Elson Grammar School Literature, book 4
by William H. Elson · English · Gutenberg #6963 · 790,840 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Elson Grammar School Literature, book 4
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Elson Grammar School Literature, book 4
Author: William H. Elson
Christine M. Keck
Release date: November 1, 2004 [eBook #6963]
Most recently updated: April 18, 2022
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6963
Credits: Steve Schulze, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELSON GRAMMAR SCHOOL LITERATURE, BOOK 4 ***
ELSON
GRAMMAR SCHOOL LITERATURE
BOOK FOUR
BY
WILLIAM H. ELSON
SUPERINTENDENT OF SCHOOLS, CLEVELAND, OHIO
AND
CHRISTINE KECK
PRINCIPAL OF SIGSBEE SCHOOL, GRAND RAPIDS, MICH.
1912
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PART I--Famous Rides, Selections from Shakespeare and other Poets, and
Studies in Rhythm.
FAMOUS RIDES:
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE, Henry W. Longfellow
THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG, Henry W. Longfellow
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALAKLAVA, Alfred, Lord Tennyson
THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN, William Cowper
HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX, Robert Browning
INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP, Robert Browning
HERVÉ RIEL, Robert Browning
STUDIES IN RHYTHM:
THE BUGLE SONG, Alfred, Lord Tennyson
THE BROOK, Alfred, Lord Tennyson
SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE, Sidney Lanier
THE CATARACT OF LODORE, Robert Southey
THE BELLS, Edgar Allan Poe
ANNABEL LEE, Edgar Allan Poe
OPPORTUNITY, Edward Rowland Sill
NATURE:
TO A WATERFOWL, William Cullen Bryant
THE SKYLARK, James Hogg
TO A SKYLARK, Percy Bysshe Shelley
THE CLOUD, Percy Bysshe Shelley
APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN, Lord Byron
STORIES:
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB, Lord Byron
THE EVE BEFORE WATERLOO, Lord Byron
SONG OF THE GREEK BARD, Lord Byron
MARCO BOZZARIS, Fitz-Greene Halleck
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE, Charles Wolfe
ABSALOM, Nathaniel Parker Wills
LOCHINVAR, Sir Walter Scott
PARTING OF MARMION AND DOUGLAS, Sir Walter Scott
FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT, Robert Burns
SELECTIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE:
MERCY, The Merchant of Venice
THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN, As You Like It
POLONIUS'S ADVICE, Hamlet
MAN, Hamlet
HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY, Hamlet
REPUTATION, Othello
WOLSEY AND CROMWELL, King Henry VIII
CASSIO AND IAGO, Othello
PART II--Great American Authors
WASHINGTON IRVING
RIP VAN WINKLE
THE VOYAGE
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
THE GREAT STONE FACE
MY VISIT TO NIAGARA
EDGAR ALLAN POE
A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTRÖM
THE RAVEN
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
EVANGELINE: A TALE OF ACADIE
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
SNOW-BOUND
THE SHIP BUILDERS
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS
THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; OR THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY"
OLD IRONSIDES
THE BOYS
THE LAST LEAF
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL
YUSSOUF
SIDNEY LANIER
THE MARSHES OF GLYNN
PART III--Patriotic Selections
REGULUS BEFORE THE ROMAN SENATE, Epes Sargent
THE RETURN OF REGULUS, Elijah Kellogg
SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS, Elijah Kellogg
MERIT BEFORE BIRTH, Sallust
RIENZI'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS, Mary Russell Mitford
EMMET'S VINDICATION Robert Emmet
KING PHILLIP TO THE WHITE SETTLER, Edward Everett
THE CAPTURE OF QUEBEC, Francis Parkman
ENGLAND AND HER COLONIES, Edmund Burke
THE WAY TO WEALTH, Benjamin Franklin
SPEECH ON A RESOLUTION TO PUT VIRGINIA INTO A STATE OF DEFENCE, Patrick Henry
THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY, Edward Everett Hale
LOVE OF COUNTRY, Sir Walter Scott
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, Charles Phillips
THE TRUE GRANDEUR OF NATIONS, Charles Sumner
THE EVILS OF WAR, Henry Clay
PEACE, THE POLICY OF A NATION, John C. Calhoun
THE FIRST SETTLEMENT OF NEW ENGLAND, Daniel Webster
SUPPOSED SPEECH OF JOHN ADAMS, Daniel Webster
SOUTH CAROLINA AND THE UNION, Robert Hayne
REPLY TO HAYNE, Daniel Webster
DEDICATION SPEECH AT GETTYSBURG, Abraham Lincoln
LINCOLN, THE GREAT COMMONER, Edwin Markham
O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN, Walt Whitman
FAREWELL ADDRESS, George Washington
THE MEMORY OF OUR FATHERS, Henry Ward Beecher
THE AMERICAN FLAG, J. R. Drake
WARREN'S ADDRESS AT THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL, John Pierpont
COLUMBUS, Joaquin Miller RECESSIONAL--A VICTORIAN, Rudyard Kipling
A DEFINITION OF A GENTLEMAN, Cardinal Newman
COURSE OF READING
In the ELSON READERS selections are grouped according to theme or
authorship. This arrangement, however, is not intended to fix an order for
reading in class; its purpose is to emphasise classification, facilitate
comparison, and enable pupils to appreciate similarities and contrasts in
the treatment of like themes by different authors.
To give variety, to meet the interests at different seasons and festivals,
and to go from prose to poetry and from long to short selections, a
carefully planned order of reading should be followed. Such an order of
reading calls for a full consideration of all the factors mentioned above.
The Course here offered meets these ends but may easily be varied to fit
local conditions.
FIRST HALF-YEAR
BIOGRAPHY OF HAWTHORNE
THE GREAT STONE FACE
MY VISIT TO NIAGARA
THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN
HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS
INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP
HERVÉ RIEL
COLUMBUS (COLUMBUS'S BIRTHDAY, OCT. 12)
SUPPOSED SPEECH OF JOHN ADAMS
SPEECH OF RESOLUTION TO PUT VIRGINIA INTO A STATE OF DEFENCE
THE EVE BEFORE WATERLOO
THE BUGLE SONG
BIOGRAPHY OF HOLMES
THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS
THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE
OLD IRONSIDES
THE BOYS
THE LAST LEAF
MERIT BEFORE BIRTH
WEBSTER-HAYNE DEBATE
THE BROOK
THE SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE
THE CATARACT OF LODORE
BIOGRAPHY OF POE
A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTRÖM
THE RAVEN
ANNABEL LEE
THE BELLS
BIOGRAPHY OF WHITTIER (WHITTIER'S BIRTHDAY, DEC. 17)
SNOW-BOUND (WHITTIER'S BIRTHDAY, DEC. 17)
THE SHIP-BUILDERS (WHITTIER'S BIRTHDAY, DEC. 17)
REGULUS BEFORE THE ROMAN SENATE
THE RETURN OF REGULUS
SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS
THE WAY TO WEALTH (FRANKLIN'S BIRTHDAY, JAN, 17)
EMMET'S VINDICATION
MARCO BOZZARIS
RIENZI'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS
BIOGRAPHY OF LANIER (LANIER'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 3)
THE MARSHES OF GLYNN (LANIER'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 3)
SECOND HALF-YEAR
LOVE OF COUNTRY
WARREN'S ADDRESS
PEACE, THE POLICY OF A NATION
THE AMERICAN FLAG (LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 12)
LINCOLN, THE GREAT COMMONER (LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 12)
DEDICATION SPEECH (LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 12)
O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN (WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 22)
FAREWELL ADDRESS (WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 22)
BIOGRAPHY OF LOWELL (LOWELL'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 22)
THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL (LOWELL'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 22)
YUSSOUF (LOWELL'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 22)
BIOGRAPHY OF LONGFELLOW (LONGFELLOW'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 27)
EVANGELINE (LONGFELLOW'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 27)
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP (LONGFELLOW'S BIRTHDAY, FEB. 27)
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE
THE EVILS OF WAR
BIOGRAPHY OF IRVING (IRVING'S BIRTHDAY, APRIL 3)
RIP VAN WINKLE (IRVING'S BIRTHDAY, APRIL 3)
THE VOYAGE (IRVING'S BIRTHDAY, APRIL 3)
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE (APRIL 19)
THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE
SELECTIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE (SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHDAY, APRIL 23)
TO A WATER FOWL
THE SKYLARK
TO A SKYLARK (SPRING AND ARBOR DAY)
THE CLOUD
APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN
ABSALOM
LOCHINVAR
PARTING OF MARMION AND DOUGLAS
FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT
KING PHILIP TO THE WHITE SETTLER
THE CAPTURE OF QUEBEC
ENGLAND AND HER COLONIES
THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY
OPPORTUNITY
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB
SONG OF THE GREEK BARD
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
THE TRUE GRANDEUR OF NATIONS
THE MEMORY OF OUR FATHERS
THE RECESSIONAL
INTRODUCTION
This book is designed to furnish reading material of choice literary and
dramatic quality. The selections for the most part are those that have
stood the test of time and are acknowledged masterpieces. The groupings
into the separate parts will aid both teachers and pupils in the
classification of the material, indicating at a glance the range and
variety of the literature included.
Part One deals with poetry, and it is believed the poems offered in this
group are unsurpassed. No effort on the teacher's part will be needed to
arouse the enthusiasm of pupils who read the series of famous rides with
which this group opens. The thrill of delight which children feel as they
read of "A hurry of hoofs in a village street," or "Charging an army while
all the world wondered," may lead to the stronger and more enduring
emotions of patriotism and devotion. "John Gilpin's Ride," which has
furnished amusement for generations of old and young, finds a place here.
The rhythmic movement of these poems makes a natural transition to those
selections especially designed as studies in rhythm. The series of nature
poems and selections from Shakespeare complete a group of choice literary
creations. Part Two is given to a study of the great American authors, and
no apology is needed either for the choice of material or for the
prominence given to this group. It is especially suited to parallel and
supplement the work of this grade in American history. Part Three contains
patriotic selections and some of the great orations. These are lofty and
inspiring in style, within the grasp of the pupils, and are especially
helpful in developing power of expression.
It is not expected that the order of selections will be followed. On the
contrary, each teacher will follow the order which will best suit her own
plans and purposes. While there is much material in the book that will
re-enforce lessons in history, geography, and nature study, yet it is not
for this that these selections should be studied, but rather for the
pleasure that comes from reading beautiful thoughts beautifully expressed.
The reading lesson should therefore be a study of literature, and it should
lead the children to find beauty of thought and imagery, fitness in figures
of speech, and delicate shades of meaning in words. Literature is an art,
and the chief aim of the reading lesson is to discover and interpret its
art qualities. In this way children learn how to read books and are enabled
to appreciate the literary treasures of the race. The business of the
reading book is to furnish the best available material for this purpose.
It is worth while to make a thorough study of a few well-chosen selections.
Through the power gained in this way children are enabled to interpret and
enjoy other selections without the aid of the teacher. If the class work is
for the most part of the intensive kind, the pupils will read the remaining
lessons alone for sheer pleasure, which is at once the secret and goal of
good teaching in literature. Moreover, they will exercise a discriminating
taste and judgment in their choice of reading matter. To love good
literature, to find pleasure in reading it and to gain power to choose it
with discrimination are the supreme ends to be attained by the reading
lesson. For this reason, some selections should be read many times for the
pleasure they give the children. In music the teacher sometimes calls for
expressions of preference among songs: "What song shall we sing, children?"
So in reading, "What selection shall we read?" is a good question for the
teacher to ask frequently. Thus children come to make familiar friends of
some of the stories and poems, and find genuine enjoyment in reading these
again and again.
Good results may also be obtained by assigning to a pupil a particular
lesson which he is expected to prepare. On a given day he will read to the
class the selection assigned to him. The orations are especially suited to
this mode of treatment. The pupil who can read one selection well has gone
a long way toward being a good reader. The teacher who said to her pupils,
"I shall read to you tomorrow," recognized this truth and knew the value of
an occasional exercise of that kind. Good pedagogy approves of a judicious
use of methods of imitation in teaching reading.
The biographies are intended to acquaint the children with the personal
characteristics and lives of the authors, making them more interesting and
real to the children, giving them the human touch and incidentally
furnishing helpful data for interpreting their writings. In this
connection, the authors have, by permission, drawn freely from Professor
Newcomer's English and American Literatures. "Helps to Study" include
questions and notes designed to stimulate inquiry on the part of pupils and
to suggest fruitful lines of study. Only a few points are suggested, to
indicate the way, and no attempt is made to cover the ground adequately;
this remains for the teacher to do.
