with one another. Reread the selections from Dickens, Thackeray,
and George Eliot, and compare them with these. Which do you like
best? Why?
DOUBTING CASTLE[23]
I. THE PILGRIMS LOSE THEIR WAY
Now I beheld in my dream that Christian and Hopeful had not journeyed
far until they came where the river and the way parted, at which they
were not a little sorry; yet they durst not go out of the way. Now the
way from the river was rough, and their feet tender by reason of their
travel; so the souls of the pilgrims were much discouraged because of
the way. Wherefore, still as they went on, they wished for a better way.
Now, a little before them, there was in the left hand of the road a
meadow, and a stile to go over into it; and that meadow is called
By-path Meadow. Then said Christian to his fellow, "If this meadow lieth
along by our wayside, let us go over into it." Then he went to the stile
to see, and behold a path lay along by the way on the other side of the
fence.
"'Tis according to my wish," said Christian; "here is the easiest going;
come, good Hopeful, and let us go over."
"But how if this path should lead us out of the way?"
"_That_ is not likely," said the other. "Look, doth it not go along by
the wayside?"
So Hopeful, being persuaded by his fellow, went after him over the
stile. When they were gone over, and were got into the path, they found
it very easy for their feet; and withal they, looking before them,
espied a man walking as they did, and his name was Vain-Confidence: so
they called after him, and asked him whither that way led.
He said, "To the Celestial Gate."
"Look," said Christian, "did not I tell you so?--by this you may see we
are right."
So they followed, and he went before them. But, behold, the night came
on, and it grew very dark; so that they who were behind lost sight of
them that went before. He, therefore, that went before--Vain-Confidence
by name--not seeing the way before him, fell into a deep pit, and was
dashed in pieces with his fall.
Now Christian and his fellow heard him fall; so they called to know the
matter. But there was none to answer, only they heard a groan.
Then said Hopeful, "Where are we now?"
Then was his fellow silent, as mistrusting that he had led him out of
the way; and now it began to rain and thunder and lightning in a most
dreadful manner, and the water rose amain, by reason of which the way of
going back was very dangerous.
Yet they adventured to go back; but it was so dark and the flood so
high, that in their going back they had like to have been drowned nine
or ten times. Neither could they, with all the skill they had, get back
again to the stile that night. Wherefore, at last lighting under a
little shelter, they sat down there until daybreak. But, being weary,
they fell asleep.
[Illustration: In the Giant's Dungeon.]
II. IN THE GIANT'S DUNGEON
Now there was, not far from the place where they lay, a castle, called
Doubting Castle, the owner whereof was Giant Despair; and it was in his
grounds they now were sleeping. Wherefore he, getting up in the morning
early, and walking up and down in his fields, caught Christian and
Hopeful asleep in his grounds. Then with a grim and surly voice, he bid
them awake, and asked them whence they were, and what they did in his
grounds.
They told him they were pilgrims, and that they had lost their way.
Then said the giant, "You have this night trespassed on me, by trampling
in and lying on my grounds, and therefore you must go along with me."
So they were forced to go, because he was stronger than they. They also
had but little to say, for they knew themselves in a fault. The giant,
therefore, drove them before him, and put them into his castle, in a
very dark dungeon.
Here, then, they lay from Wednesday morning till Saturday night, without
one bit of bread, or drop of drink, or light, or any to ask how they
did: they were, therefore, here in evil case, and were far from friends
and acquaintance.
Now Giant Despair had a wife, and her name was Diffidence. So, when he
was gone to bed, he told his wife that he had taken a couple of
prisoners, and had cast them into his dungeon for trespassing on his
grounds. Then he asked her also what he had best do to them. So she
asked him what they were, whence they came, and whither they were bound;
and he told her. Then she counseled him, that when he arose in the
morning he should beat them without mercy.
So when he arose, he getteth him a grievous crabtree cudgel, and goes
into the dungeon to them, and there first falls to rating of them as if
they were dogs, although they never gave him an unpleasant word. Then he
fell upon them, and beat them fearfully, in such sort that they were not
able to help themselves, or to turn them upon the floor. This done he
withdraws, and leaves them there to condole their misery, and to mourn
under their distress. So all that day they spent their time in nothing
but sighs and bitter lamentations.
The next night she, talking with her husband further about them, and
understanding that they were yet alive, did advise him to counsel them
to make away with themselves. So, when morning was come, he goes to them
in a surly manner as before, and perceiving them to be very sore with
the stripes that he had given them the day before, he told them that,
since they were never like to come out of that place, their only way
would be forthwith to make an end of themselves, either with knife,
halter, or poison: "for why," he said, "should you choose to live,
seeing it is attended with so much bitterness?"
But they desired him to let them go. With that he looked ugly upon them,
and, rushing to them, had doubtless made an end of them himself, but
that he fell into one of his fits, and lost for a time the use of his
hands. Wherefore he withdrew, and left them, as before, to consider what
to do.
Then did the prisoners consult between themselves, whether it was best
to take his counsel or no. But they soon resolved to reject it; for it
would be very wicked to kill themselves; and, besides, something might
soon happen to enable them to make their escape.
Well, towards evening the giant goes down to the dungeon again, to see
if his prisoners had taken his counsel; but when he came there, he found
them alive. I say, he found them alive; at which he fell into a grievous
rage, and told them that, seeing they had disobeyed his counsel, it
should be worse with them than if they had never been born.
At this they trembled greatly, and I think that Christian fell into a
swoon; but, coming a little to himself again, they renewed their
discourse about the giant's counsel, and whether yet they had best take
it or no. Now Christian again seemed for doing it, but Hopeful reminded
him of the hardships and terrors he had already gone through, and said
that they ought to bear up with patience as well as they could, and
steadily reject the giant's wicked counsel.
Now, night being come again, and the giant and his wife being in bed,
she asked him concerning the prisoners, and if they had taken his
counsel. To this he replied, "They are sturdy rogues, they choose rather
to bear all hardships than to make away themselves."
Then said she, "Take them into the castle yard to-morrow, and show them
the bones and skulls of those that thou hast already dispatched, and
make them believe, thou wilt tear them in pieces, as thou hast done
their fellows before them."
So when morning has come, the giant goes to them again, and takes them
into the castle yard, and shows them as his wife had bidden him.
"These," said he, "were pilgrims, as you are, once, and they trespassed
on my grounds, as you have done; and when I thought fit, I tore them in
pieces; and so within ten days I will do to you. Get you down to your
den again."
And with that he beat them all the way thither.
Now, when night was come, Mrs. Diffidence and her husband began to renew
their discourse of their prisoners. The old giant wondered that he could
neither by his blows nor by his counsel bring them to an end.
And with that his wife replied, "I fear," said she, "that they live in
hopes that some will come to relieve them, or that they have picklocks
about them, by the means of which they hope to escape."
"And sayest thou so, my dear?" said the giant; "I will therefore search
them in the morning."
Well, on Saturday, about midnight, they began to pray, and continued in
prayer till almost break of day.
Now a little before it was day, good Christian, as one half amazed,
brake out into a passionate speech: "What a fool am I, thus to lie in a
dungeon! I have a key in my bosom, called Promise, that will, I am
persuaded, open any lock in Doubting Castle."
Then said Hopeful, "That's good news, good brother; pluck it out of thy
bosom and try."
Then Christian pulled it out of his bosom, and began to try at the
dungeon door, whose bolt, as he turned the key, gave back, and the door
flew open with ease, and Christian and Hopeful both came out.
After that, he went to the iron gate, for that must be opened too, but
that lock went desperately hard; yet the key did open it. Then they
thrust open the gate to make their escape with speed; but that gate, as
it opened, made such a creaking, that it waked Giant Despair, who,
hastily rising to pursue his prisoners, felt his limbs to fail, for his
fits took him again, so that he could by no means go after them. Then
they went on, and came to the King's highway, again, and so were safe.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 23: From "The Pilgrim's Progress," by John Bunyan, a famous
English preacher and writer (1628-1688).]
