Journeys Through Bookland, Vol. 4
by Charles Herbert Sylvester · English · Gutenberg #7013 · 705,550 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Journeys Through Bookland, Vol. 4
Author: Charles Herbert Sylvester
Release date: December 1, 2004 [eBook #7013]
Most recently updated: December 30, 2020
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7013
Credits: Produced by William Koven, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOURNEYS THROUGH BOOKLAND, VOL. 4 ***
Produced by William Koven, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
JOURNEYS THROUGH BOOKLAND
A New and Original Plan For Reading Applied To The World's Best
Literature For Children
BY
CHARLES H. SYLVESTER
Author of English and American Literature
VOLUME FOUR
CONTENTS
BETTER THAN GOLD ......................................... Father Ryan
My HEART LEAPS UP.................................. William Wordsworth
THE BAREFOOT BOY ............................. John Greenleaf Whittier
RAIN ON THE ROOF ....................................... Coates Kinney
CID CAMPEADOR
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG ..................... Oliver Goldsmith
MOTHER'S WAY ............................................. Father Ryan
SONG OF THE BROOK .................................... Alfred Tennyson
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW ........................... Grace E. Sellon
FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS ....................... Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
To H. W. L. ..................................... James Russell Lowell
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH .................... Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS ................. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
A DOG OF FLANDERS ................................. Louise de la Ramee
ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY ................................... Anna McCaleb
NEARER HOME .............................................. Phoebe Cary
PICTURES OF MEMORY ........................................ Alice Cary
THE ESCAPE FROM PRISON ........................... Sir Samuel W. Baker
STORIES OF THE CREATION
THE DEFINITION OF A GENTLEMAN ........................ Cardinal Newman
THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER .................................. Alexander Pope
INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP .......................... Robert Browning
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE .................................. Grace E. Sellon
THE PINE-TREE SHILLINGS........................... Nathaniel Hawthorne
LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND .. Felicia Browne Hemans
THE SUNKEN TREASURE .............................. Nathaniel Hawthorne
THE HUTCHINSON MOB ............................... Nathaniel Hawthorne
THE BOSTON MASSACRE .............................. Nathaniel Hawthorne
SHERIDAN'S RIDE ................................. Thomas Buchanan Read
JOAN OF ARC ........................................ Thomas de Quincey
PANCRATIUS .......................................... Cardinal Wiseman
ALFRED THE GREAT ..................................... Charles Dickens
THE BURIAL OF MOSES .......................... Cecil Frances Alexander
BERNARDO DEL CARPIO ................................... Felicia Hemans
DAVID
CHEVY-CHASE ........................................... Richard Sheale
THE ATTACK ON THE CASTLE ............................ Sir Walter Scott
THE DEATH OF HECTOR ............................... From Homer's Iliad
THE WOODEN HORSE ................................ From Vergil's Aeneid
JOHN BUNYAN