While placing emphasis primarily on the thought-getting process the
formalities of thought-giving must not be overlooked. The technique of
reading, though always subordinate and secondary to the mastery of the
thought, nevertheless claims constant and careful attention. Good reading
requires clear enunciation and correct pronunciation and these can be
secured only when the teacher steadily insists upon them. The increase of
foreign elements in our school population and the influence of these upon
clearness and accuracy of speech furnish added reason for attention to
these details. Special drill exercises should be given and the habit of
using the dictionary freely should be firmly established in pupils. The
ready use of the dictionary and other reference books for pronunciation and
meaning of words, for historical and mythical allusions should be steadily
cultivated. Without doubt much of the reading accepted in the public
schools is seriously deficient in these particulars. The art of good
reading can be cultivated by judicious training and the school should spare
no pains to realize this result.
Professor Clark, in his book on "How to Teach Reading," sets forth the four
elements of vocal expression--Time, Pitch, Quality and Force. We quote a
few of the sentences from his treatment of each of these elementary topics.
"I. TIME. Time, then, refers to the rate of vocal movement. It may be fast,
or moderate, or slow, according to the amount of what may be called the
collateral thinking accompanying the reading, of any given passage. To put
it another way: a phrase is read slowly because it means much; because the
thought is large, sublime, deep. The collateral thinking may be revealed by
an expansive paraphrase. For instance, in the lines
"Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note
As his corse to the rampart we hurried,"
_why_ do we read slowly? The paraphrase answers the question. It was
midnight. There lay our beloved leader, who should have been borne in
triumphal procession to his last resting place. Bells should have tolled,
cannon thundered, and thousands should have followed his bier. But now,
alas, by night, by stealth, without even a single drum tap, in fear and
dread, we crept breathless to the rampart. This, or any one of a hundred
other paraphrases, will suffice to render the vocal movement slow. And so
it is with all slow time. Let it be remembered that a profound or sublime
thought may be uttered in fast time; but that when we dwell upon that
thought, when we hold it before the mind, the time must necessarily be
slow. If a child read too rapidly, it is because his mind is not
sufficiently occupied with the thought; if he read too slowly, it is
because he does not get the words; or because he is temperamentally slow;
or because, and this is the most likely explanation, he is making too much
of a small idea. To tell him to read fast or slow is but to make him
affected, and, incidentally, even if unconsciously, to impress upon him
that reading is a matter of mechanics, and not of thought-getting and
thought-giving."
"II. PITCH. By Pitch is meant everything that has to do with the acuteness
or gravity of the tone--in other words, with keys, melodies, inflections
and modulations. When we say of one that he speaks in a high key, we should
be understood as meaning that his pitch is prevailingly high; and that the
reverse is true when we say of one that he speaks in a low key. While it is
true that the key differs in individuals, yet experience shows that within
a note or two, we all use the same keys in expressing the same states of
minds. The question for us is, what determines the key? It can be set down
as a fixed principle, that controlled mental states are expressed by low
keys, while the high keys are the manifestation of the less controlled
mental conditions. Drills in inflections as such are of very little value,
and potentially very harmful. Most pupils have no difficulty in making
proper inflections, so that for them class drills are time wasted; for
those whose reading is monotonous, because of lack of melodic variety, the
best drills are those which teach them to make a careful analysis of the
sentences, and those which awaken them to the necessity of impressing the
thought upon others. We have learned that when a pupil has the proper
motive in mind and is desirous of conveying his intention to another, a
certain melody will always manifest that intention. The melody, then, is
the criterion of the pupil's purpose. The moment a pupil loses sight of a
phrase and its relation to the other phrases, that moment his melody
betrays him."
"III. QUALITY. Quality manifests emotional states. By Quality we mean that
subtle element in the voice by which is expressed at one time tenderness,
at another harshness, at another awe, and so on through the whole gamut of
feeling. The teacher now knows that emotion affects the quality of tone.
Let him then use this knowledge as he has learned to use his knowledge of
the other criteria. We recognize instinctively the qualities that express
sorrow, tenderness, joy, and the other states of feeling. When the proper
quality does not appear it is because the child has no feeling, or the
wrong feeling, generally the former. There is but one way to correct the
expression, i. e., by stimulating the imagination."
"IV. FORCE. Force manifests the degree of mental energy. When we speak in a
loud voice, there is much energy; when softly, there is little. Do not tell
the child to read louder. If you do, you will get loudness--that awful
grating schoolboy loudness--without a particle of expression in it. Many a
child reads well, but is bashful. When we tell him to read louder, he
braces himself for the effort and kills the quality, which is the finer
breath and spirit of oral expression, and gives us a purely physical
thing--force. Put your weak-voiced readers on the platform; let them face
the class and talk to you, seated in the middle of the room, and you will
get all the force you need. On the whole, we have too much force, rather
than too little. Let the teacher learn that we want quality, not quantity,
and our statement of the mental action behind force will be of much benefit
in creating the proper conditions."
To discriminating teachers it will be apparent that this book is not the
usual school reader. On the contrary it differs widely from this in the
cultural value of the selections, in the classification and arrangement of
material, in the variety of interest to which it appeals, and in the
abundance of classic literature from American authors which it contains. It
aims to furnish the best in poetry and prose to be found in the literature
of the English-speaking race and to furnish it in abundance. If these
familiar old selections, long accepted as among the best in literature,
shall be the means of cultivating in pupils a taste for good reading, the
book will have fulfilled its purpose.
For permission to use valuable selections from their lists, acknowledgment
is due to Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin and Company, Charles Scribner's Sons,
and The Whitaker and Ray Company.
Grateful acknowledgment is also made to those teachers who have given
valuable suggestions and criticisms in the compilation of this book.
THE AUTHORS.
April, 1909.
* * * * *
"We live in deeds, not years, in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial."
PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.
PART I.
FAMOUS RIDES, SELECTIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE AND OTHER POETS, AND STUDIES IN
RHYTHM
* * * * *
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five:
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend: "If the British march
By land or sea from the town tonight,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
Of the North Church tower, as a signal-light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm."
Then he said "good night," and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where, swinging wide at her moorings, lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war:
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon, like a prison-bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack-door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still,
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely, and spectral, and sombre, and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height,
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!
A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of the steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village-clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river-fog
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village-clock
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village-clock
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning-breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British regulars fired and fled,--
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,--
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,--
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight-message of Paul Revere.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
What message did Paul Revere bear?
Read an account of the battle of Lexington and observe how nearly this poem
is true to history.
Who were John Hancock and Samuel Adams?
What does the second stanza tell you? The seventh stanza?
Does this poem call your attention chiefly to the horse, the rider, or the
message?
Sketch a map locating Boston, Charlestown, Medford, Lexington, Concord.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"the fate of a nation was riding that night"
"gaze at him with a spectral glare"
"the spark struck out by that steed in his flight
kindled the land into flame with its heat"
"sombre"
"red-coats"
"fearless and fleet"
* * * * *
THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet,
His chestnut steed with four white feet,
Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou,
Son of the road and bandit chief,
Seeking refuge and relief,
Up the mountain pathway flew.
Such was the Kyrat's wondrous speed,
Never yet could any steed
Reach the dust-cloud in his course.
More than maiden, more than wife,
More than gold and next to life
Roushan the Robber loved his horse.
In the land that lies beyond
Erzeroum and Trebizond,
Garden-girt, his fortress stood;
Plundered khan, or caravan
Journeying north from Koordistan,
Gave him wealth and wine and food.
Seven hundred and fourscore
Men at arms his livery wore,
Did his bidding night and day;
Now, through regions all unknown,
He was wandering, lost, alone,
Seeking, without guide, his way.
Suddenly the pathway ends,
Sheer the precipice descends,
Loud the torrent roars unseen;
Thirty feet from side to side
Yawns the chasm; on air must ride
He who crosses this ravine.
Following close in his pursuit,
At the precipice's foot
Reyhan the Arab of Orfah
Halted with his hundred men,
Shouting upward from the glen,
"La Illáh ilia Alláh!"
Gently Roushan Beg caressed
Kyrat's forehead, neck and breast;
Kissed him upon both his eyes,
Sang to him in his wild way,
As upon the topmost spray
Sings a bird before it flies.
"O my Kyrat, O my steed,
Bound and slender as a reed,
Carry me this peril through!
Satin housings shall be thine,
Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine,
O thou soul of Kurroglou!
"Soft thy skin as silken skein,
Soft as woman's hair thy mane,
Tender are thine eyes and true;
All thy hoofs like ivory shine,
Polished bright; O life of mine,
Leap, and rescue Kurroglou!"
Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet,
Drew together his four white feet,
Paused a moment on the verge,
Measured with his eye the space,
And into the air's embrace
Leaped as leaps the ocean surge.
As the ocean surge o'er sand
Bears a swimmer safe to land,
Kyrat safe his rider bore;
Rattling down the deep abyss
Fragments of the precipice
Rolled like pebbles on a shore.
Roushan's tasseled cap of red
Trembled not upon his head;
Careless sat he and upright;
Neither hand nor bridle shook,
Nor his head he turned to look,
As he galloped out of sight.
Flash of harness in the air,
Seen a moment, like the glare
Of a sword drawn from its sheath;
Thus the phantom horseman passed,
And the shadow that he cast
Leaped the cataract underneath.
Reyhan the Arab held his breath
While this vision of life and death
Passed above him. "Allahu!"
Cried he. "In all Koordistan
Lives there not so brave a man
As this Robber Kurroglou!"
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
What does the first stanza tell?
The second?
What is the purpose of the fifth stanza?
What comparison is found in the seventh stanza? In the eighth? In the
ninth?
What do we mean by "figure of speech?" Illustrate.
State in your own words the thought in the eleventh stanza.
In next to the last stanza give the meaning of the last three lines.
What lesson of heroism does this poem give you?
Whom should you call the hero of this tale?
Who is Allah? Where is Koordistan?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"phantom"
"verge"
"caravan"
"abyss"
"garden-girt"
"cataract"
* * * * *
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALAKLAVA
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd;
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade!
Oh the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical and Historical: Alfred Tennyson was born in that memorable
birth year, 1809, which brought into the world a company of the greatest
men of the century, including Darwin, Gladstone, Lincoln, Poe, Chopin, and
Mendelssohn. He was one of twelve children who lived together a healthful
life of study and sport. Gathering the other children about him he held
them captive with his stories of knightly deeds--tales drawn partly from
his reading and partly from his fertile fancy. They lived again the
thrilling life of joust and tournament. Past the house in the village of
Somersby, in Lincolnshire, where his father was rector, flowed a brook, in
all probability the brook that came "from haunts of coot and hern... to
bicker down a valley." He was a student at Cambridge, where he met and
became deeply attached to Arthur Henry Hallam, whose death not long
afterward inspired the poem "In Memoriam." In 1850, upon Wordsworth's
death, Tennyson was made poet laureate and the poem commemorating the
heroic charge at Balaklava in 1854, "The Charge of the Light Brigade,"
shows how he adorned this office. In 1884 the queen raised him to the
peerage, and from that time he was known as Lord Tennyson. He lived as much
in retirement as was possible, part of the time making his home in the Isle
of Wight. He died in 1892 and was buried in the Poets' Corner in
Westminster Abbey.
The event which this poem describes occurred at Balaklava in the Crimea,
October 25th, 1854. Of six hundred seven men only about one hundred fifty
survived. The order to charge, bearing the signature of Lord Lucan, was
delivered by Captain Nolan to the Earl of Cardigan, who was in command of
the "Light Brigade." Nolan was killed in the charge while Cardigan
survived. The death of Nolan made it impossible to determine whether the
signature to the order was genuine or forged.
It was in this war that Florence Nightingale rendered such noble service as
hospital nurse. She arrived at Balaklava ten days after this charge.
Notes and Questions.
On your map find Balaklava on the Black Sea.
What nation attacked the Russians?
What was the significance of Sevastopol?
What is a brigade? A light brigade?
What is meant by "charging an army"?
Who had "blundered"?
What lines tell you that obedience is the first duty of the soldier?
What line tells you how vain and hopeless was this charge?
How does the poem impress you?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"Valley of Death"
"half a league"
"the mouth of Hell"
"the jaws of Death"
"dismay'd"
"volley'd and thunder'd"
* * * * *
THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN
WILLIAM COWPER
John Gilpin was a citizen
Of credit and renown,
A trainband captain eke was he
Of famous London town.
John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,
"Though wedded we have been
These twice ten tedious years, yet we
No holiday have seen.
"Tomorrow is our wedding day,
And we will then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton,
All in a chaise and pair
"My sister, and my sister's child,
Myself, and children three,
Will fill the chaise, so you must ride
On horseback after we."
He soon replied, "I do admire
Of womankind but one,
And you are she, my dearest dear,
Therefore, it shall be done.
"I am a linen-draper bold,
As all the world doth know,
And my good friend, the calender,
Will lend his horse to go."
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said:
And for that wine is dear,
We will be furnished with our own,
Which is both bright and clear."
John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;
O'erjoyed was he to find
That, though on pleasure she was bent,
She had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was brought,
But yet was not allowed
To drive up to the door, lest all
Should say that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaise was stayed,
Where they did all get in;
Six precious souls, and all agog
To dash through thick and thin.