EXPRESSION: What peculiarities do you observe in Bunyan's style of
writing? Select the three most striking passages in this story, and
read them with spirit and correct expression.
SHOOTING WITH THE LONGBOW[24]
Proclamation was made that Prince John, suddenly called by high and
peremptory public duties, held himself obliged to discontinue the
entertainments of to-morrow's festival: nevertheless, that, unwilling so
many good yeomen should depart without a trial of skill, he was pleased
to appoint them, before leaving the ground, presently to execute the
competition of archery intended for the morrow. To the best archer a
prize was to be awarded, being a bugle-horn, mounted with silver, and a
silken baldric richly ornamented with a medallion of St. Hubert, the
patron of sylvan sport.
More than thirty yeomen at first presented themselves as competitors,
several of whom were rangers and underkeepers in the royal forests of
Needwood and Charnwood. When, however, the archers understood with whom
they were to be matched, upwards of twenty withdrew themselves from the
contest, unwilling to encounter the dishonor of almost certain defeat.
The diminished list of competitors for sylvan fame still amounted to
eight. Prince John stepped from his royal seat to view more nearly the
persons of these chosen yeomen, several of whom wore the royal livery.
Having satisfied his curiosity by this investigation, he looked for the
object of his resentment, whom he observed standing on the same spot,
and with the same composed countenance which he had exhibited upon the
preceding day.
"Fellow," said Prince John, "I guessed by thy insolent babble thou wert
no true lover of the longbow, and I see thou darest not adventure thy
skill among such merry men as stand yonder."
"Under favor, sir," replied the yeoman, "I have another reason for
refraining to shoot, besides the fearing discomfiture and disgrace."
"And what is thy other reason?" said Prince John, who, for some cause
which perhaps he could not himself have explained, felt a painful
curiosity respecting this individual.
"Because," replied the woodsman, "I know not if these yeomen and I are
used to shoot at the same marks; and because, moreover, I know not how
your grace might relish the winning of a third prize by one who has
unwittingly fallen under your displeasure."
Prince John colored as he put the question, "What is thy name, yeoman?"
"Locksley," answered the yeoman.
"Then, Locksley," said Prince John, "thou shalt shoot in thy turn, when
these yeomen have displayed their skill. If thou carriest the prize, I
will add to it twenty nobles; but if thou losest it, thou shalt be
stripped of thy Lincoln green, and scourged out of the lists with
bowstrings, for a wordy and insolent braggart."
"And how if I refuse to shoot on such a wager?" said the yeoman. "Your
grace's power, supported, as it is, by so many men at arms, may indeed
easily strip and scourge me, but cannot compel me to bend or to draw my
bow."
"If thou refusest my fair proffer," said the prince, "the provost of the
lists shall cut thy bowstring, break thy bow and arrows, and expel thee
from the presence as a faint-hearted craven."
"This is no fair chance you put on me, proud prince," said the yeoman,
"to compel me to peril myself against the best archers of Leicester and
Staffordshire, under the penalty of infamy if they should overshoot me.
Nevertheless, I will obey your pleasure."
"Look to him close, men at arms," said Prince John, "his heart is
sinking; I am jealous lest he attempt to escape the trial. And do you,
good fellows, shoot boldly round; a buck and a butt of wine are ready
for your refreshment in yonder tent, when the prize is won."
A target was placed at the upper end of the southern avenue which led to
the lists. The contending archers took their station in turn, at the
bottom of the southern access; the distance between that station and the
mark allowing full distance for what was called a "shot at rovers." The
archers, having previously determined by lot their order of precedence,
were to shoot each three shafts in succession. The sports were regulated
by an officer of inferior rank, termed the provost of the games; for the
high rank of the marshals of the lists would have been held degraded had
they condescended to superintend the sports of the yeomanry.
One by one the archers, stepping forward, delivered their shafts
yeomanlike and bravely. Of twenty-four arrows shot in succession, ten
were fixed in the target, and the others ranged so near it that,
considering the distance of the mark, it was accounted good archery.
Of the ten shafts which hit the target, two within the inner ring were
shot by Hubert, a forester, who was accordingly pronounced victorious.
"Now, Locksley," said Prince John to the bold yeoman, with a bitter
smile, "wilt thou try conclusions with Hubert, or wilt thou yield up
bow, baldric, and quiver to the provost of the sports?"
"Sith it be no better," said Locksley, "I am content to try my fortune;
on condition that, when I have shot two shafts at yonder mark of
Hubert's, he shall be bound to shoot one at that which I shall propose."
"That is but fair," answered Prince John, "and it shall not be refused
thee. If thou dost beat this braggart, Hubert, I will fill the bugle
with silver pennies for thee."
"A man can but do his best," answered Hubert; "but my grandsire drew a
good longbow at Hastings, and I trust not to dishonor his memory."
The former target was now removed, and a fresh one of the same size
placed in its room. Hubert, who, as victor in the first trial of skill,
had the right to shoot first, took his aim with great deliberation, long
measuring the distance with his eye, while he held in his hand his
bended bow, with the arrow placed on the string. At length he made a
step forward, and raising the bow at the full stretch of his left arm,
till the center of grasping place was nigh level with his face, he drew
the bowstring to his ear. The arrow whistled through the air, and
lighted within the inner ring of the target, but not exactly in the
center.
"You have not allowed for the wind, Hubert," said his antagonist,
bending his bow, "or that had been a better shot."
So saying, and without showing the least anxiety to pause upon his aim,
Locksley stepped to the appointed station, and shot his arrow as
carelessly in appearance as if he had not even looked at the mark. He
was speaking almost at the instant that the shaft left the bowstring,
yet it alighted in the target two inches nearer to the white spot which
marked the center than that of Hubert.
"By the light of heaven!" said Prince John to Hubert, "an thou suffer
that runagate knave to overcome thee, thou art worthy of the gallows!"
Hubert had but one set of speech for all occasions. "An your highness
were to hang me," he said, "a man can but do his best. Nevertheless, my
grandsire drew a good bow--"
"The foul fiend on thy grandsire and all his generation!" interrupted
John. "Shoot, knave, and shoot thy best, or it shall be the worse for
thee!"
Thus exhorted, Hubert resumed his place, and, not neglecting the caution
which he had received from his adversary, he made the necessary
allowance for a very light breath of wind which had just arisen, and
shot so successfully that his arrow alighted in the very center of the
target.
"A Hubert! a Hubert!" shouted the populace, more interested in a known
person than in a stranger. "In the clout!--in the clout! A Hubert
forever!"
"Thou canst not mend that shot, Locksley," said the prince, with an
insulting smile.
"I will notch his shaft for him, however," replied Locksley. And,
letting fly his arrow with a little more precaution than before, it
lighted right upon that of his competitor, which it split to shivers.
The people who stood around were so astonished at his wonderful
dexterity, that they could not even give vent to their surprise in their
usual clamor.
"This must be the devil, and no man of flesh and blood," whispered the
yeomen to each other; "such archery was never seen since a bow was first
bent in Britain!"
"And now," said Locksley, "I will crave your grace's permission to plant
such a mark as is used in the north country, and welcome every brave
yeoman to try a shot at it."
He then turned to leave the lists. "Let your guards attend me," he said,
"if you please. I go but to cut a rod from the next willow bush."
Prince John made a signal that some attendants should follow him, in
case of his escape; but the cry of "Shame! shame!" which burst from the
multitude induced him to alter his ungenerous purpose.
Locksley returned almost instantly, with a willow wand about six feet in
length, perfectly straight, and rather thicker than a man's thumb. He
began to peel this with great composure, observing, at the same time,
that to ask a good woodsman to shoot at a target so broad as had
hitherto been used was to put shame upon his skill.
"For my own part," said he, "in the land where I was bred, men would as
soon take for their mark King Arthur's Round Table, which held sixty
knights around it.
"A child of seven years old might hit yonder target with a headless
shaft; but," he added, walking deliberately to the other end of the
lists and sticking the willow wand upright in the ground, "he that hits
that rod at fivescore yards, I call him an archer fit to bear both bow
and quiver before a king, and it were the stout King Richard himself!"
"My grandsire," said Hubert, "drew a good bow at the battle of Hastings,
and never shot at such a mark in his life; neither will I. If this
yeoman can cleave that rod, I give him the bucklers--or, rather, I yield
to the devil that is in his jerkin, and not to any human skill. A man
can but do his best, and I will not shoot where I am sure to miss. I
might as well shoot at the edge of our parson's whittle, or at a wheat
straw, or at a sunbeam, as at a twinkling white streak which I can
hardly see."
"Cowardly dog!" exclaimed Prince John.--"Sirrah Locksley, do thou shoot;
but if thou hittest such a mark, I will say thou art the first man ever
did so. However it be, thou shalt not crow over us with a mere show of
superior skill."
"'A man can but do his best!' as Hubert says," answered Locksley.
So saying, he again bent his bow, but, on the present occasion, looked
with attention to his weapon, and changed the string, which he thought
was no longer truly round, having been a little frayed by the two former
shots. He then took his aim with some deliberation, and the multitude
awaited the event in breathless silence. The archer vindicated their
opinion of his skill: his arrow split the willow rod against which it
was aimed. A jubilee of acclamations followed: and even Prince John, in
admiration of Locksley's skill, lost for an instant his dislike to his
person.
"These twenty nobles," he said, "which with the bugle thou hast fairly
won, are thine own: we will make them fifty if thou wilt take livery and
service with us as a yeoman of our bodyguard, and be near to our person;
for never did so strong a hand bend a bow, or so true an eye direct a
shaft."
"Pardon me, noble prince," said Locksley; "but I have vowed that, if
ever I take service, it should be with your royal brother, King Richard.
These twenty nobles I leave to Hubert, who has this day drawn as brave a
bow as his grandsire did at Hastings. Had his modesty not refused the
trial, he would have hit the wand as well as I."
Hubert shook his head as he received with reluctance the bounty of the
stranger; and Locksley, anxious to escape further observation, mixed
with the crowd and was seen no more.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 24: From "Ivanhoe," by Sir Walter Scott.]
EXPRESSION: Compare this selection with the two which precede it.
"Pilgrim's Progress," "The Vicar of Wakefield," and "Ivanhoe" rank
high among the world's most famous books. Notice how long ago each
was written. Talk with your teacher about Bunyan, Goldsmith, and
Scott--their lives and their writings.
A CHRISTMAS HYMN[25]
It was the calm and silent night!
Seven hundred years and fifty-three
Had Rome been growing up to might,
And now was queen of land and sea.
No sound was heard of clashing wars--
Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain;
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars
Held undisturbed their ancient reign,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago.
[Illustration]
'Twas in the calm and silent night,
The senator of haughty Rome
Impatient urged his chariot's flight,
From lordly revel rolling home;
Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell
His breast with thoughts of boundless sway;
What recked the Roman what befell
A paltry province far away,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago?
[Illustration]
Within that province far away,
Went plodding home a weary boor;
A streak of light before him lay,
Fallen through a half-shut stable door
Across his path. He paused--for naught
Told what was going on within;
How keen the stars, his only thought,--
The air how cold and calm and thin,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago!
Oh, strange indifference! low and high
Drowsed over common joys and cares;
The earth was still--but knew not why;
The world was listening unawares.
How calm a moment may precede
One that shall thrill the world forever!
To that still moment none would heed
Man's doom was linked no more to sever,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago.
[Illustration]
It is the calm and solemn night:
A thousand bells ring out and throw
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite
The darkness--charmed and holy now!
The night that erst no name had worn,
To it a happy name is given;
For in that stable lay, newborn,
The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 25: By Alfred Domett, (d[)o]m´et), an English writer
(1811-1887).]
CHRISTMAS EVE AT FEZZIWIG'S[26]
Old Fezziwig in his warehouse laid down his pen, and looked up at the
clock which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands; adjusted
his waistcoat; laughed all over himself, from his shoes to his organ of
benevolence; and called out in a comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial
voice:--
"Yo ho, there! Ebenezer! Dick!"
Ebenezer came briskly in, followed by his fellow-'prentice.
"Yo ho, my boys!" said Fezziwig. "No more work to-night. Christmas Eve,
Dick! Christmas, Ebenezer! Let's have the shutters up," cried old
Fezziwig, with a sharp clap of his hands, "before a man can say Jack
Robinson."
You wouldn't believe how those two fellows went at it! They charged into
the street with the shutters--one, two, three--had 'em in their
places--four, five, six--barred 'em and pinned 'em--seven, eight,
nine--and came back before you could have got to twelve, panting like
race horses.
"Hilli-ho!" cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from his desk, with
wonderful agility. "Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room
here! Hilli-ho, Dick! Chirrup, Ebenezer!"
Clear away? There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or
couldn't have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in
a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from
public life forevermore. The floor was swept and watered, the lamps were
trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug
and warm, and dry and bright, as any ballroom you would desire to see
upon a winter's night.
In came a fiddler with a music book, and went up to the lofty desk, and
made an orchestra of it. In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast substantial
smile. In came the three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming and lovable. In came
the six young followers, whose hearts they broke. In came all the young
men and young women employed in the business. In came the housemaid,
with her cousin the baker. In came the cook, with her brother's
particular friend the milkman. In came the boy from over the way, who
was suspected of not having enough to eat from his master. In they all
came, one after another--some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some
awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling. In they all came, anyhow and
everyhow.
Away they all went, twenty couples at once; down the middle and up
again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping; old
top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting
off again as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a
bottom one to help them!
When this result was brought about, old Fezziwig, clapping his hands to
stop the dance, cried out, "Well done!" Then there were more dances, and
there were forfeits, and more dances; and there was cake, and there was
a great piece of cold roast, and there was a great piece of cold boiled,
and there were mince pies and other delicacies. But the great effect of
the evening came after the roast and the boiled, when the fiddler,
artful dog, struck up "Sir Roger de Coverley." Then old Mr. Fezziwig
stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top couple, too, with a good
stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pair of
partners; people who were not to be trifled with--people who _would_
dance, and had no notion of walking.
But if they had been twice as many--aye, four times--old Mr. Fezziwig
would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Fezziwig. As to
_her_, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If
that's not high praise, tell me higher and I'll use it.... And when Mr.
Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all through the dance--advance and
retire, both hands to your partner, bow and curtsy, thread the needle,
and back to your place--Fezziwig "cut" so deftly that he appeared to
wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again without a stagger.
[Illustration: Christmas Eve at Fezziwig's.]
When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs.
Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the door, and
shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out,
wished him or her a Merry Christmas. When everybody had retired but the
two apprentices, they did the same to them; and thus the cheerful voices
died away and the lads were left to their beds--which were under a
counter in the back shop.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 26: From "A Christmas Carol," by Charles Dickens.]
THE CHRISTMAS HOLLY[27]
The holly! the holly! oh, twine it with bay--
Come give the holly a song;
For it helps to drive stern winter away,
With his garment so somber and long;
It peeps through the trees with its berries of red,
And its leaves of burnished green,
When the flowers and fruits have long been dead,
And not even the daisy is seen.
Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly,
That hangs over peasant and king;
While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering boughs,
To the Christmas holly we'll sing.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 27: By Eliza Cook, an English poet (1818-1889).]
EXPRESSION: Imagine that you see Mr. Fezziwig with his apprentices
preparing for the Christmas festivities. What is your opinion of
him? Now read the story, paragraph by paragraph, trying to make it
as interesting to your hearers as a real visit to Fezziwig
warehouse would have been.