Smack went the whip, 'round went the wheels,
Were never folks so glad;
The stones did rattle underneath
As if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin at his horse's side
Seized fast the flowing mane,
And up he got, in haste to ride,
But soon came down again;
For saddle-tree scarce reached had he,
His journey to begin,
When, turning round his head, he saw
Three customers come in.
So down he came; for loss of time,
Although it grieved him sore,
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,
Would trouble him much more.
'Twas long before the customers
Were suited to their mind,
When Betty screaming came down stairs,--
"The wine is left behind!"
"Good lack!" quoth he, "yet bring it me,
My leathern belt likewise,
In which I bear my trusty sword
When I do exercise."
Now Mrs. Gilpin, careful soul,
Had two stone bottles found,
To hold the liquor that she loved,
And keep it safe and sound.
Each bottle had a curling ear,
Through which the belt he drew,
And hung a bottle on each side,
To make his balance true.
Then, over all, that he might be
Equipped from top to toe,
His long red cloak, well brushed and
He manfully did throw.
Now see him mounted once again,
Upon his nimble steed,
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones
With caution and good heed.
But finding soon a smoother road
Beneath his well-shod feet,
The snorting beast began to trot,
Which galled him in his seat.
So "Fair and softly" John he cried,
But John he cried in vain;
That trot became a gallop soon,
In spite of curb and rein.
So stooping down, as needs he must
Who cannot sit upright,
He grasped the mane with both his hands,
And eke with all his might.
His horse, which never in that sort
Had handled been before,
What thing upon his back had got
Did wonder more and more.
Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;
Away went hat and wig;
He little dreamed when he set out
Of running such a rig.
The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,
Like streamer long and gay,
Till, loop and button failing both,
At last it flew away.
Then might all people well discern,
The bottles he had slung;
A bottle swinging at each side,
As hath been said or sung.
The dogs did bark, the children screamed,
Up flew the windows all,
And every soul cried out, "Well done!"
As loud as he could bawl.
Away went Gilpin--who but he?
His fame soon spread around;
"He carries weight, he rides a race!
'Tis for a thousand pound!"
And still, as fast as he drew near,
'Twas wonderful to view,
How in a trice the turnpike men
Their gates wide open threw.
And now, as he went bowing down
His reeking head full low,
The bottles twain behind his back
Were shattered at a blow.
Down ran the wine into the road,
Most piteous to be seen,
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke
As they had basted been.
But still he seemed to carry weight,
With leathern girdle braced;
For all might see the bottle necks
Still dangling at his waist.
Thus all through merry Islington
These gambols he did play,
Until he came unto the wash
Of Edmonton so gay;
And there he threw the wash about
On both sides of the way,
Just like unto a trundling mop,
Or a wild goose at play.
At Edmonton his loving wife
From the balcony spied
Her tender husband, wondering much
To see how he did ride.
"Stop, stop, John Gilpin! Here's the house!"
They all at once did cry;
"The dinner waits and we are tired."
Said Gilpin, "So am I!"
But yet his horse was not a whit
Inclined to tarry there;
For why? his owner had a house
Full ten miles off, at Ware.
So like an arrow swift he flew,
Shot by an archer strong;
So did he fly--which brings me to
The middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin, out of breath,
And sore against his will,
Till, at his friend the calender's,
His horse at last stood still.
The calender, amazed to see
His neighbor in such trim,
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,
And thus accosted him:
"What news? what news? your tidings tell;
Tell me you must and shall;
Say why bareheaded you are come,
Or why you come at all?"
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,
And loved a timely joke;
And thus unto the calender,
In merry guise, he spoke:
"I came because your horse would come;
And, if I well forbode,
My hat and wig will soon be here:--
They are upon the road."
The calender, right glad to find
His friend in merry pin,
Returned him not a single word,
But to the house went in;
Whence straight he came with hat and wig;
A wig that flowed behind,
A hat not much the worse for wear,
Each comely in its kind.
He held them up and in his turn
Thus showed his ready wit:
"My head is twice as big as yours,
They, therefore, needs must fit.
But let me scrape the dirt away
That hangs upon your face;
And stop and eat, for well you may
Be in a hungry case."
Said John, "It is my wedding day,
And all the world would stare,
If wife should dine at Edmonton
And I should dine at Ware."
So, turning to his horse, he said,
"I am in haste to dine;
'Twas for your pleasure you came here,
You shall go back for mine."
Ah! luckless speech and bootless boast,
For which he paid full dear;
For while he spake, a braying ass
Did sing most loud and clear;
Whereat his horse did snort, as he
Had heard a lion roar,
And galloped off with all his might,
As he had done before.
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went Gilpin's hat and wig:
He lost them sooner than at first;
For why?--they were too big.
Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting down
Into the country far away,
She pulled out half a crown;
And thus unto the youth she said,
That drove them to the Bell,
"This shall be yours when you bring back
My husband safe and well."
The youth did ride, and soon did meet
John coming back amain;
Whom in a trice he tried to stop
By catching at his rein;
But not performing what he meant
And gladly would have done,
The frightened steed he frighted more,
And made him faster run.
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went postboy at his heels,
The postboy's horse right glad to miss
The lumbering of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the road,
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
With postboy scampering in the rear,
They raised the hue and cry;--
"Stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman!"
Not one of them was mute;
And all and each that passed that way
Did join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike gates again
Flew open in short space;
The toll-men thinking as before,
That Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did, and won it too,
For he got first to town;
Nor stopped till where he had got up
He did again get down.
Now let us sing "Long Live the King,"
And Gilpin, long live he;
And when he next doth ride abroad
May I be there to see!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical: William Cowper, 1731-1800, was a famous English poet. His
poems range from religious to humorous subjects.
Notes and Questions.
What was the occasion of the ride?
What tells you that the linen-draper lived over his shop?
Which stanza is most amusing?
Why did people think John Gilpin rode for a wager?
Edmonton--a suburb of London.
The Bell--the Inn.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"calender"
"eke"
"chaise and pair"
"frugal"
"gambols"
"trainband"
"repair"
"he carries weight"
"for that wine is dear"
"turnpike"
"basted"
"bootless boast"
"the postboy's horse right glad to miss the lumbering of the wheels"
* * * * *
HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX
ROBERT BROWNING
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;
"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through;
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"
At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.
By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,
We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem, a dome-spire sprang white,
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"
"How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.
Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is--friends flocking round
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical and Historical: Robert Browning was born in a suburb of London
in 1812. His four grandparents were respectively of English, German,
Scotch, and Creole birth. After his marriage with the poet, Elizabeth
Barrett, he lived in Italy, where in the old palace Casa Guidi, in
Florence, they spent years of rare companionship and happiness. After her
death he returned to England, but spent most of his summers abroad. On the
Grand Canal, in Venice, the gondoliers point out a palace where at his
son's home, Browning died in 1889. He was buried in the Poets' Corner,
Westminster Abbey.
Browning's poems are not easy to read, because he condenses so much into a
word or phrase and he often leaves large gaps to be filled in by the
reader's imagination. Any one can make selections of lines and even entire
poems from Tennyson, Poe, Southey, and Lanier, in which the poet has
created for us verbal music and beauty. Browning, however, is not so much
concerned with this side of poetry as he is with portraying correctly the
varied emotions of the human soul.
"Love in the largest sense, as the divine principle working through all
nature, is at the very center of Browning's creed. His is the heartiest,
happiest, most beautiful poetic voice that his age has read. He stands
apart from most others of his kind and age in the positiveness of his
religious faith, a faith that is based upon a conviction of the conquering
universality of love and self-sacrifice."
"How They Brought the Good News" is without historical basis; the ride
occurred only in the imagination of the poet. The inspiration came from
Browning's longing for a horseback gallop over the English downs.
Notes and Questions.
Find Ghent and Aix la Chapelle on your map.
What was probably the nature of the "good news" carried by the messengers?
How many messengers were there?
What makes you think so?
What does the fifth stanza tell you?
What tells you the praise given Roland?
The rhythm suggests the gallop of the horses. In which lines is this
suggestion most marked?
Indicate the rhythmic movement.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"postern"
"pique"
"askance"
"burgesses"
"stirrup"
"twilight"
"haunches"
"holster"
"Good speed! cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew"
"With resolute shoulders each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray"
* * * * *
INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP
ROBERT BROWNING
You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:
A mile or so away,
On a little mound, Napoleon
Stood on our storming-day;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.
Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans
That soar, to earth may fall,
Let once my army-leader, Lannes,
Waver at yonder wall,"--
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew
Until he reached the mound.
Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect
By just his horse's mane, a boy:
You hardly could suspect--
(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through)
You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.
"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace,
We've got you Ratisbon!
The marshal's in the market-place,
And you'll be there anon
To see your flag-bird flap his vans
Where I, to heart's desire,
Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans
Soared up again like fire.
The chiefs eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother eagle's eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes:
"You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride
Touched to the quick, he said:
"I'm killed, sire!" And his chief beside,
Smiling, the boy fell dead.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
On your map find Ratisbon on the Danube River.
What picture have you of Napoleon from reading this poem?
What word used figuratively tells you of the rider's speed?
Tell the story of the boy rider.
What was the mission of the boy who rode alone?
Was his heroism greater because he was alone?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"stormed"
"soar"
"prone"
"waver"
"battery-smokes"
"vans"
"sheathes"
"film"
* * * * *
HERVÉ RIEL
ROBERT BROWNING
On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,
Did the English fight the French--woe to France!
And the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue,
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,
Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance,
With the English fleet in view.
'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase;
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;
Close on him fled, great and small,
Twenty-two good ships in all;
And they signalled to the place,
"Help the winners of a race!
Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick--or, quicker still,
Here's the English can and will!"
Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board;
"Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they:
"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and
scored,--
Shall the "Formidable" here, with her twelve and eighty guns,
Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way,
Trust to enter--where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons,
And with flow at full beside?
Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide.
Reach the mooring? Rather say,
While rock stands or water runs,
Not a ship will leave the bay!"
Then was called a council straight.
Brief and bitter the debate:
"Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow
All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,
For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!"
(Ended Damfreville his speech).
"Not a minute more to wait!
Let the captains all and each
Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!
France must undergo her fate.
"Give the word!" But no such word
Was ever spoke or heard:
For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck, amid all these,--
A captain? a lieutenant? a mate,--first, second, third?
No such man of mark, and meet
With his betters to compete!
But a simple Breton sailor, pressed by Tourville for the fleet,
A poor coasting-pilot, he,---Hervé Riel, the Croisickese.
And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cried Hervé Riel.
"Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues?
Talk to me of rocks and shoals?--me, who took the soundings, tell
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell,
'Twixt the offing here and Grève, where the river disembogues?
Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for?
Morn and eve, night and day,
Have I piloted your bay,
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor.
Burn the fleet, and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues!
Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me, there's way!
Only let me lead the line,
Have the biggest ship to steer,
Get this _Formidable_ clear,
Make the others follow mine,
And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well,
Right to Solidor past Grève,
And there lay them safe and sound;
And if one ship misbehave,--
Keel so much as grate the ground,
Why, I've nothing but my life,--here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel.
Not a minute more to wait.
"Steer us in, then, small and great!
Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief.
Captains, give the sailor place!
He is Admiral, in brief.
Still the north-wind, by God's grace!
See the noble fellow's face
As the big ship, with a bound,
Clears the entry like a hound,
Keeps the passage, as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound!
See, safe thro' shoal and rock,
How they follow in a flock,
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,
Not a spar that comes to grief!
The peril, see, is past.
All are harbored to the last,
And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!" sure as fate,
Up the English come,--too late!
So, the storm subsides to calm:
They see the green trees wave
On the heights o'erlooking Grève.
Hearts that bled are stanched with balm.
"Just our rapture to enhance,
Let the English rake the bay,
Gnash their teeth and glare askance
As they cannonade away!
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!"
How hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance!
Out burst all with one accord,
"This is paradise for hell!
Let France, let France's king,
Thank the man that did the thing!"
What a shout, and all one word,
"Hervé Riel!"
As he stepped in front once more;
Not a symptom of surprise
In the frank blue Breton eyes,--
Just the same man as before.
Then said Damfreville, "My friend,
I must speak out at the end,
Though I find the speaking hard;
Praise is deeper than the lips;
You have saved the king his ships;
You must name your own reward.
Faith, our sun was near eclipse!
Demand whate'er you will,
France remains your debtor still.
Ask to heart's content, and have! or my name's not Damfreville."
Then a beam of fun outbroke
On the bearded mouth that spoke,
As the honest heart laughed through
Those frank eyes of Breton blue:--
"Since I needs must say my say,
Since on board the duty's done,
And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run!
Since 'tis ask and have, I may--
Since the others go ashore--
Come! A good whole holiday!
Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!"
That he asked and that he got,--nothing more.
Name and deed alike are lost:
Not a pillar nor a post
In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;
Not a head in white and black
On a single fishing-smack,
In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack
All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell.
Go to Paris: rank on rank
Search the heroes flung pell-mell
On the Louvre, face and flank!
You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel.