THE NEW YEAR'S DINNER PARTY[28]
The Old Year being dead, the New Year came of age, which he does by
Calendar Law as soon as the breath is out of the old gentleman's body.
Nothing would serve the youth but he must give a dinner upon the
occasion, to which all the Days of the Year were invited.
The Festivals, whom he appointed as his stewards, were mightily taken
with the notion. They had been engaged time out of mind, they said, in
providing mirth and cheer for mortals below; and it was time that they
should have a taste of their bounty.
All the Days came to dinner. Covers were provided for three hundred and
sixty-five guests at the principal table; with an occasional knife and
fork at the sideboard for the Twenty-ninth of February.
I should have told you that cards of invitation had been sent out. The
carriers were the Hours--twelve as merry little whirligig footpages as
you should desire to see. They went all round, and found out the persons
invited well enough, with the exception of Easter Day, Shrove Tuesday,
and a few such Movables, who had lately shifted their quarters.
Well, they were all met at last, four Days, five Days, all sorts of
Days, and a rare din they made of it. There was nothing but "Hail!
fellow Day!" "Well met, brother Day! sister Day!" only Lady Day kept a
little on the aloof and seemed somewhat scornful. Yet some said that
Twelfth Day cut her out, for she came in a silk suit, white and gold,
like a queen on a frost-cake, all royal and glittering.
The rest came, some in green, some in white--but Lent and his family
were not yet out of mourning. Rainy Days came in dripping, and Sunshiny
Days helped them to change their stockings. Wedding Day was there in his
marriage finery. Pay Day came late, as he always does. Doomsday sent
word he might be expected.
April Fool (as my lord's jester) took upon himself to marshal the
guests. And wild work he made of it; good Days, bad Days, all were
shuffled together. He had stuck the Twenty-first of June next to the
Twenty-second of December, and the former looked like a Maypole by the
side of a marrow bone. Ash Wednesday got wedged in betwixt Christmas and
Lord Mayor's Day.
At another part of the table, Shrove Tuesday was helping the Second of
September to some broth, which courtesy the latter returned with the
delicate thigh of a pheasant. The Last of Lent was springing upon
Shrovetide's pancakes; April Fool, seeing this, told him that he did
well, for pancakes were proper to a good fry-day.
May Day, with that sweetness which is her own, made a neat speech
proposing the health of the founder. This being done, the lordly New
Year from the upper end of the table, in a cordial but somewhat lofty
tone, returned thanks.
They next fell to quibbles and conundrums. The question being proposed,
who had the greatest number of followers--the Quarter Days said there
could be no question as to that; for they had all the creditors in the
world dogging their heels. But April Fool gave it in favor of the Forty
Days before Easter; because the debtors in all cases outnumbered the
creditors, and they kept Lent all the year.
At last, dinner being ended, the Days called for their cloaks, and great
coats, and took their leaves. Lord Mayor's Day went off in a Mist as
usual; Shortest Day in a deep black Fog, which wrapped the little
gentleman all round like a hedgehog.
Two Vigils, or watchmen, saw Christmas Day safe home. Another Vigil--a
stout, sturdy patrol, called the Eve of St. Christopher--escorted Ash
Wednesday.
Longest Day set off westward in beautiful crimson and gold--the rest,
some in one fashion, some in another, took their departure.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 28: By Charles Lamb, an English essayist and humorist
(1775-1834).]
EXPRESSION: What holidays are named in this selection? What
holidays do you know about that were not present at this dinner?
Refer to the dictionary and learn about all the days here
mentioned. Select the humorous passages in this story, and tell why
you think they are humorous.
THE TOWN PUMP[29]
[SCENE.--_The corner of two principal streets. The Town Pump talking
through its nose._]
Noon, by the north clock! Noon, by the east! High noon, too, by those
hot sunbeams which fall, scarcely aslope, upon my head, and almost make
the water bubble and smoke in the trough under my nose. Truly, we public
characters have a tough time of it! And among all the town officers,
chosen at the annual meeting, where is he that sustains, for a single
year, the burden of such manifold duties as are imposed in perpetuity,
upon the Town Pump?
The title of town treasurer is rightfully mine, as guardian of the best
treasure the town has. The overseers of the poor ought to make me their
chairman since I provide bountifully for the pauper, without expense to
him that pays taxes. I am at the head of the fire department, and one of
the physicians of the board of health. As a keeper of the peace all
water drinkers confess me equal to the constable. I perform some of the
duties of the town clerk, by promulgating public notices, when they am
pasted on my front.
To speak within bounds, I am chief person of the municipality, and
exhibit, moreover, an admirable pattern to my brother officers by the
cool, steady, upright, downright, and impartial discharge of my
business, and the constancy with which I stand to my post. Summer or
winter, nobody seeks me in vain; for, all day long I am seen at the
busiest corner, just above the market, stretching out my arms to rich
and poor alike; and at night I hold a lantern over my head, to show
where I am, and to keep people out of the gutters.
At this sultry noontide, I am cupbearer to the parched populace, for
whose benefit an iron goblet is chained to my waist. Like a dram seller
on the public square, on a muster day, I cry aloud to all and sundry, in
my plainest accents, and at the very tiptop of my voice, "Here it is,
gentlemen! Here is the good liquor! Walk up, walk up, gentlemen, walk
up, walk up! Here is the superior stuff! Here is the unadulterated ale
of father Adam! better than cognac, Hollands, Jamaica, strong beer, or
wine of any price; here it is by the hogshead or the single glass, and
not a cent to pay. Walk up, gentlemen, walk up, and help yourselves!"
It were a pity if all this outcry should draw no customers. Here they
come. A hot day, gentlemen. Quaff and away again, so as to keep
yourselves in a nice, cool sweat. You, my friend, will need another
cupful to wash the dust out of your throat, if it be as thick there as
it is on your cowhide shoes. I see that you have trudged half a score of
miles to-day, and, like a wise man, have passed by the taverns, and
stopped at the running brooks and well curbs. Otherwise, betwixt heat
without and fire within, you would have been burnt to a cinder, or
melted down to nothing at all--in the fashion of a jellyfish.
Drink, and make room for that other fellow, who seeks my aid to quench
the fiery fever of last night's potations, which he drained from no cup
of mine. Welcome, most rubicund sir! You and I have been strangers
hitherto; nor, to confess the truth, will my nose be anxious for a
closer intimacy till the fumes of your breath be a little less potent.
Mercy on you, man! The water absolutely hisses down your red-hot gullet,
and is converted quite into steam in the miniature Tophet, which you
mistake for a stomach. Fill again, and tell me, on the word of an honest
toper, did you ever, in cellar, tavern, or any other kind of dramshop,
spend the price of your children's food for a swig half so delicious?
Now, for the first time these ten years, you know the flavor of cold
water. Good-by; and whenever you are thirsty, recollect that I keep a
constant supply at the old stand.
Who next? Oh, my little friend, you are just let loose from school, and
come hither to scrub your blooming face, and drown the memory of certain
taps of the ferule, and other schoolboy troubles, in a draft from the
Town Pump. Take it, pure as the current of your young life; take it, and
may your heart and tongue never be scorched with a fiercer thirst than
now.
[Illustration: The Town Pump.]
There, my dear child, put down the cup, and yield your place to this
elderly gentleman, who treads so tenderly over the paving stones that I
suspect he is afraid of breaking them. What! he limps by without so much
as thanking me, as if my hospitable offers were meant only for people
who have no wine cellars.
Well, well, sir, no harm done, I hope! Go, draw the cork, tip the
decanter; but when your great toe shall set you a-roaring, it will be no
affair of mine. If gentlemen love the pleasant titillation of the gout,
it is all one to the Town Pump. This thirsty dog, with his red tongue
lolling out, does not scorn my hospitality, but stands on his hind legs
and laps eagerly out of the trough. See how lightly he capers away
again! Jowler, did your worship ever have the gout?