So, for better and for worse, Hervé Riel, accept my verse!
In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more
Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
Find on your map: Saint Malo, le Croisic (St. Croisic), Plymouth Sound,
Paris.
What forfeit did Hervé Riel propose in case he failed to pilot the ships
safely in?
What ships were seeking harbor?
Who were the "porpoises" and who the "sharks"?
What reward did he claim?
What comparison is found in the first stanza?
What do stanzas three and four tell?
In what way is the hero's memory perpetuated?
The rhythm gives spirit to the poem. Which lines or stanzas are most
spirited?
What line gives the key-note to Hervé Riel's character?
Contrast Hervé Riel with the local pilots.
Saint Malo--noted for its high tides.
Rance--name of a river.
The Hogue--a cape on the French coast.
Malouins--residents of Saint Malo.
Tourville--the French admiral.
Grève--name given the beach.
Solidor--the old fortress.
Belle Aurore--the dawn.
Croisickese--inhabitants of Croisie.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"Worse than fifty Hogues"
"Clears the entry like a hound"
"Just the same man as before"
"He is Admiral, in brief"
"Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound"
"Search the heroes flung pell-mell on the Louvre, face and flank"
"pressed"
"disembogues"
"rampired"
"bore the bell"
* * * * *
THE BUGLE SONG (From "The Princess")
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits, old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying;
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O, hark! O, hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O, sweet and far from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elfland, faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying;
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O, love, they die in yon rich sky;
They faint on hill or field or river.
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying;
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
Why does the poet use "splendor" instead of "sun-set," and "summits"
instead of "mountains"?
Line 2--What is meant by "old in story"?
Line 3--Why does the poet use "shakes"?
Line l3--To what does "they" relate?
Line l5--Explain.
Line l5--Why does the poet use "roll"?
Line l6--They "die" and "faint" while "our echoes" "roll" and "grow." Note
that "grow" is the important word.
Note the refrain and the changes in its use; in the first stanza--the
bugle; in the second--the echo; in the third--the spiritual echo.
Point out lines that have rhyme within themselves.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"wild echoes"
"cliff and scar"
"horns of Elfland"
"rich sky"
"purple glens"
* * * * *
THE BROOK
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges,
Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles;
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling.
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery water-break
Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeams dance
Against my sandy shallows,
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars,
I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
These stanzas are part of a longer poem called "The Brook."
In this poem Tennyson personifies the brook. Why?
In what lines do the words and the rhythm suggest the sound of the brook?
Which lines do this most successfully?
Point out words that seem to you especially appropriate in giving the
thought.
Where in the poem do we find a meaning for the following lines:
"Oh! of all the songs sung
No songs are so sweet
As the songs with refrains
Which repeat and repeat."
How does the repetition of "chatter" influence the melody of the first line
in the sixth stanza?
How does it affect the thought?
Find another place in the poem where an expression is repeated.
Was this done for the sake of the rhythm, or the thought, or for both?
Alliteration is the repetition of the same letter or sound at the beginning
of two or more words in close succession.
Find lines in which alliteration is used e. g. "sudden sally," "field and
fallow," etc. What does this add to the poem?
Indicate the rhythm of the first four lines by placing them in these
curves:
________ ________ ________ ________
/ \/ \/ \/ \
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"coot and hern" (heron)
"bicker"
"thorps"
"fairy foreland"
"willow weed and mallow"
"grayling"
"water-break"
"covers"
"brambly"
"shingly bars"
"eddying"
"fallow"
"babble"
"cresses"
"brimming"
"sharps and trebles"
"skimming swallows"
"netted sunbeams"
* * * * *
SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE
SIDNEY LANIER
Out of the hills of Habersham,
Down the valleys of Hall,
I hurry amain to reach the plain,
Run the rapid and leap the fall;
Split at the rock and together again,
Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,
And flee from folly on every side
With a lover's pain to attain the plain
Far from the hills of Habersham,
Far from the valleys of Hall.
All down the hills of Habersham,
All through the valleys of Hall,
The rushes cried, "Abide, abide,"
The wilful water-weeds held me thrall,
The laving laurel turned my tide,
The ferns and the fondling grass said, "Stay,"
The dewberry dipped for to work delay,
And the little reeds sighed, "Abide, abide,"
Here in the hills of Habersham,
Here in the valleys of Hall.
High o'er the hills of Habersham,
Veiling the valleys of Hall,
The hickory told me manifold
Fair tales of shade; the poplar tall
Wrought me her shadowy self to hold;
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,
Said: "Pass not so cold, these manifold
Deep shades of the hills of Habersham,
These glades in the valleys of Hall."
And oft in the hills of Habersham,
And oft in the valleys of Hall,
The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook stone
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl;
And many a luminous jewel lone
(Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,
Ruby, garnet, or amethyst)
Made lures with the lights of streaming stone
In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,
In the beds of the valleys of Hall.
But oh! not the hills of Habersham,
And oh! not the valleys of Hall
Avail; I am fain for to water the plain.
Downward the voices of Duty call;
Downward to toil and be mixed with the main.
The dry fields burn and the mills are to turn,
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,
And the lordly main from beyond the plain
Calls o'er the hills of Habersham,
Calls through the valleys of Hall.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical and Historical: The South has given us two most melodious
singers, Poe and Lanier. When only nineteen Sidney Lanier enlisted in the
Confederate army, and the close of the war found him broken in health, with
little else in the world than a brave wife and a brave heart. When his
health permitted he played the flute in an orchestra in Baltimore. The
rhythm, the rhyme and the melodious words of his poetry all show him the
passionate lover of music that he was. Among his prose writings, "The Boy's
Froissart" and "The Boy's King Arthur" are of especial interest to young
readers.
Notes and Questions.
Find the Chattahoochee river on your map with its source in the "hills of
Habersham" and its course through the "valleys of Hall."
Compare this poem with Tennyson's "The Brook."
What is peculiar in the phrases: "run the rapid," "flee from folly,"
"wilful waterweeds," "loving laurel," etc.
Find alliteration in other lines.
What is added to the poem by alliteration?
Notice the rhythm in the third line of the first stanza.
What is the peculiarity of the eighth line of the first stanza?
Find lines in the other stanzas which contain rhymes. Notice the last word
in each of these lines. What two things have you found out?
Lanier believed that poetry is a kind of music. Does the rhythm in this
poem sustain this definition?
Point out lines that are especially musical and pleasing.
Habersham, Hall--Counties in northern Georgia.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"laving laurel"
"fondling grass"
"friendly brawl"
"made lures"
"lordly main"
"run the rapid"
"leap the fall"
"hurry amain"
"veiling the valleys"
"flickering meaning"
"the mills are to turn"
"I am fain for to water the plain"
* * * * *
THE CATARACT OF LODORE
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
"How does the water
Come down at Lodore?"
My little boy asked me
Thus, once on a time;
And, moreover, he tasked me
To tell him in rhyme.
Anon at the word,
There first came one daughter,
And then came another,
To second and third
The request of their brother,
And to hear how the water
Comes down at Lodore,
With its rush and its roar,
As many a time
They had seen it before.
So I told them in rhyme--
For of rhymes I had store;
And 'twas my vocation
For their recreation
That so I should sing;
Because I was Laureate
To them and the king.
From its sources, which well
In the tarn on the fell;
From its fountains
In the mountains,
Its rills and its gills;
Through moss and through brake,
It runs and it creeps
For a while, till it sleeps
In its own little lake.
And thence, at departing,
Awakening and starting,
It runs through the reeds,
And away it proceeds,
Through meadow and glade,
In sun and in shade,
And through the wood shelter,
Among crags in its flurry,
Helter-skelter,
Hurry-skurry.
Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Now smoking and frothing
In tumult and wrath in,
Till, in this rapid race
On which it is bent,
It reaches the place
Of its steep descent.
The cataract strong
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging,
As if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among;
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,
Around and around
With endless rebound;
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in;
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying, and deafening the ear with its sound,
Collecting, projecting,
Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dinning and spinning,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning,
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And thundering and floundering;
Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And chattering and battering and shattering;
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling, and toiling and boiling,
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping.
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending,
All at once, and all o'er, with a mighty uproar:
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical: Robert Southey, 1774-1843, was a great English poet. In 1813
he was made poet laureate.
Notes and Questions.
Who was "laureate"? What is it to be "laureate"?
Who was the king to whom Southey was poet-laureate?
To whom beside the king does he say he is laureate?
What do you think he means by this?
Find this cataract on your map (Derwent River in Cumberland). What is a
cataract? Have you ever seen one?
Find changes in rhythm as the stream advances.
Where in the poem does Southey first use lines in which two words rhyme? In
which three words rhyme?
Why does the poet use all these rhymes?
Compare the first and second stanzas as to rate.
Point out lines that are especially pleasing to you.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"cataract"
"tarn"
"brake"
"glade"
"helter-skelter"
"hurry-skurry"
"vocation"
"recreation"
"fell"
* * * * *
THE BELLS
EDGAR ALLAN POE
Hear the sledges with the bells--
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding-bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
Hear the loud alarum bells--
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,
Now--now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells--
Of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
Hear the tolling of the bells--
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people--ah, the people--
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone--
They are neither man nor woman--
They are neither brute nor human--
They are Ghouls;
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls,
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells--
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells--
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells--
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells--
Bells, bells, bells--
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical and Historical: Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston on January
19th, 1809. Both his parents were members of a theatrical troupe then
playing in Boston. He was left an orphan at the age of three years, and was
adopted by a wealthy Virginia planter and by him educated in England and
elsewhere. Owing to his erratic habits, Poe's foster-father disowned him,
and after that life for him was a constant battle with poverty. His prose
tales abound in adventure, allegory, and the supernatural. His poetry is
full of imagery, beauty, and melody.
Notes and Questions.
What kinds of bells does the poet seek to reproduce the sound of?
Which bells has he described best?
Point out words particularly suited to express the sound they describe.
Which lines are especially musical and pleasing?
What can you say of the fire-bells of today?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"euphony"
"tintinnabulation"
"expostulation"
"Runic"
"crystalline"
"palpitating"
* * * * *
ANNABEL LEE
EDGAR ALLAN POE
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me--
Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we--
Of many far wiser than we--
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling,--my darling,--my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
Like "The Bells," this poem is musical and the words are chosen with
reference to this quality.
Notice that the repetition of the word "many" adds to the music of the
first line.
Find other lines in which a word is repeated for the sake of melody.
Find lines in which rhymes occur.
Mention lines that are especially pleasing to you.
What reason is given for the death of Annabel Lee?
Why did the angels "covet" and "envy" the lovers?
How strong was this love?
Why does not the lover feel separated from Annabel Lee?
Do you like this poem? Why?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"winged seraphs"
"sounding sea"
"sepulchre"
"highborn kinsmen"
"coveted"
"envying"
* * * * *
OPPORTUNITY
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL
This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:--
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.
A craven hung along the battle's edge,
And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel--
That blue blade that the king's son bears,--but this
Blunt thing--!" he snapt and flung it from his hand,
And lowering crept away and left the field.
Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead,
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout
Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,
And saved a great cause that heroic day.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical: Edward Rowland Sill was born in Connecticut in 1841. He
graduated at Yale and lived most of his life in California, being for some
years professor of English language and literature at the State University.
Sill was a true poet, but the whole of his literary output is contained in
two slender volumes. His poems are noted for their compressed thought. The
selection here given shows this quality.
Notes and Questions.
What do you learn from this poem?
Where was the craven when he decided his sword was useless?
What word shows that he was there of his own choice?
What kind of sword had the craven?
What words tell you that he was greatly needed in the thick of the
conflict?
What kind of sword had the king's son?
How long did the king's son look at the discarded sword before using it?
If the battle represents life, and the craven and the king's son are types
of the people in the world, what do you think the swords represent?
Why is this poem called "Opportunity"?
Can you think of another title which might be given to it?
Such a story as this is called an allegory.
"furious"--What is a furious battle?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"craven"
"bestead"
"hung along the battle's edge"
"shocked"
"hemmed by foes"
* * * * *
TO A WATERFOWL
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far through their rosy depths dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-side?
There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,--
The desert and illimitable air,--
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend
Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou'rt gone; the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone
Will lead my steps aright.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical and Historical: William Cullen Bryant was born in 1794 in
Western Massachusetts. His education was carried on in the district school.
At home he had the use of an exceptionally fine library, for that period,
and he made the most of its opportunities. In 1816 he secured a license to
practice law, and journeyed on foot to Plainfield, Mass., to look for a
place to open an office. He felt forlorn and desolate, and the world seemed
big and cold. In this mood, while pausing on his way to contemplate the
beauty of the sunset, he saw a solitary bird wing its way along the
horizon. He watched it until it was lost in the distance. Then he pursued
his journey with new courage and on arriving at the place where he was to
stop for the night, he sat down and wrote this beautiful poem of faith and
hope.
Notes and Questions.
What lines tell you the time of day?
Which stanza do you like best? Why?
What lines give you the most beautiful picture?