Your pardon, good people! I must interrupt my stream of eloquence, and
spout forth a stream of water, to replenish the trough for this teamster
and his two yoke of oxen, who have come all the way from Staunton, or
somewhere along that way. No part of my business gives me more pleasure
than the watering of cattle. Look! how rapidly they lower the watermark
on the sides of the trough, till their capacious stomachs are moistened
with a gallon or two apiece, and they can afford time to breathe, with
sighs of calm enjoyment! Now they roll their quiet eyes around the brim
of their monstrous drinking vessel. An ox is your true toper.
I hold myself the grand reformer of the age. From the Town Pump, as from
other sources of water supply, must flow the stream that will cleanse
our earth of a vast portion of the crime and anguish which have gushed
from the fiery fountains of the still. In this mighty enterprise, the
cow shall be my great confederate. Milk and water!
Ahem! Dry work this speechifying, especially to all unpracticed orators.
I never conceived, till now, what toil the temperance lecturers undergo
for my sake. Do, some kind Christian, pump a stroke or two, just to wet
my whistle. Thank you, sir. But to proceed.
The Town Pump and the Cow! Such is the glorious partnership that shall
finally monopolize the whole business of quenching thirst. Blessed
consummation! Then Poverty shall pass away from the land, finding no
hovel so wretched where her squalid form may shelter itself. Then
Disease, for lack of other victims, shall gnaw his own heart and die.
Then Sin, if she do not die, shall lose half her strength.
Then there will be no war of households. The husband and the wife,
drinking deep of peaceful joy, a calm bliss of temperate affections,
shall pass hand in hand through life, and lie down, not reluctantly, at
its protracted close. To them the past will be no turmoil of mad dreams,
nor the future an eternity of such moments as follow the delirium of a
drunkard. Their dead faces shall express what their spirits were, and
are to be, by a lingering smile of memory and hope.
Drink, then, and be refreshed! The water is as pure and cold as when it
slaked the thirst of the red hunter, and flowed beneath the aged bough,
though now this gem of the wilderness is treasured under these hot
stones, where no shadow falls but from the brick buildings. But still is
this fountain the source of health, peace, and happiness, and I behold,
with certainty and joy, the approach of the period when the virtues of
cold water, too little valued since our father's days, will be fully
appreciated and recognized by all.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 29: By Nathaniel Hawthorne, an American writer of romances and
short stories (1804-1864).]
EXPRESSION: Read this selection again and again until you
understand it clearly and appreciate its rare charm. Study each
paragraph separately, observing how the topic of each is developed.
Select the expressions which are the most pleasing to you. Tell why
each pleases.
Did you ever see a town pump? In the cities and larger towns, what
has taken its place? Can we imagine a hydrant or a water faucet
talking as this town pump did? If Hawthorne were writing to-day,
would he represent the town pump as the "chief person of the
municipality"? Discuss this question fully.
Talk with your teacher about the life and works of the author of
this selection. If you have access to any of his books, bring them
to the class and read selections from them. Compare the style of
this story with that of the selection from Dickens, page 22; or
from Thackeray, page 27; or from Goldsmith, page 94.
WORD STUDY: Refer to the dictionary for the pronunciation and
meaning of: _perpetuity_, _constable_, _municipality_, _cognac_,
_quaff_, _rubicund_, _Tophet_, _decanter_, _titillation_,
_capacious_.
COME UP FROM THE FIELDS, FATHER[30]
Come up from the fields, father; here's a letter from our Pete,
And come to the front door, mother; here's a letter from thy dear son.
Lo, 'tis autumn;
Lo, where the fields, deeper green, yellower and redder,
Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages, with leaves fluttering in the moderate
wind;
Where apples ripe in the orchards hang, and grapes on the trellised
vines,
(Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?
Smell you the buckwheat, where the bees were lately buzzing?)
Above all, lo! the sky so calm, so transparent after the rain, and with
wondrous clouds;
Below, too, all calm, all vital and beautiful,--and the farm prospers
well.
Down in the fields all prospers well;
But now from the fields come, father,--come at the daughter's call;
And come to the entry, mother,--to the front door come, right away.
Fast as she can she hurries,--something ominous,--her steps trembling;
She does not tarry to smooth her white hair, nor adjust her cap.
Open the envelope quickly;
Oh, this is not our son's writing, yet his name is signed!
Oh, a strange hand writes for our dear son--O stricken mother's soul!
All swims before her eyes,--flashes with black,--she catches the main
words only;
Sentences broken,--_gunshot wound in the breast_--_cavalry skirmish,
taken to hospital,
At present low, but will soon be better._
Ah! now the single figure to me
Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio, with all its cities and farms,
Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint,
By the jamb of a door leans.
_Grieve not so, dear mother_ (the just grown daughter speaks through her
sobs;
The little sisters huddle around, speechless and dismayed).
_See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better._
Alas, poor boy! he will never be better (nor, maybe, needs to be better,
that brave and simple soul).
While they stand at home at the door he is dead already,
The only son is dead.
[Illustration: "Come up from the fields, father."]
But the mother needs to be better;
She, with thin form, presently dressed in black;
By day her meals untouched,--then at night fitfully sleeping, often
waking,
In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing,
Oh, that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life, escape and
withdraw,
To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son!
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 30: By Walt Whitman, an American poet (1819-1892).]
EXPRESSION: This poem is descriptive of an incident which occurred
during the Civil War. There were many such incidents, both in the
North and in the South. Read the selection silently to understand
its full meaning. Who are the persons pictured to your imagination
after reading it? Describe the place and the time.
Now read the poem aloud, giving full expression to its pathetic
meaning. Select the most striking descriptive passage and read it.
Select the stanza which seems to you the most touching, and read
it.
Study now the peculiarities of the poem. Do the lines rime? Are
they of similar length? What can you say about the meter?
Compare this poem with the two gems from Browning, pages 38 and 41.
Compare it with the selection from Longfellow, page 54; with that
from Lanier, page 66. How does it differ from any or all of these?
What is poetry? Name three great American poets; three great
English poets.
THE ADDRESS AT GETTYSBURG[31]
Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth upon this
continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the
proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a
great civil war, testing whether that nation--or any nation so conceived
and so dedicated--can long endure.
We are met on a great battle field of that war. We have come to dedicate
a portion of that field as the final resting place for those who here
gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting
and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we cannot
dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow, this ground. The brave
men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above
our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note nor long
remember what we say here; but it can never forget what they did here.
It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished
work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is
rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before
us;--that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that
cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion;--that we
here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that
this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that
government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not
perish from the earth.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 31: By Abraham Lincoln, at the dedication of the National
Cemetery, 1863.]
ODE TO THE CONFEDERATE DEAD[32]
Sleep sweetly in your humble graves,
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause;
Though yet no marble column craves
The pilgrim here to pause.
In seeds of laurel in the earth
The blossom of your fame is blown,
And somewhere, waiting for its birth,
The shaft is in the stone.
Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years
Which keep in trust your storied tombs,
Behold! Your sisters bring their tears
And these memorial blooms.
Small tribute! but your shades will smile
More proudly on these wreathes to-day,
Than when some cannon-molded pile
Shall overlook this bay.
Stoop, angels, hither from the skies!
There is no holier spot of ground
Than where defeated valor lies,
By mourning beauty crowned.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 32: By Henry Timrod, an American poet (1829-1867).]
THE CHARIOT RACE[33]
Orestes? He is dead. I will tell all as it happened.
He journeyed forth to attend the great games which Hellas counts her
pride, to join the Delphic contests. There he heard the herald's voice,
with loud and clear command, proclaim, as coming first, the chariot
race, and so he entered, radiant, every eye admiring as he passed. And
in the race he equaled all the promise of his form in those his rounds,
and so with noblest prize of conquest left the ground.
Summing up in fewest words what many scarce could tell, I know of none
in strength and act like him. And having won the prize in all the
fivefold forms of race which the umpires had proclaimed, he then was
hailed, proclaimed an Argive, and his name Orestes, the son of mighty
Agamemnon, who once led Hellas's glorious host.
So far, well. But when a god will injure, none can escape, strong though
he be. For lo! another day, when, as the sun was rising, came the race
swift-footed of the chariot and the horse, he entered the contest with
many charioteers. One was an Achæan, one was from Sparta, two were from
Libya with four-horsed chariots, and Orestes with swift Thessalian mares
came as the fifth. A sixth, with bright bay colts, came from Ætolia; the
seventh was born in far Magnesia; the eighth was an Ænian with white
horses; the ninth was from Athens, the city built by the gods; the tenth
and last was a Boeotian.
[Illustration: The Chariot Race.]
And so they stood, their cars in order as the umpires had decided by
lot. Then, with sound of brazen trumpet, they started.
All cheering their steeds at the same moment, they shook the reins, and
at once the course was filled with the clash and din of rattling
chariots, and the dust rose high. All were now commingled, each striving
to pass the hubs of his neighbors' wheels. Hard and hot were the horses'
breathings, and their backs and the chariot wheels were white with foam.
Each charioteer, when he came to the place where the last stone marks
the course's goal, turned the corner sharply, letting go the right-hand
trace horse and pulling the nearer in. And so, at first, the chariots
kept their course; but, at length, the Ænian's unbroken colts, just as
they finished their sixth or seventh round, turned headlong back and
dashed at full speed against the chariot wheels of those who were
following. Then with tremendous uproar, each crashed on the other, they
fell overturned, and Crissa's broad plain was filled with wreck of
chariots.
The man from Athens, skilled and wise as a charioteer, saw the mischief
in time, turned his steeds aside, and escaped the whirling, raging surge
of man and horse. Last of all, Orestes came, holding his horses in
check, and waiting for the end. But when he saw the Athenian, his only
rival left, he urged his colts forward, shaking the reins and speeding
onward. And now the twain continued the race, their steeds sometimes
head to head, sometimes one gaining ground, sometimes the other; and so
all the other rounds were passed in safety.
Upright in his chariot still stood the ill-starred hero. Then, just as
his team was turning, he let loose the left rein unawares, and struck
the farthest pillar, breaking the spokes right at his axles' center.
Slipping out of his chariot, he was dragged along, with reins
dissevered. His frightened colts tore headlong through the midst of the
field; and the people, seeing him in his desperate plight, bewailed him
greatly--so young, so noble, so unfortunate, now hurled upon the ground,
helpless, lifeless.
The charioteers, scarcely able to restrain the rushing steeds, freed the
poor broken body--so mangled that not one of all his friends would have
known whose it was. They built a pyre and burned it; and now they bear
hither, in a poor urn of bronze, the sad ashes of that mighty form--that
so Orestes may have his tomb in his fatherland.
Such is my tale, full sad to hear; but to me who saw this accident,
nothing can ever be more sorrowful.
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 33: Translated from the "Electra" of Sophocles, written about
450 years before Christ. The narrative is supposed to have been related
by the friend and attendant of the hero, Orestes.]
THE COLISEUM AT MIDNIGHT[34]
I crossed the Forum to the foot of the Palatine, and, ascending the Via
Sacra, passed beneath the Arch of Titus. From this point I saw below me
the gigantic outline of the Coliseum, like a cloud resting upon the
earth.
As I descended the hillside, it grew more broad and high,--more definite
in its form, and yet more grand in its dimensions,--till, from the vale
in which it stands encompassed by three of the Seven Hills of Rome, the
majestic ruin in all its solitary grandeur "swelled vast to heaven."
A single sentinel was pacing to and fro beneath the arched gateway which
leads to the interior, and his measured footsteps were the only sound
that broke the breathless silence of night.
What a contrast with the scene which that same midnight hour presented,
when in Domitian's time the eager populace began to gather at the gates,
impatient for the morning sports! Nor was the contrast within less
striking. Silence, and the quiet moonbeams, and the broad, deep shadow
of the ruined wall!
Where now were the senators of Rome, her matrons, and her virgins? Where
was the ferocious populace that rent the air with shouts, when, in the
hundred holidays that marked the dedication of this imperial slaughter
house, five thousand wild beasts from the Libyan deserts and the forests
of Anatolia made the arena sick with blood?
Where were the Christian martyrs that died with prayers upon their lips,
amid the jeers and imprecations of their fellow men? Where were the
barbarian gladiators, brought forth to the festival of blood, and
"butchered to make a Roman holiday"?
The awful silence answered, "They are mine!" The dust beneath me
answered, "They are mine!"
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 34: From "Outre Mer," by Henry W. Longfellow.]
EXPRESSION: Learn all you can about the Coliseum. When was it
built? by whom? For what was it used?
WORD STUDY: _Forum_, _Palatine_, _Via Sacra_, _Titus_, _Domitian_,
_Libyan_, _Anatolia_.
[Illustration]
THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE[35]
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it--ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened, without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,--
Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
_Georgius Secundus_ was then alive,--
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.
Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always _somewhere_ a weakest spot,--
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,--lurking still,
Find it somewhere, you must and will,--
Above or below, or within or without,--
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise _breaks down_, but doesn't _wear out_.
But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell _yeou_,")
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
It should be so built that it _couldn'_ break daown:
"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."
[Illustration: The Deacon's Masterpiece.]
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees;
The panels of white wood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"
Last of its timber,--they couldn't sell 'em,
Never an ax had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin, too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he "put her through."--
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew."
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren--where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day!
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED,--it came and found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound,
Eighteen hundred increased by ten,--
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came,--
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then come fifty and FIFTY-FIVE.
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it,--You're welcome.--No extra charge.)
FIRST OF NOVEMBER,--the Earthquake day.--
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There couldn't be,--for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn't a chance for one to start,
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less nor more,
And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub _encore_.
And yet, as a _whole_, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be _worn out_!
[Illustration]
First of November, Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson.--Off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday's text,--
Had got to _fifthly_, and stopped perplexed
At what the--Moses--was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'house on the hill.
--First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,--
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'house clock,--
Just the hour of the earthquake shock!
--What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground.
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,--
All at once, and nothing first,--
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 35: From "The Autocrat or the Breakfast Table," by Oliver
Wendell Holmes, a noted American author and physician (1809--1894).]
EXPRESSION: Read the selection silently to appreciate its humor.
Now read it aloud with careful attention to naturalness of
expression. Study the historical allusions--"Georgius Secundus,"
"Lisbon town," "Braddock's army," "the Earthquake day," etc.
Read again the passages in which dialect expressions occur. Try to
speak these passages as the author intended them to be spoken.
Select the passages which appeal most strongly to your sense of
humor. Read them in such manner as to make their humorous quality
thoroughly appreciable to those who listen to you.
Now study the selection as a poem, comparing it with several
typical poems which you have already studied. Remembering your
definition of poetry (page 138), what is the real poetical value of
this delightful composition? Is it a true poem? Find some other
poems written by Dr. Holmes. Bring them to the class and read them
aloud.
Talk with your teacher about the life of Dr. Holmes and about his
prose and poetical works. As a poet, how does he compare with
Longfellow? with Whittier? with Walt Whitman? with Browning?
DOGS AND CATS[36]
Most people agree that the dog has intelligence, a heart, and possibly a
soul; on the other hand, they declare that the cat is a traitor, a
deceiver, an ingrate, a thief. How many persons have I heard say: "Oh, I
can't bear a cat! The cat has no love for its master; it cares only for
the house. I had one once, for I was living in the country, where there
were mice. One day the cook left on the kitchen table a chicken she had
just prepared for cooking; in came the cat, and carried it off, and we
never saw a morsel of it. Oh, I hate cats; I will never have one."