What does the poet learn from the waterfowl?
Note that the rhythm gives the impression of the bird's flight.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"thy solitary way"
"rosy depths"
"thin atmosphere"
"the fowler's eye"
"long way"
"welcome land"
"that toil shall end"
"tread alone"
"boundless sky"
"last steps of day"
"certain flight"
"lone wandering but not lost"
"chafed ocean-side"
"pathless coast"
"the abyss of heaven hath swallowed up thy form"
* * * * *
THE SKYLARK
JAMES HOGG.
Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling place,--
O to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay and loud,
Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth,
O'er fell and fountain sheen,
O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!
Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
HELPS TO STUDY.
James Hogg was born in Ettrick, Scotland, in 1770, and was known as "the
Ettrick Shepherd," because he followed the occupation of a shepherd until
he was thirty. The beautiful selection here given was doubtless inspired by
the poet's early communion with Nature.
Notes and Questions.
From this poem what can you tell of the home of the skylark? Of its nature?
Why is the lark called an emblem of happiness? Name something that might be
called an emblem of strength; of sorrow.
What pictures do the following words make to you: "wilderness," "moor,"
"lea," "fell," "heather-bloom"?
What is the "red streamer that heralds the day"?
What does the word "dewy" suggest as to the habits of the bird?
What do "matin" and "gloaming" signify?
In the poem what tells you the nest is near the ground?
Why is "downy" used to describe "cloud"?
What makes lines 13 and 14 so musical?
Indicate the rhythm of the first six lines by writing them in groups as
shown in the following curves:
___________ _____________
/ \/ \
Bird of the wil-der-ness
* * * * *
TO A SKYLARK
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run;
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven,
In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen,--but yet I hear thy shrill delight,
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear
Until we hardly see--we feel that it is there.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when Night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflowed.
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a Poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love,--which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aërial hue
Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it give
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves:
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Bain-awakened flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth surpass,
Teach us, Sprite or Bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine;
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus Hymeneal,
Or triumphal chaunt,
Matched with thine, would be all
But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields or waves or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be;
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee;
Thou lovest--but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream--
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not;
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scorn
Hate and pride and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then--as I am listening now.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical and Historical: Percy Bysshe Shelley was born in 1792. He was
an English poet who traveled much in Europe, and found Italy especially to
his liking. His life was short and full of storm and stress, although he
never allowed his personal sufferings to embitter his spirit. While only
thirty, on a pleasure cruise off the coast of Italy, he was drowned.
"To a Skylark" and "The Cloud" are rare poems because of their wonderful
harmony of sound.
The skylark is found in northern Europe. It is noted for its lofty flights
and wonderful song. Note that Shelley, Wordsworth, and James Hogg have all
written poems about the skylark.
Notes and Questions.
What country is the home of these poets? What does this fact suggest to
you?
Explain the simile in the fifth stanza. In the sixth.
In the seventh stanza what two words are contrasted?
Note the four comparisons--stanzas eight, nine, ten and eleven. Which do
you like best? Why?
In line 86 emphasize the first word and explain the stanza.
In line 95 emphasize the fifth word and explain the stanza.
In line 96 to end, what does Shelley say would be the result if a poet
could feel such joy as the little bird seems to feel?
If we had no dark days do you think we could appreciate the bright days?
If we had no sadness could we appreciate the songs of gladness?
If Shelley had never experienced sadness could he have written this
beautiful poem of gladness?
Explain the following:
"There is no music in the life
That sounds with empty laughter wholly;
There's not a string attuned to mirth
But has its chord in melancholy."
What does the skylark mean to Shelley?
If we think only of being happy shall we be very helpful to others?
Make a list of all the names he gives the skylark.
Enumerate the expressions Shelley uses in characterizing the song.
Which stanza do you like best? Why?
"wert" rhymes with heart. (In England the sound is broad, er=är).
"even"--a contraction of evening.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"profuse strains"
"panted forth"
"heavy-winged thieves"
"unpremeditated art"
"rain of melody"
"harmonious madness"
"shrill delight"
"flood of rapture"
"float and run"
"rains out"
"triumphant chaunt"
"scattering unbeholden"
* * * * *
THE CLOUD
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noon-day dreams;
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast,
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers,
Lightning, my pilot, sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,--
It struggles and howls by fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The spirit he loves remains;
And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning-star shines dead,
As on the jag of a mountain-crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle, alit, one moment may sit,
In the light of its golden wings.
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardors of rest and love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbèd Maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her, and peer!
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent of sea,
Sun-beam proof, I hang like a roof,
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-colored bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,
While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I can not die.
For after the rain, when, with never a stain,
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a sprite from the gloom, like a ghost from the tomb,
I rise and unbuild it again.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
In this poem Shelley personifies the Cloud. Why?
What does the second stanza mean to you?
The third stanza relates to the sun; what comparisons are made?
What comparisons are found in the fourth stanza?
Read the last stanza and tell what lesson the poem teaches. What line tells
you?
What pictures do you get from the fifth stanza?
Which stanza is most musical and pleasing?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"sanguine sunrise"
"pavilion of heaven"
"reel and swim"
"meteor eyes"
"caverns of rain"
"million-colored bow"
"burning plumes"
"fleece-like floor"
"sphere-fire"
"orbed maiden"
"wind-built tent"
"cenotaph"
* * * * *
APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN (From "Childe Harold," Canto IV.)
LORD BYRON
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar;
I love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin--his control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths, with bubbling groan--
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
His steps are not upon thy paths--thy fields
Are not a spoil for him--thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray,
And howling to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth: there let him lay.
The armaments which thunder-strike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war:
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
Thy shores are empires changed in all save thee--
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters washed them power while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts; not so thou;
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play.
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow:
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed--in breeze or gale or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime--
The image of Eternity--the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers--they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror--'twas a pleasing fear;
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane--as I do here.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical and Historical: George Gordon Byron was born in London the
year before the outbreak of the French Revolution. At the age of ten, upon
the death of his grand-uncle he became Lord Byron. He traveled extensively
through Europe, spending much time in Italy. At Pisa he formed a warm
friendship for the poet Shelley. So deeply was he moved by his impulses
toward liberty and freedom that in the summer of 1823 he left Genoa with a
supply of arms, medicines, and money to aid the Greeks in their struggle
for independence. In the following year he became commander-in-chief at
Missolonghi, but he died of a fever before he had an opportunity to
actually engage in battle. Hearing the news, the boy Tennyson, dreaming at
Somersby on poetic greatness, crept away to weep and carve upon sandstone
the words, "Byron is dead."
Notes and Questions.
In the first stanza why "pathless woods" and "lonely shore"?
In the second and third stanzas Byron contrasts the ocean and the earth in
their relation to man.
Line 12--What two words require emphasis?
Line 13--With what is "watery plain" contrasted?
Line 14--With what is "thy" contrasted?
Line 22--What word requires emphasis?
In the fourth stanza what contrast does Byron make?
What does the fifth stanza tell? The sixth?
Which stanza do you like best? Why?
Which lines are the most beautiful?
"The Invincible Armada"--an immense Spanish fleet consisting of one hundred
thirty vessels, sailed from Corunna in 1588 and attacked the English fleet
but suffered defeat. This event furnished Southey the inspiration for a
poem, "The Spanish Armada."
"Trafalgar"--one of Lord Nelson's great sea-fights, occurring off Cape
Trafalgar on the coast of Spain in 1805. Here he defeated the combined
fleets of France and Spain, but was himself killed.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"unknelled"
"uncoffined"
"unknown"
"playful spray"
"oak leviathans"
"yeast of waves"
"These are thy toys"
"The Armada's pride"
"spoils of Trafalgar"
"rock-built"
"glasses itself"
"fathomless"
* * * * *
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB LORD BYRON
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath flown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And their idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Historical: Sennacherib was King of Assyria. His army invaded Judea and
besieged Jerusalem but was overthrown; 185,000 of his men were destroyed in
a single night. Sennacherib returned in haste with the remnant to his own
country. For the Bible story of this event read 2 Kings XIX. 6-36.
Notes and Questions.
Find Assyria and Galilee on your map.
Note the development:
1. Brilliant outset of the Assyrian cavalry.
2. Their summer changes to winter.
3. The angel turns their sleep into death.
4. The steed and the rider.
5. The mourning.
6. Their idols powerless to help them.
7. Their religion broken down.
8. Their power "melted like snow."
What two comparisons are found in the first stanza?
Note the movement and rhythm.
Point out the fitness of the two similes in the second stanza.
Find a comparison in the sixth stanza.
"Ashur"--Assyria.
"Baal"--the sun-god worshipped by the Assyrians.
Indicate the rhythm of the four lines of the second stanza by writing them
in groups under curves as on page 47:
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"cohorts"
"sheen"
"host"
"unsmote"
"idols are broke" (broken)
"purple and gold"
"withered and strown"
"rock-beating surf"
* * * * *
THE EVE BEFORE WATERLOO (From "Childe Harold," Canto III.)
LORD BYRON
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men.
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell.
But, hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear, it?--No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street.
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet!
But, hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! arm! it is--it is the cannon's opening roar!
Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! They come! they come!"
And wild and high the "Cameron's Gathering" rose!
The war note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard--and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring which instills
The stirring memory of a thousand years,
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave--alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valor, rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, shall molder cold and low.
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay;
The midnight brought the signal sound of strife--
The morn, the marshaling in arms--the day,
Battle's magnificently stern array!
The thunderclouds close o'er it, which when rent
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Historical: On the evening of June 15, 1815, the Duchess of Richmond gave a
ball at Brussels. Wellington's officers, at his request, were present, his
purpose being to conceal the near approach of battle. Napoleon, the leader
of the French army, was the military genius of the age; Wellington, the
leader of the English forces, had, Tennyson tells us, "gained a hundred
fights nor ever lost an English gun." These two great generals now met for
the first time. The event was of supreme interest to all the world. The
engagement that followed next day was fought at Quatre Bras; the great
battle of Waterloo took place June 18th, Sunday. Read Thackeray's "Vanity
Fair" for description of this night in Brussels. This is a great martial
poem--the greatest inspired by this event.
Note the movement of the poem. The revelry, the beauty and the chivalry,
the music and the merry-making, the alarm, the hurrying to and fro, the
gathering tears, the mounting in hot haste, the whispering with white lips,
the Scotch music, the green leaves of Ardennes, the closing scene.
Notes and Questions.
Find Belgium's capital on your map; also Waterloo, twelve miles away.
What does the first stanza tell? The second stanza?
Note the differences between the fourth and fifth stanzas.
The sixth stanza describes the Scottish martial music--What purpose does
this stanza serve in the poem?
Which lines do you like best? Why?
Which is the most beautiful stanza?
What words seem to be especially appropriate?
Note the rhythm and the change in movement. "Cameron's Gathering"--The
Cameron Highlander's call to arms. "Lochiel"--Donald Cameron of Lochiel was
a famous highland chieftain. Read the poem "Lochiel's Warning."
"Albyn"--name given poetically to northern Scotland, the Highland region.
"Pibroch"--martial music upon the bagpipe.
"Evan's, Donald's fame"--Evan Cameron (another Lochiel) and his grandson,
Donald, were famous Highland chiefs.
"Ardennes"--Arden, a forest on the Meuse river between Brussels and
Waterloo, called Arden by Shakespeare in "As You Like It."
"car"--a cart.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"voluptuous swell"
"rising knell"
"glowing hours"
"opening roar"
"terror dumb"
"noon of night"
"stirring memory"
"revelry"
"chivalry"
"mustering squadron"
"clattering car"
"pouring forward"
"impetuous speed"
"unreturning brave"
"rolling on the foe"
"magnificently stern"
"clansman"
"inanimate"
"verdure"
"blent"
* * * * *
SONG OF THE GREEK BARD (From "Don Juan," Canto-III.)
LORD BYRON
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest."
The mountains look on Marathon--
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dreamed that Greece might still be free:
For, standing on the Persian's grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.
A king sat on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And ships by thousands lay below,
And men in nations;--all were his!
He counted them at break of day--
And when the sun set, where were they?
And where are they? and where art thou
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now--
The heroic bosom beats no more.
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?
'Tis something in the dearth of fame,
Though linked among a fettered race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blush--for Greece a tear.
Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush?--Our fathers bled.
Earth, render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylæ!
What, silent still? and silent all?
Ah, no; the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, "Let one living head,
But one, arise--we come, we come!"
'Tis but the living who are dumb.
In vain--in vain: strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call--
How answers each bold bacchanal!
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet--
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave--
Think you he meant them for a slave?
The tyrant of the Chersonese
Was freedom's best and bravest friend;
That tyrant was Miltiades!
O that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind!
Such chains as his were sure to bind.
Trust not for freedom to the Franks--
They have a king who buys and sells--
In native swords and native ranks
The only hope of courage dwells;
But Turkish force and Latin fraud
Would break your shield, however broad.
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die;
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine--
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Historical: The decline of Greece is the theme of this poem. Byron
represents a Greek poet as contrasting ancient and modern Greece, showing
that, in modern Greece, "all except their sun is set."
Notes and Questions.
What does the first stanza tell?
What are "the arts of war and peace"?
What nation is meant by the Franks?
"I could not deem myself a slave." Why?
Line 19--relates to Xerxes.
Lines 23, 24. Explain these lines,
Explain lines 67, 70.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"Sappho"
"Delos"
"Phoebus"
"Marathon"
"Persian's grave"
"Salamis"
"eternal summer"
"rocky brow"
"voiceless shore"
"heroic lay"
"fettered race"
"dearth of fame"
"Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylæ"
* * * * *
MARCO BOZZARIS
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK
At midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power.
In dreams, through camp and court he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;
In dreams, his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring;
Then pressed that monarch's throne--a king:
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden-bird.
At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood,
On old Platæa's day:
And now there breathed that haunted air,
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arms to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.
An hour passed on--the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last:
He woke--to hear his sentries shriek,
"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"
He woke--to die mid flames and smoke,
And shout and groan, and sabre-stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band:
"Strike!--till the last armed foe expires;
Strike!--for your altars and your fires;
Strike!--for the green graves of your sires;
God--and your native land!"
They fought--like brave men, long and well;
They piled the ground with Moslem slain;
They conquered--but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile, when rang their proud--"Hurrah,"
And the red field was won:
Then saw in death his eyelids close,
Calmly as to a night's response,
Like flowers at set of sun.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Bozzaris! with, the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee--there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime.
We tell thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's--
One of the few, the immortal names
That were not born to die.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical and Historical: Fitz-Greene Halleck was born in Connecticut,
July 8, 1790, and died November 19, 1867. Of his poems, "Marco Bozzaris" is
probably the best known. Marco Bozzaris, leader of the Greek revolution,
was, killed August 20, 1823, in an attack upon the Turks near Missolonghi,
a Greek town. His last words were: "To die for liberty is a pleasure, not a
pain."
Notes and Questions.
Over whom did the Turk dream he gained a victory?
What might be the "trophies of a conqueror"?
Upon whom would a monarch confer the privilege of wearing his signet ring?
Trace the successive steps by which the Turk in his dream rises to the
summit of his ambition.
What other "immortal names" do you know?
"Suliote"--natives of Suli, a mountainous district in Albania (European
Turkey).
"Platæa's day" refers to the victory of the Greeks over the Persians on
this field 479 B. C.
"Moslem"--Mohammedans--name given the Turks.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"tried blades"
"haunted air"
"storied brave"
* * * * *
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
CHARLES WOLFE
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
At his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spike not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow.
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Charles Wolfe, a British clergyman, was born at Dublin, December 14, 1791,
and died at Cork, February 21, 1823. His poem, "The Burial of Sir John
Moore," is the only one of his works now widely read.
Historical: Sir John Moore, an English general, was killed (January 16,
1809) in an engagement between the English and the army of Napoleon at
Corunna, in Spain. In accordance with an expressed wish, he was buried at
night on the battlefield. In St. Paul's Cathedral, London, a monument was
erected to his memory, and a stone also marks the spot where he was buried
on the ramparts, at Corunna. Note that it was from this port that the
Spanish Armada sailed.
Notes and Questions.
Who tells the story of the poem?
What is the narrator's feeling for Sir John Moore? How do you know?
What impressions of Sir John Moore do you get from reading this poem?
Which stanza or stanzas do you like best? Why?
Select the lines that seem to you most beautiful and memorize them.
Which is the greater memorial, a monument of stone or bronze, or such a
poem as this? Why?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"corse"
"upbraid"
"rampart"
"random"
"bayonets"
"sullenly"
"shroud"
"rock"
"spirit"
"struggling"
"Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot"
"The struggling moonbeam"
"We bitterly thought of the morrow"
* * * * *
ABSALOM
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS
The waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low
On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still,
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse.
The reeds bent down the stream; the willow leaves,
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,
Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems,
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse,
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And leaned in graceful attitudes to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashioned for a happier world!
King David's limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem; and now he stood,
With his faint people, for a little rest,
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gathered round him on the fresh green bank,
And spoke their kindly words; and as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bowed his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh, when the heart is full--when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor, common words of courtesy
Are such an empty mockery--how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He prayed for Israel; and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those
Whose love had been his shield; and his deep tones.
Grew tremulous. But oh! for Absalom--
For his estranged, misguided Absalom--
The proud, bright being who had burst away
In all his princely beauty, to defy
The heart that cherished him--for him he poured,
In agony that would not be controlled,
Strong supplication, and forgave him there,
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.
The pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straightened for the grave; and as the folds
Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed
The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
Were floating round the tassels as they swayed
To the admitted air, as glossy now
As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing
The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters.
His helm was at his feet; his banner, soiled
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,
Reversed, beside him; and the jeweled hilt,
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow.
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,
Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he feared the slumberer might stir.
A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade
As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form
Of David entered, and he gave command,
In a low tone, to his few followers,
And left him with his dead. The King stood still
Till the last echo died; then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:
"Alas, my noble boy, that thou shouldst die!
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom?
"Cold is thy brow, my son, and I am chill
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee!
How I was wont to feel my pulses thrill,
Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee,
And hear thy sweet '_My father!_' from these dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!
"But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung--
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come
To meet me, Absalom!
"And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!
It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!
"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee;
And thy dark sin! Oh, I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My lost boy, Absalom!"
He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child; then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently, and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Nathaniel Parker Willis was born in Maine in 1806. He was a graduate of
Yale and was an early contributor to various periodicals, including the
"Youths' Companion," which magazine had been founded by his father. The
selection here given is regarded as the poet's masterpiece.
Historical: Absalom, the son of David, King of Israel, rebelled against his
father. David sent his army to put down the rebellion, but said to his
captains, "Deal gently for my sake with the young man, even with Absalom."
In spite of this entreaty, Absalom was slain by Joab, a captain in David's
army. The first forty-one lines relate to events preceding the battle, the
remainder to events following the battle. Read 2 Samuel XVIII.
Notes and Questions.
Find the Jordan on your map.
Locate the Dead Sea; the wood of Ephraim where Absalom was killed.
Describe the picture you see when you read the first stanza.
What do we call such expressions as "Night's silvery veil"?
What is night's silvery veil?
"The willow leaves with a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, Forgot the
lifting winds"--What does this mean? Why "lulling tide"?
What flowers does the poet mean in the eighth line? Is the poet true to
nature in what he says of them? Show why.
Select two words or expressions that seem to you to be especially beautiful
or fit, and tell why. Do you like the selection? Why?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"waters slept"
"melting tenderness"
"fashioned for a happier world"
"lifting winds"
"mantling blush"
"straightened for the grave"
"estranged"
"breathing sleep"
"resistless eloquence"
"bruised reed"
"still proportions"
"Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade"
* * * * *
LOCHINVAR (From "Marmion.")
SIR WALTER SCOTT
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West,--
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And, save his good broadsword, he weapons had none,--
He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Esk river, where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,
'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor, craven bridegroom said never a word),
"O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"
"I long wooed your daughter,--my suit you denied;--
Love swells like the Selway, but ebbs like its tide;
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!"
The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,--
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,
And the bridemaidens whispered, "'Twere better, by far,
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near,
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode, and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical and Historical: Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh, in 1771.
He loved the romance of Scotland's history and legends. A collection of
legendary ballads, songs, and traditions, published by him early in life
met with such immediate success that it confirmed him in his resolution to
devote himself to literary pursuits. The two selections here given, are
taken from his second metrical romance, "Marmion." Later Scott turned his
attention to prose and became the creator of the historical novel, of which
"Ivanhoe," "Kenilworth," and "Woodstock" are conspicuous examples. He died
in 1832, and lies buried in one of the most beautiful ruins in Scotland,
Dryburgh Abbey.
Notes and Questions.
Find Esk River and Solway Firth on your map.
Scott describes the tides of Solway Firth in Chapter IV of his novel,
"Redgauntlet." Compare the rhythm with that in "How They Brought the Good
News."
What impression of Lochinvar do the opening stanzas give you?
What purpose does the fourth stanza serve?
Line 20--Explain this line.
Line 46--What was the result?
What picture does the sixth stanza give you?
Which stanza do you like best?
Which lines are most pleasing?
"galliard"--a gay dance.
"scaur"--steep bank of river.
"clan"--a group of related families.
Translate into your own words: "'They'll have fleet steeds that follow,'
quoth young Lochinvar."
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"laggard"
"brake"
"bar"
"charger"
"craven"
"bonnet and plume"
"dastard"
"gallant"
* * * * *
THE PARTING OF MARMION AND DOUGLAS (From "Marmion.")
SIR WALTER SCOTT
Not far advanced was morning day,
When Marmion did his troop array,
To Surrey's camp to ride;
He had safe conduct for his band,
Beneath the royal seal and hand,
And Douglas gave a guide.
The train from out the castle drew,
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:
"Though something I might 'plain," he said,
"Of cold respect to stranger guest,
Sent hither by your king's behest,
While in Tantallon's towers I staid;
Part we in friendship from your land,
And, noble Earl, receive my hand."
But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:
"My manors, halls, and bowers shall still
Be open, at my sovereign's will,
To each one whom he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
My castles are my king's alone,
From turret to foundation stone;
The hand of Douglas is his own;
And never shall, in friendly grasp,
The hand of such as Marmion clasp."
Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire;
And "This to me," he said;
"An 'twere not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
To cleave the Douglas' head!
And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer,
He, who does England's message here,
Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate:
And, Douglas, more, I tell thee here,
Even in thy pitch of pride--
Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near,
I tell thee, thou'rt defied!
And if thou said'st, I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,
Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"
On the Earl's cheek, the flush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age:
Fierce he broke forth; "And dar'st thou then
To beard the lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall?
And hopest thou hence unscathed to go?
No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!
Up draw-bridge, grooms,--what, warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall."
Lord Marmion turned,--well was his need,
And dashed the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung;
The ponderous grate behind him rung:
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars, descending, razed his plume.
The steed along the draw-bridge flies,
Just as it trembled on the rise;
Nor lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim;
And when Lord Marmion reached his band
He halts, and turns with clinched hand
And shout of loud defiance pours,
And shook his gauntlet at the towers.
"Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!"
But soon he reined his fury's pace:
"A royal messenger he came,
Though most unworthy of the name.
Saint Mary mend my fiery mood!
Old age ne'er cools the Douglas' blood;
I thought to slay him where he stood.
'Tis pity of him, too," he cried;
"Bold he can speak, and fairly ride--
I warrant him a warrior tried."
With this his mandate he recalls,
And slowly seeks his castle halls.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Historical: Marmion, an English nobleman, is sent as an envoy by Henry the
Eighth, King of England, to James the Fourth, King of Scotland. The two
countries are on the eve of war with each other. Arriving in Edinburgh,
Marmion is entrusted by King James to the care and hospitality of Douglas,
Earl of Angus, who, taking him to his castle at Tantallon, treats him with
the respect due his position as representative of the king, but at the same
time dislikes him. The war approaching, Marmion leaves to join the English
camp. This sketch describes the leave-taking.
Notes and Questions.
In what part of the castle does this conversation take place? What tells
you?
Where are Marmion's followers during this time? Where are Douglas's
soldiery and servants? What lines tell you?
Notice how simply Marmion reminds Douglas of the claim he had upon
hospitality, while in Scotland. Lines 9 to 12.
Note the claims that have always been allowed the stranger: "And stranger
is a holy name, Guidance and rest and food and fire, In vain he never must
require."
What part of Marmion's claim does Douglas recognize? Which lines show this?
What claim does Marmion make for one "who does England's message"?
What do we call one "who do England's message" at Washington?
Is this Marmion's personal pride or pride of country (patriotism)? Read the
lines in which Marmion's personal pride shows itself in resentment of
Douglas's insults.
What does Douglas forget when he threatens Marmion? Line 69.
Which man appears to greater advantage in this scene?
"train"--procession.
"'plain"--complain.
"Tantal'lon"--Douglas's castle.
"warder"--guard.
"peer"--equal.
"peer"--a nobleman.
"Saint Bride"--a saint belonging to the house of Douglas,
"rowel"--wheel of a spur.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"pitch of pride"
"ponderous grate"
"swarthy cheek"
"flush of rage"
"level brim"
"haughty peer"
"ire"
"vassals"
"gauntlet"
"unmeet"
"hold"
* * * * *
FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT
ROBERT BURNS
Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by;
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden-gray, an a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, and a' that;
The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,
His ribband, star, and a' that;
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.
A prince can make a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, and a' that;
Their dignities, and a' that;
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, and a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
It's comin' yet, for a' that,
That man to man, the warld o'er
Shall brothers be for a' that.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical: Robert Burns was born in Ayrshire, Scotland, in 1759. His
life was short and full of poverty and privation; but he saw poetry in all
the commonplace occurrences of every-day life. His sympathy went out to all
human kind and, as the above selection shows, he had a high regard for the
real worth of man.