True, the cat is unpopular. Her reputation is bad, and she makes no
effort to improve the general opinion which people have of her. She
cares as little about your opinion as does the Sultan of Turkey.
And--must I confess--this is the very reason I love her.
In this world, no one can long be indifferent to things, whether trivial
or serious--if, indeed, anything is serious. Hence, every person must,
sooner or later, declare himself on the subjects of dogs and cats.
Well, then! I love cats.
Ah, how many times people have said to me, "What! do you love cats?"
"Certainly."
"Well, don't you love dogs better?"
"No, I prefer cats every time."
"Oh, that's very queer!"
The truth is, I would rather have neither cat nor dog. But when I am
obliged to live with one of these beings, I always choose the cat. I
will tell you why.
The cat seems to me to have the manners most necessary to good society.
In her early youth she has all the graces, all the gentleness, all the
unexpectedness that the most artistic imagination could desire. She is
smart; she never loses herself. She is prudent, going everywhere,
looking into everything, breaking nothing.
The cat steals fresh mutton just as the dog steals it, but, unlike the
dog, she takes no delight in carrion. She is fastidiously clean--and in
this respect, she might well be imitated by many of her detractors. She
washes her face, and in so doing foretells the weather into the bargain.
You may please yourself by putting a ribbon around her neck, but never a
collar; she cannot be enslaved.
In short, the cat is a dignified, proud, disdainful animal. She defies
advances and tolerates no insults. She abandons the house in which she
is not treated according to her merits. She is, in both origin and
character, a true aristocrat, while the dog is and always will be, a
mere vulgar parvenu.
The only serious argument that can be urged against the cat is that she
destroys the birds, not caring whether they are sparrows or
nightingales. If the dog does less, it is because of his stupidity and
clumsiness, not because he is above such business. He also runs after
the birds; but his foolish barking warns them of his coming, and as they
fly away he can only watch them with open mouth and drooping tail.
The dog submits himself to the slavery of the collar in order to be
taught the art of circumventing rabbits and pigeons--and this not for
his own profit, but for the pleasure of his master, the hunter. Foolish,
foolish fellow! An animal himself, he delights in persecuting other
animals at the command of the man who beats him.
But the cat, when she catches a bird, has a good excuse for her
cruelty--she catches it only to eat it herself. Shall she be slandered
for such an act? Before condemning her, men may well think of their own
shortcomings. They will find among themselves, as well as in the race of
cats, many individuals who have claws and often use them for the
destruction of those who are gifted with wings.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 36: Translated from Alexandre Dumas, a noted French novelist
(1802-1870).]
EXPRESSION: In what does the humor of this selection consist? Read
aloud and with expression the passages which appeal to you as the
most enjoyable. Do you agree with all the statements made by the
author? Read these with which you disagree, and then give reasons
for your disagreement.
THE OWL CRITIC[37]
"Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop;
The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop;
The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading
The _Daily_, the _Herald_, the _Post_, little heeding
The young man who blurted out such a blunt question;
Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion;
And the barber kept on shaving.
"Don't you see, Mister Brown,"
Cried the youth, with a frown,
"How wrong the whole thing is,
How preposterous each wing is,
How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is--
In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis?
I make no apology;
I've learned owl-eology,
I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections,
And cannot be blinded to any deflections
Arising from unskillful fingers that fail
To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.
Mister Brown! Mister Brown!
Do take that bird down,
Or you'll soon be the laughingstock all over town!"
And the barber kept on shaving.
[Illustration: The Owl Critic.]
"I've _studied_ owls,
And other night fowls,
And I tell you
What I know to be true:
An owl cannot roost
With his limbs so unloosed;
No owl in this world
Ever had his claws curled,
Ever had his legs slanted,
Ever had his bill canted,
Ever had his neck screwed
Into that attitude.
He can't _do_ it, because
'Tis against all bird laws.
Anatomy teaches,
Ornithology preaches,
An owl has a toe
That _can't_ turn out so!
I've made the white owl my study for years,
And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!
Mister Brown, I'm amazed
You should be so gone crazed
As to put up a bird
In that posture absurd!
To _look_ at that owl really brings on a dizziness;
The man who stuffed _him_ don't half know his business!"
And the barber kept on shaving.
"Examine those eyes.
I'm filled with surprise
Taxidermists should pass
Off on you such poor glass;
So unnatural they seem
They'd make Audubon scream,
And John Burroughs laugh
To encounter such chaff.
Do take that bird down:
Have him stuffed again, Brown!"
And the barber kept on shaving.
"With some sawdust and bark
I could stuff in the dark
An owl better than that.
I could make an old hat
Look more like an owl than that horrid fowl
Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather.
In fact, about _him_ there's not one natural feather."
Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch,
The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch,
Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic
(Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic,
And then fairly hooted, as if he should say,
"Your learning's at fault _this_ time, anyway;
Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.
I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good day!"
And the barber kept on shaving.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 37: By James T. Fields, an American publisher and author
(1817-1881).]
MRS. CAUDLE'S UMBRELLA LECTURE[38]
Bah! That's the third umbrella gone since Christmas. What were you to
do? Why, let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I'm very certain there
was nothing about him that could spoil. Take cold? Indeed! He doesn't
look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd better have taken
cold than taken our umbrella. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say,
DO YOU HEAR THE RAIN?
Pooh! don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle. Don't insult me. He return the
umbrella? Anybody would think you were born yesterday. As if anybody
ever did return an umbrella!
I should like to know how the children are to go to school to-morrow.
They shan't go through such weather, I'm determined. No! they shall stay
at home and never learn anything--the blessed creatures--sooner than go
and get wet. And when they grow up, I wonder whom they'll have to thank
for knowing nothing--who, indeed, but their father?
But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes! I know very well. I was
going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow--you knew that--and you did
it on purpose. Don't tell me; you hate to have me to go there, and take
every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle.
No, sir; if it comes down in bucketfuls I'll go all the more.
No! and I won't have a cab! Where do you think the money's to come from?
You've got nice, high notions at that club of yours. A cab, indeed! Cost
me sixteen pence at least--sixteen pence?--two-and-eight-pence, for
there's back again! Cabs, indeed! I should like to know who is to pay
for them! I can't pay for them, and I'm sure you can't if you go on as
you do; throwing away your property and beggaring your children, buying
umbrellas.
Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, DO YOU HEAR IT? But I don't
care--I'll go to mother's to-morrow, I will; and what's more, I'll walk
every step of the way; and you know that will give me my death. Don't
call me a foolish woman; it's you that's the foolish man. You know I
can't wear clogs; and with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give me a
cold--it always does. But what do you care for that? Nothing at all. I
may be laid up for what you care, as I dare say I shall--and a pretty
doctor's bill there'll be. I hope there will! It will teach you to lend
your umbrella again. I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death; and that's
what you lent your umbrella for. Of course!
Nice clothes I shall get, too, traipsing through weather like this. My
gown and bonnet will be spoiled quite. Needn't I wear them, then?
Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I shall wear them. No, sir; I'm not going out a
dowdy to please you or anybody else. Gracious knows, it isn't often I
step over the threshold; indeed, I might as well be a slave at
once--better, I should say. But when I go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose to
go as a lady.
Ugh! I look forward with dread for to-morrow. How I'm to go to mother's
I'm sure I can't tell. But, if I die, I'll go. No, sir; I won't _borrow_
an umbrella.
No; and you shan't _buy_ one. Mr. Caudle, if you bring home another
umbrella, I'll throw it into the street. Ha! it was only last week I had
a new nozzle put to that umbrella. I'm sure if I'd known as much as I do
now, it might have gone without one, for all of me.
The children, too, dear things, they'll be sopping wet; for they shan't
stay at home; they shan't lose their learning; it's all their father
will leave them, I'm sure. But they shall go to school. Don't tell me I
said they shouldn't; you are so aggravating, Caudle, you'd spoil the
temper of an angel; they shall go to school; mark that! And if they get
their deaths of cold, it's not my fault. I didn't lend the umbrella.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 38: By Douglas William Jerrold, an English humorous writer
(1803-1857).]