Notes and Questions.
Does birth or station in life determine the man?
Lines 7, 8. Explain these lines.
Lines 29-40. What do these lines mean?
In the following what is omitted? Man's (27); It's (38); o'er (39).
Why did Burns use the word "coward-slave"?
Does the poet say a man is "king of men" because he is poor?
What makes a man a king among his fellowmen?
Scotch words and their English equivalents: a'--all; wha--who; gowd--gold;
hamely--homely; hodden--gray--coarse gray cloth; gie--give; sae--so;
birkie--clever fellow; ca'd--called; coof--dunce; aboon--above; guid--good;
maunna fa'--must not try; gree--prize.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"toils obscure"
"pith o' sense"
"guinea stamp"
"ribband"
"star"
"belted knight"
* * * * *
SELECTIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE
1. MERCY
MERCHANT OF VENICE, ACT IV., SCENE I.
The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The thronéd monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings:
But mercy is above the sceptred sway:
It is enthronéd in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute of God himself:
And earthly power doth then show likest God's,
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore,
Jew, though justice be thy plea, consider this,--
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation; we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Biographical and Historical: William Shakespeare, the greatest of English
poets, indeed one of the greatest of the world's poets, was born in 1564 at
Stratford-on-Avon. As a young man of twenty-two, after his marriage with
Anne Hathaway, he went up to London, where he became connected with
theaters, first, tradition says, by holding horses at the doors. The next
twenty years he spent in London as an actor, and in writing poems and
plays, later becoming a shareholder as well as an actor. The last ten years
of his life were spent at Stratford, where he died at the age of fifty-two.
This was the time of Queen Elizabeth and is known as the Elizabethan Age.
It was the age richest in genius of all kinds, but especially in the
creation of dramatic literature.
In the foregoing selection, Portia, disguised as a lawyer, makes this
famous speech in pleading the cause of Antonio against Shylock.
Notes
"strained"--restrained "shows"--is the emblem of
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"temporal power"
"sceptered sway"
"Earthly power doth then show likest
God's When mercy seasons justice"
* * * * *
2. THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN
AS YOU LIKE IT, ACT II, SCENE 7.
ALL the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;
Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the Justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,--
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes
"Mewling"--squalling.
"sudden"--impetuous.
"sans"--without.
"his"--its, which was just coming into use at this time.
"formal cut"--trim, near--not shaggy as that of the soldier's,
"wise saws"--wise sayings.
"modern instances"--everyday examples, illustrations.
"strange oaths"--soldiers are proverbially profane--probably satirical
reference to the affectation of foreign oaths by soldiers who have been
abroad.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
Comparisons:
"creeping like snail"
"sighing like furnace"
"bearded like the pard"
"eyes severe"
"woeful ballad"
"mere oblivion"
"Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth"
* * * * *
3. POLONIUS'S ADVICE
HAMLET, ACT I, SCENE 3.
Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar:
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in,
Bear it, that the opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice:
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy:
For the apparel oft proclaims the man.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be:
For loan oft loses both itself and friend;
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all,--to thine own self be true;
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
"unproportioned"--not worthy or fitting the occasion.
"familiar"--courteous, friendly.
"vulgar"-unduly familiar.
"their adoption tried"--tested by long acquaintance.
"dull thy palm"--lose discrimination.
"censure"--opinion.
"expressed in fancy"--loud, ostentatious.
"husbandry"--thrift.
Put in your own words:
"Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportioned thought his act."
"Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice."
"The apparel oft proclaims the man."
"Borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry."
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"hoops of steel"
* * * * *
4. MAN
HAMLET, ACT II, SCENE 2.
What a piece of work is man!
How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties!
In form and movement, how express and admirable!
In action, how like an angel! In apprehension, how like a god!
The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"express"
"paragon"
"infinite"
"apprehension"
* * * * *
5. HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY
HAMLET, ACT III, SCENE 1.
To be or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them. To die; to sleep;
No more; and, by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep;
To sleep? Perchance to dream! ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiseover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes
"coil"--turmoil.
"respect"--consideration.
"fardels"--burdens.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"shuffled off this mortal coil"
"puzzles the will"
"native hue of resolution"
"pale cast of thought"
"great pitch and moment"
* * * * *
6. REPUTATION
OTHELLO, ACT III, SCENE 3.
Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls:
Who steals my purse, steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he, that filches from me my good name,
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"immediate jewel of their souls"
"Who steals my purse steals trash"
* * * * *
7. WOLSEY AND CROMWELL
KING HENRY VIII, ACT III, SCENE 2.
WOLSEY: Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: Today he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope; tomorrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And--when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening--nips his root;
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers, in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me, and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:
I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.--
Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And--when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of--say, I taught thee;
Say, Wolsey--that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor--
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:
By that sin fell the angels: how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty:
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not.
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,
Thy God's, and truth's; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the king;
And--Prithee, lead me in:
There take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny; 'tis the king's; my robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, is all
I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes
"This many summers"--this nineteen years.
"Like Lucifer"--See Isaiah XIV, 12.
"To play the woman"--to shed tears.
* * * * *
8. CASSIO AND IAGO
OTHELLO. ACT II. SCENE III.
_Iago_. What, are you hurt, lieutenant?
_Cassio_. Ay, past all surgery.
_Iago_. Marry, heaven forbid!
_Cas_. Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost my
reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is
bestial. My reputation, Iago, my reputation!
_Iago_. As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some bodily
wound; there is more sense in that than in reputation. Reputation is an
idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without
deserving: you have lost no reputation at all, unless you repute yourself
such a loser. What, man! there are ways to recover the general again: you
are but now cast in his mood, a punishment more in policy than in malice;
even so as one would beat his offenceless dog to affright an imperious
lion: sue to him again, and he's yours.
_Cas_. I will rather sue to be despised than to deceive so good a
commander with so slight, so drunken, and so indiscreet an officer. Drunk?
and speak parrot? and squabble? swagger? swear? and discourse fustian with
one's own shadow? O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to
be known by, let us call thee devil!
_Iago_. What was he that you followed with your sword? What had he
done to you?
_Cas_. I know not.
_Iago_. Is't possible?
_Cas_. I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly; a quarrel,
but nothing wherefore. O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths
to steal away their brains! that we should, with joy, pleasance, revel, and
applause, transform ourselves into beasts!
_Iago_. Why, but you are now well enough: how came you thus recovered?
_Cas_. It hath pleased the devil drunkenness to give place to the
devil wrath: one unperfectness shows me another, to make me frankly despise
myself.
_Iago_. Come, you are too severe a moraler: as the time, the place,
and the condition of this country stands, I could heartily wish this had
not befallen; but, since it is as it is, mend it for your own good.
_Cas_. I will ask him for my place again; he shall tell me I am a
drunkard! Had I as many mouths as Hydra, such an answer would stop them
all. To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast! O
strange! Every inordinate cup is unblessed and the ingredient is a devil.
_Iago_. Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be
well used: exclaim no more against it. And, good lieutenant, I think you
think I love you.
_Cas_. I have well approved it, sir. I drunk!
_Iago_. You or any man living may be drunk at a time, man. I'll tell
you what you shall do. Our general's wife is now the general: I may say so
in this respect, for that he hath devoted and given up himself to the
contemplation, mark, and denotement of her parts and graces: confess
yourself freely to her: importune her help to put you in your place again:
she is of so free, so kind, so apt, so blessed a disposition, she holds it
a vice in her goodness not to do more than she is requested: this broken
joint between you and her husband entreat her to splinter; and my fortunes
against any lay worth naming, this crack of your love shall grow stronger
than it was before.
_Cas_. You advise me well.
_Iago_. I protest in the sincerity of love and honest kindness.
_Cas_. I think it freely; and betimes in the morning I will beseech
the virtuous Desdemona to undertake for me: I am desperate of my fortunes
if they check me here.
_Iago_. You are in the right. Good night, lieutenant; I must to the
watch.
_Cas_. Good night, honest Iago.
HELPS TO STUDY. Notes
"marry"--an exclamation--indeed!
"cast"--dismissed.
"fustian"--empty phrasing,
"pleasance"--merriment.
"moraler"--moralizer
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"immortal part of myself"
"repute yourself"
"as many mouths as Hydra"
"crack of your love"
"false imposition"
"speak parrot"
"denotement"
"must to the watch"
* * * * *
PART II
SELECTIONS FROM GREAT AMERICAN AUTHORS
_"He cometh unto you with a tale which holdeth children from play and old
men from the chimney corner."_
--SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
* * * * *
WASHINGTON IRVING
"Washington's work is ended and the child shall be named after him," so
said the mother of Washington Irving at his birth in New York, April 3,
1783. When, six years later, all New York was enthusiastically greeting the
first President of the United States, a Scotch servant in the Irving family
followed the President into a shop with the youngest son of the family and
approaching him said, "Please, your honor, here's a bairn was named for
you." Washington, putting his hand upon the boy's head, gave him his
blessing. It seems eminently fitting that this boy, who became known as the
Father of American Letters, should write the biography of the man whose
name he bore, and whom we know as the Father of his Country.
New York was then the capital of the country, a city of about twenty-five
thousand inhabitants, small enough so that it was an easy matter for the
city boy to get into the country. New York itself retained many traces of
its Dutch origin, and upon its streets could be seen men from all parts of
the world. Here the boy grew up happy, seeing many sides of American life,
both in the city and in the country. He was fun-loving and social, and
could hardly be called a student. He greatly preferred "Robinson Crusoe"
and "Sinbad" to the construing of Latin. Best of all, he liked to go
exploring down to the water front to see the tall ships setting sail for
the other side of the world, or, as he grew older, up the Hudson and into
the Catskills, or to that very Sleepy Hollow which lives for us now because
of him. Irving liked people, and had many warm friends.
These three tastes--for people, for books, and for travel--his life was
destined to gratify. His health being delicate, he was sent abroad at
twenty-one, and the captain of the ship he sailed in, noting his fragile
appearance, said, "There's one who'll go overboard before we get across,"
but he happily proved a mistaken prophet. Irving not only survived the
voyage, but spent two years traveling in Italy, France, Sicily, and the
Netherlands. The romantic spirit strong within him eagerly absorbed
mediæval history and tradition. "My native country was full of youthful
promise; Europe was rich in the accumulated treasures of age."
Upon his return home, Irving was admitted to the bar, but he never
seriously turned his attention to law. In 1809 he published "A History of
New York by Diedrich Knickerbocker." It was a humorous history of New
Amsterdam, a delicious mingling of sense and nonsense, over which Walter
Scott said his "sides were absolutely sore with laughing." While writing
this history a great sorrow touched his life--the death of a young girl to
whom he was deeply attached.
Ten years later, upon his second visit to Europe, Irving published "The
Sketch Book." It rapidly won favor both in England and America. Byron said
of it: "I know it by heart; at least there is not a passage that I cannot
refer to immediately." This second visit to Europe was to be a short
business trip, but as it chanced, it lasted seventeen years. The first five
years were spent in England. Later he went to Spain, and as a result of
this visit, we have a series of books dealing with Spanish history and
tradition--"The Alhambra," "The Conquest of Granada" and "The Life of
Columbus." During all these years and in all these places, he met and won
the regard of hosts of interesting people. Everyone praised his books, and
everyone liked the likable American, with his distinguished face and gentle
manners.
In 1832 Irving was gladly welcomed back to America, for many had feared
that his long absence might mean permanent residence abroad. The next ten
years were spent in his beautiful home, Sunnyside, at
Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson. Daniel Webster, Secretary of State, could find no
person more gratifying to the Spanish people, than the author of the "Life
of Columbus" and, in 1842, persuaded Irving to represent us at the Spanish
court. After four years, he returned to America and passed his time almost
exclusively in writing. The work which he finished just before his death,
in November, 1859, was the "Life of Washington." He was buried on a hill
overlooking the river and a portion of the Sleepy Hollow Valley.
Because of the ease and smoothness of his style, and his delicate sense of
form, Irving delighted his own and succeeding generations of both his
countrymen and his British cousins. All his work is pervaded by the strong
and winning personal quality that brought him the love and admiration of
all. Charles Dudley Warner says of him: "The author loved good women and
little children and a pure life; he had faith in his fellow-men, a kindly
sympathy with the lowest, without any subservience to the highest. His
books are wholesome, full of sweetness and charm, of humor without any
sting, of amusement without any stain; and their more solid qualities are
marred by neither pedantry nor pretension."
* * * * *
RIP VAN WINKLE
A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER
FROM "THE SKETCH BOOK," BY WASHINGTON IRVING
By Woden, God of Saxons,
From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday.
Truth is a thing that ever I will keep
Unto thylke day in which I creep into
My sepulchre.
--CARTWRIGHT.
The following tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich
Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in the
Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the descendants from its
primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie so much
among books as among men; for the former are lamentably scanty on his
favorite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their
wives, rich in that legendary lore so invaluable to true history. Whenever,
therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its
low-roofed farmhouse under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a
little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a
book worm. The result of all these researches was a history of the province
during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years
since. There have been various opinions as to the literary character of his
work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be.
Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little
questioned on its first appearance, but has since been completely
established; and it is now admitted into all historical collections, as a
book of unquestionable authority.
The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work, and now
that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory to say that
his time might have been much better employed in weightier labors. He,
however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way; and though it did now and
then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the
spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and
affection; yet his errors and follies are remembered "more in sorrow than
in anger," and it begins to be suspected that he never intended to injure
or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is
still held dear by many folk, whose good opinion is worth having;
particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint
his likeness on their new-year cakes; and have thus given him a chance for
immortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal, or a
Queen Anne's Farthing.
Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill
Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family,
and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height,
and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every
change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in
the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by
all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather
is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their
bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes when the rest of the
landscape is cloudless they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their
summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up
like a crown of glory.
At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the
light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among the
trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh
green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity,
having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists in the early time of the
province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter
Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there were some of the houses of
the original settlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow
bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts,
surmounted with weathercocks.
In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the
precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived many
years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a
simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a
descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous
days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort
Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of
his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured man; he
was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient henpecked husband. Indeed,
to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which
gained him such universal popularity; for those men are most apt to be
obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews
at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the
fiery furnace of domestic tribulation; and a curtain lecture is worth all
the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of patience and
long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects be
considered a tolerable blessing, and if so, rip Van Winkle was thrice
blessed.
Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the
village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all family
squabbles; and never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in
their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The
children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached.
He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly
kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and
Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a
troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a
thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at him
throughout the neighborhood.
The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion to all
kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity or
perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy
as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he
should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece
on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and
up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would
never refuse to assist a neighbor, even in the roughest toil, and was a
foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building
stone-fences; the women of the village, too, used to employ him to run
their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging
husbands would not do for them. In a word, Rip was ready to attend to
anybody's business but his own; but as to doing family duty, and keeping
his farm in order, he found it impossible.
In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was the most
pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country; everything about it
went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were
continually falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray or get among
the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere
else; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some
out-door work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled
away under his management, acre by acre, until there was little more left
than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the
worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood.
His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody.
His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit
the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen
trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of father's
cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with, one hand, as
a fine lady does her train in bad weather.
Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish,
well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown,
whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve
on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have
whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually
dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he
was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night her tongue was
incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to produce a
torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all
lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He
shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing.
This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife; so that he was
fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house--the only
side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband.
Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked as
his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness,
and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master's
going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an
honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the
woods--but what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting
terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house his crest
fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled between his legs, he
sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame
Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle he would fly
to the door with yelping precipitation.
Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled
on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only
edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long while he used to
console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual
club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village;
which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a
rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in
the shade through a long lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over village
gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have
been worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound discussions
that sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their
hands from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen to the
contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the school-master, a dapper
learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in
the dictionary; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events
some months after they had taken place.
The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a
patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he
took his seat from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid
the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the neighbors could
tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true
he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His
adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), perfectly
understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When anything that was
read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe
vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent and angry puffs; but when
pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in
light and placid clouds; and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and
letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head
in token of perfect approbation.
From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his
termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the
assemblage and call the members all to naught; nor was that august
personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this
terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her husband in
habits of idleness.
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only alternative,
to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his wife, was to take
gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat
himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with
Wolf, with whom he sympathized, as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. "Poor
Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never
mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by
thee!" Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and if
dogs can feel pity I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all
his heart.
In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously
scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill Mountains. He was
after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had
echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he
threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with
mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening
between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile
of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below
him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a
purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its
glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands.
On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, lonely,
and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs,
and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some
time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the
mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw
that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved
a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van
Winkle.
As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing,
"Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" He looked round, but could see nothing
but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his
fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard
the same cry ring through the still evening air: "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van
Winkle!"--at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low
growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen.
Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in
the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the
rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He
was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place;
but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of assistance,
he hastened down to yield it.
On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of the
stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick
bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch
fashion: a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist, several pair of breeches,
the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the
sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that
seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him
with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance,
Rip complied with his usual alacrity; and mutually relieving one another,
they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain
torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals
like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather
cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He
paused for a moment, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those
transient thunder-showers which often take place in mountain heights, he
proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small
amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of
which impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses
of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time Rip
and his companion had labored on in silence; for though the former marveled
greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild
mountain, yet there was something strange and incomprehensible about the
unknown, that inspired awe and checked familiarity.
On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented themselves.
On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking personages
playing at ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion; some
wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and
most of them had enormous breeches of similar style with that of the
guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar; one had a large beard, broad
face, and small piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist
entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off
with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and
colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old
gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet,
broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and
high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the
figures in an old Flemish painting in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the
village parson, which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the
settlement.
What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folks were
evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the
most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of
pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the
scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed
along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.
As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their
play, and stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and such
strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned within
him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents
of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the
company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in
profound silence, and then returned to their game.
By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no
eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of
the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was
soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another; and he
reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses were
overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he
fell into a deep sleep.
On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen the
old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes--it was a bright, sunny morning.
The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was
wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. "Surely," thought
Rip, "I have not slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences before
he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor--the mountain
ravine--the wild retreat among the rocks--the woe-begone party at
ninepins--the flagon--"Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!" thought
Rip--"what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?"
He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled
fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted
with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected
that the grave roisterers of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and,
having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had
disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge.
He whistled after him, and shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes
repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen.
He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and if he
met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk,
he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity.
"These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, "and if this
frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a
blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into
the glen; he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the
preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now
foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with
babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working
his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witchhazel, and
sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted their
coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his
path.
At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to
the amphitheatre; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks
presented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came tumbling
in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin, black from
the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to
a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered
by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry
tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their elevation,
seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to
be done? the morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of
his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet
his wife; but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his
head, shouldered the rusty fire-lock, and, with a heart full of trouble and
anxiety, turned his steps homeward.
As he approached the village he met a number of people, but none whom he
knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted
with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different
fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at him with
equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him,
invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture
induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he
found his beard had grown a foot long!
He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children
ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The
dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked
at him as he passed. The very village was altered; it was larger and more
populous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and
those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names
were over the doors--strange faces at the windows,--everything was strange.
His mind now misgave him; he began to doubt whether both he and the world
around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he
had left but the day before. There stood the Kaatskill Mountains--there ran
the silver Hudson at a distance--there was every hill and dale precisely as
it had always been--Rip was sorely perplexed--"That flagon last night,"
thought he, "has addled my poor head sadly!"
It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, which
he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill
voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay--the roof fallen
in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog
that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but
the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut
indeed--"My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten me!"
He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had always
kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This
desolateness overcame all his connubial fears--he called loudly for his
wife and children--the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice,
and then again all was silence.
He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn--but
it, too, was gone. A large, rickety wooden building stood in its place,
with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended with old hats and
petticoats, and over the door was painted, "The Union Hotel, by Jonathan
Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little
Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with something
on the top that looked like a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a
flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes--all this was
strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby
face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but
even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of
blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head
was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large
characters, GENERAL WASHINGTON.
There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip
recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a
busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed
phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas
Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering
clouds of tobacco-smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the
schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place
of these, a lean bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of hand
bills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of
citizens--elections--members of congress--liberty--Bunker's Hill--heroes of
seventy-six--and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the
bewildered Van Winkle.
The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled heard, his rusty
fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his
heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern-politicians. They crowded
round him, eying him from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator
bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired "on which side
he voted?" Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little
fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear,
"Whether he was Federal or Democrat?" Rip was equally at a loss to
comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a
sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right
and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van
Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes
and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an
austere tone, "what brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder
and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the
village?"--"Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor
quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God
bless him!"
Here a general shout burst from the bystanders--"A tory! a tory! a spy! a
refugee! hustle him! away with him!" It was with great difficulty that the
self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having assumed a
tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit what he
came there for, and whom he was seeking? The poor man humbly assured him
that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his
neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern.
"Well--who are they?--name them."
Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder?"
There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin,
piping voice: "Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these eighteen
years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all
about him, but that's rotten and gone too."
"Where's Brom Dutcher?"
"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he was
killed at the storming of Stony Point--others say he was drowned in a
squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know--he never came back
again."
"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?"
"He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and is now in
Congress."
Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and
friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled
him too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which
he could not understand: war--Congress--Stony Point; he had no courage to
ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, "Does nobody here
know Rip Van Winkle?"
"Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three, "Oh, to be sure! that's Rip
Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree."
Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up the
mountain: apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was
now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was
himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the
cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name?
"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm not myself--I'm somebody
else--that's me yonder--no--that's somebody else got into my shoes--I was
myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed
my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's
my name, or who I am!"
The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly,
and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper, also,
about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at
the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat
retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, comely
woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She
had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to
cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool; the old man won't hurt
you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice,
all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. "What is your name, my
good woman?" asked he.
"Judith Gardenier."
"And your father's name?"
"Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twenty years since he
went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since,--his
dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away
by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl."
Rip had but one question more to ask; and he put it with a faltering
voice:--
"Where's your mother?"
"Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a blood-vessel in a
fit of passion at a New England peddler."
There was a drop of comfort at least, in this intelligence. The honest man
could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in
his arms. "I am your father!" cried he--"Young Rip Van Winkle once--old Rip
Van Winkle now! Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?"
All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd,
put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment,
exclaimed, "Sure enough, it is Rip Van Winkle--it is himself! Welcome home
again, old neighbor--Why, where have you been these twenty long years?"
Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but
as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it; some were seen to
wink at each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks; and the
self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had
returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth and shook his
head--upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the
assemblage.
It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk,
who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the
historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the
province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well
versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He
recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most
satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down
from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill Mountains had always
been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great
Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind
of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon; being
permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a
guardian eye upon the river and the great city called by his name. That his
father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in
a hollow of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one summer
afternoon, the sound of their balls like distant peals of thunder.
To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more
important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to live
with her; she had a snug well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer
for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to
climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of
himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the
farm; but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to anything else but
his business.
Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of his former
cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time; and
preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon
grew into great favor. Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at
that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place once
more on the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the
patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times "before the
war." It was some time before he could get into the regular track of
gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had taken
place during his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war--that
the country had thrown off the yoke of old England--and that, instead of
being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen
of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of
states and empires made but little impression on him; but there was one
species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that
was--petticoat government. Happily that was at an end; he had got his neck
out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased,
without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was
mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up
his eyes, which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his
fate, or joy at his deliverance.
He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's
hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points every time he told
it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently awaked. It at
last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man,
woman, or child in the neighborhood but knew it by heart. Some always
pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of
his head, and that this was one point on which he always remained flighty.
The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full credit.
Even to this day they never hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon
about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their
game of ninepins; and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in the
neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a
quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon.
HELPS TO STUDY.
The three stages of the story are: The sleep, the return, the recognition.
Through them all personal identity remains.
Notes and Questions.
Rip Van Winkle--the man: his characteristics, habits, family.
The place: the village, the inn, the surroundings, the times.
The autumn ramble: the woods, the dog, the gun, the Hudson, the stranger,
the "ninepins" company, the flagon, the waking--the changed scenes.
The afternoon of the day, the afternoon of the year (autumn), and the
afternoon of life (old man) are chosen by the author.
What is the fitness in selecting a village near the mountains? Why choose a
village at all?
Note the civic progress of the people--the change from a royal dependency
to an independent republic.
Locate on the map the scene of this selection and tell the period in which
it occurred. Point out parts of the story that tell you when it happened.
Select descriptions in this selection that are especially pleasing.
Words and Phrases, for Discussion
"puzzled"
"peddler"
"self-important man"
"enormous"
"austere"
"vacant stupidity"
"fatigued"
"Tory"
"well-oiled disposition"
"grizzled"
"cocked hat"
"torrent of household eloquence"
"transient"
"ruby face"
"desolateness"
"gaping windows"
* * * * *
THE VOYAGE
From "The Sketch Book," by
WASHINGTON IRVING
Ships, ships, I will descrie you
Amidst the main,
I will come and try you,
What you are protecting,
And projecting,
What's your end and aim.
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading.
Another stays to keep his country from invading,
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading.
Halloo! my fancie, whither wilt thou go?
--OLD POEM.
To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to make is an
excellent preparative. The temporary absence of worldly scenes and
employments produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and
vivid impressions. The vast space of waters that separates the hemispheres
is like a blank page in existence. There is no gradual transition, by
which, as in Europe, the features and population of one country blend
almost imperceptibly with those of another. From the moment you lose sight
of the land you have left, all is vacancy until you step on the opposite
shore, and are launched at once into the bustle and novelties of another
world.
In traveling by land t
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/6963