NOTE: Which of the various specimens of humor here presented do you
enjoy most? Give reasons.
THE DARK DAY IN CONNECTICUT[39]
'Twas on a Mayday of the far old year,
Seventeen hundred eighty, that there fell
Over the bloom and sweet life of the spring,
Over the fresh earth and the heaven of noon,
A horror of great darkness, like the night
In day of which the Norland sagas tell,--
The Twilight of the Gods....
Birds ceased to sing, and all the barnyard fowls
Roosted; the cattle at the pasture bars
Lowed, and looked homeward; bats on leathern wings
Flitted abroad; the sounds of labor died;
Men prayed, and women wept; all ears grew sharp
To hear the doom blast of the trumpet shatter
The black sky, that the dreadful face of Christ
Might look from the rent clouds, not as he looked
A loving guest at Bethany, but stern
As Justice and inexorable Law.
Meanwhile in the old statehouse, dim as ghosts,
Sat the lawgivers of Connecticut,
Trembling beneath their legislative robes.
"It is the Lord's Great Day! Let us adjourn,"
Some said; and then as if with one accord
All eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport.
[Illustration: The Dark Day In Connecticut.]
He rose, slow cleaving with his steady voice
The intolerable hush. "This well may be
The Day of Judgment which the world awaits;
But be it so or not, I only know
My present duty, and my Lord's command
To occupy till he come. So at the post
Where he hath set me in his providence,
I choose, for one, to meet him face to face,--
No faithless servant frightened from my task,
But ready when the Lord of the harvest calls;
And therefore, with all reverence, I would say,
Let God do his work, we will see to ours.--
Bring in the candles!" And they brought them in.
Then, by the flaring lights the Speaker read,
Albeit with husky voice and shaking hands,
An act to amend an act to regulate
The shad and alewive fisheries. Whereupon
Wisely and well spake Abraham Davenport,
Straight to the question, with no figures of speech
Save the ten Arab signs, yet not without
The shrewd, dry humor natural to the man--
His awestruck colleagues listening all the while,
Between the pauses of his argument,
To hear the thunder of the wrath of God
Break from the hollow trumpet of the cloud.
And there he stands in memory to this day,
Erect, self-poised, a rugged face, half seen
Against the background of unnatural dark,
A witness to the ages as they pass,
That simple duty hath no place for fear.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 39: From "Abraham Davenport," by John Greenleaf Whittier.]
TWO INTERESTING LETTERS
I. COLUMBUS TO THE LORD TREASURER OF SPAIN
BARCELONA, 1493.
TO LORD RAPHAEL SANCHEZ:--
Knowing that it will afford you pleasure to learn that I have brought my
undertaking to a successful termination, I have decided upon writing you
this letter to acquaint you with all the events which have occurred in
my voyage, and the discoveries which have resulted from it.
[Illustration]
Thirty-three days after my departure from Cadiz I reached the Indian
sea, where I discovered many islands, thickly peopled, of which I took
possession without resistance in the name of our most illustrious
monarchs, by public proclamation and with unfurled banners. To the first
of these islands, which is called by the Indians Guanahani, I gave the
name of the blessed Saviour, relying upon whose protection I had reached
this as well as the other islands.
As soon as we arrived at that, which as I have said was named Juana, I
proceeded along its coast a short distance westward, and found it to be
so large and apparently without termination, that I could not suppose it
to be an island, but the continental province of Cathay.
In the meantime I had learned from some Indians whom I had seized, that
the country was certainly an island; and therefore I sailed toward the
east, coasting to the distance of three hundred and twenty-two miles,
which brought us to the extremity of it; from this point I saw lying
eastwards another island, fifty-four miles distant from Juana, to which
I gave the name Española.
All these islands are very beautiful, and distinguished by a diversity
of scenery; they are filled with a great variety of trees of immense
height, and which I believe to retain their foliage in all seasons; for
when I saw them they were as verdant and luxurious as they usually are
in Spain in the month of May,--some of them were blossoming, some
bearing fruit, and all flourishing in the greatest perfection, according
to their respective stages of growth, and the nature and quality of
each; yet the islands are not so thickly wooded as to be impassable. The
nightingale and various birds were singing in countless numbers, and
that in November, the month in which I arrived there.
The inhabitants are very simple and honest, and exceedingly liberal with
all they have; none of them refusing anything he may possess when he is
asked for it, but on the contrary inviting us to ask them. They exhibit
great love toward all others in preference to themselves: they also give
objects of great value for trifles, and content themselves with very
little or nothing in return.
I, however, forbade that these trifles and articles of no value (such as
pieces of dishes, plates, and glass, keys, and leather straps) should be
given to them, although, if they could obtain them, they imagined
themselves to be possessed of the most beautiful trinkets in the world.
It even happened that a sailor received for a leather strap as much gold
as was worth three golden nobles, and for things of more trifling value
offered by our men, the Indian would give whatever the seller required.
On my arrival I had taken some Indians by force from the first island
that I came to, in order that they might learn our language. These men
are still traveling with me, and although they have been with us now a
long time, they continue to entertain the idea that I have descended
from heaven; and on our arrival at any new place they published this,
crying out immediately with a loud voice to the other Indians, "Come,
come and look upon beings of a celestial race": upon which both men and
women, children and adults, young men and old, when they got rid of the
fear they at first entertained, would come out in throngs, crowding the
roads to see us, some bringing food, others drink, with astonishing
affection and kindness.
Although all I have related may appear to be wonderful and unheard of,
yet the results of my voyage would have been more astonishing if I had
had at my disposal such ships as I required. But these great and
marvelous results are not to be attributed to any merit of mine, but to
the holy Christian faith, and to the piety and religion of our
Sovereigns; for that which the unaided intellect of man could not
compass, the spirit of God has granted to human exertions, for God is
wont to hear the prayers of his servants who love his precepts even to
the performance of apparent impossibilities.
Thus it has happened to me in the present instance, who have
accomplished a task to which the powers of mortal men had never hitherto
attained; for if there have been those who have anywhere written or
spoken of these islands, they have done so with doubts and conjectures,
and no one has ever asserted that he has seen them, on which account
their writings have been looked upon as little else than fables.
Therefore let the king and queen, our princes and their most happy
kingdoms, and all the other provinces of Christendom, render thanks to
our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, who has granted us so great a victory
and such prosperity.
CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS.
EXPRESSION: In connection with this letter, read again the story of
the discovery as narrated by Washington Irving, page 43. In what
respect do the two accounts differ?
II. GOVERNOR WINSLOW TO A FRIEND IN ENGLAND
DEAR FRIEND,--
Although I received no letter from you by this ship, yet forasmuch as I
know you expect the performance of my promise, which was to write to you
truly and faithfully of all things, I have therefore, at this time, sent
unto you accordingly, referring you for further satisfaction to our more
large relations.
[Illustration]
You shall understand that in this little time that a few of us have been
here, we have built seven dwelling houses and four for the use of the
plantation, and have made preparation for divers others.
We set the last spring some twenty acres of Indian corn, and sowed some
six acres of barley and pease; and according to the manner of the
Indians, we manured our ground with herrings, or rather shads, which we
have in great abundance, and take with great ease at our doors.
Our corn did prove well; and God be praised, we had a good increase of
Indian corn, and our barley indifferent good, but our pease not worth
the gathering, for we feared they were too late sown. They came up very
well, and blossomed; but the sun parched them in the blossom.
Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, that
so we might, after a special manner, rejoice together after we had
gathered the fruit of our labors. They four, in one day, killed as much
fowl as with a little help beside, served the company almost a week. At
which time, amongst other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of
the Indians coming among us, and among the rest their greatest king,
Massasoit,
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