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS ................................... John Bunyan
AWAY ............................................ James Whitcomb Riley
LITTLE GIFFIN OF TENNESSEE
LITTLE BREECHES ............................................. John Hay
THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL" ........................... W. S. Gilbert
KATEY'S LETTER ......................................... Lady Dufferin
THE ARICKARA INDIANS ............................... Washington Irving
ILLUSTRATIONS
REBECCA AT THE WINDOW (Color Plate) Louis Grell
THE BAREFOOT BOY Iris Weddell White
RAIN ON THE ROOF Lucille Enders
RODRIGO AND THE LEPER Donn P. Crane
MARTIN PELAEZ SLEW A GOOD KNIGHT Donn P. Crane
ALVAR FANEZ WENT His WAY TO CASTILL Donn P. Crane
THE DEFEAT OF ALMOFALEZ Donn P. Crane
THEY WENT OUT FROM VALENCIA AT MIDNIGHT Donn P. Crane
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (Halftone)
HOME OF LONGFELLOW AT CAMBRIDGE (Halftone)
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH Herbert N. Rudeen
HE BOUND HER TO THE MAST G. H. Mitchell
RESCUE OF PATRASCHE Holling Clancy
NELLO AND PATRASCHE Holling Clancy
NELLO LEFT HIS PICTURE AT THE DOOR Holling Clancy
ALICE CARY (Halftone)
IN THAT DIM OLD FOREST Mildred Lyon
ANCHOR Louis Grell
HE SLIPPED A GUINEA INTO HER HAND Louis Grell
HE WRENCHED THE BAR ASUNDER Louis Grell
LEONTINE Louis Grell
"WE'VE GOT YOU RATISBON!" Herbert N. Rudeen
HAWTHORNE'S WAYSIDE (Halftone)
HANDFUL AFTER HANDFUL WAS THROWN IN Mildred Lyon
UP CAME TREASURE IN ABUNDANCE Herbert N. Rudeen
"FATHER, DO YOU NOT HEAR?" Herbert N. Rudeen
THE RIOTERS BROKE INTO THE HOUSE Herbert N. Rudeen
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE (Halftone)
THE SOLDIERS FIRED Herbert N. Rudeen
THE STEED SWEPT ON Herbert N. Rudeen
JOAN OF ARC (Halftone)
ALFRED ALLOWS THE CAKES TO BURN Louis Grell
DAVID MEETS GOLIATH Louis Grell
SAUL SOUGHT TO SMITE DAVID Louis Grell
JONATHAN SHOOTS THE ARROWS Louis Grell
DAVID AND JONATHAN Louis Grell
THE MAN RUNNETH ALONE Louis Grell
"IS THE YOUNG MAN, ABSALOM, SAFE?" Louis Grell
IVANHOE WAS IMPATIENT AT HIS INACTIVITY Louis Grell
THE BLACK KNIGHT AT THE GATE OF THE CASTLE Louis Grell
ULRICA LOCKS THE DOOR Louis Grell
BEFORE HIS BREAST THE FLAMING SHIELD HE BEARS Roy Appel
THE WOODEN HORSE Roy Appel
LAOCOÖN (Halftone)
ULYSSES OUTWITTED THE CYCLOPS Arthur Henderson
ULYSSES GAVE THE ARROW WING Arthur Henderson
JOHN BUNYAN (Halftone)
HE LOOKED NOT BEHIND HIM Donn P. Crane
IN THE SLOUGH OR DESPOND Donn P. Crane
THE FIGHT WITH APOLLYON Donn P. Crane
IN DOUBTING CASTLE Donn P. Crane
THE CELESTIAL CITY Donn P. Crane
WENT TEAM, LITTLE BREECHES, AND ALL Herbert N. Rudeen
"FOR DON'T YOU SEE THAT YOU CAN'T COOK ME?" Herbert N. Rudeen
TRADING FOR HORSES R. F. Babcock
RETURN OF THE WARRIORS R. F. Babcock
BETTER THAN GOLD
Better than grandeur, better than gold,
Than rank and titles a thousand fold,
Is a healthy body, a mind at ease,
And simple pleasures' that always please.
A heart that can feel for another's woe,
And share his joys with a genial glow,
With sympathies large enough to enfold
All men as brothers, is better than gold.
Better than gold is a conscience clear,
Though toiling for bread in an humble sphere,
Doubly blessed with content and health,
Untried by the lusts and cares of wealth,
Lowly living and lofty thought
Adorn and ennoble a poor man's cot;
For mind and morals in nature's plan
Are the genuine tests of a gentleman.
Better than gold is the sweet repose
Of the sons of toil when the labors close;
Better than gold is the poor man's sleep,
And the balm that drops on his slumbers deep.
Bring sleeping draughts to the downy bed,
Where luxury pillows its aching head,
The toiler simple opiate deems
A shorter route to the land of dreams.
Better than gold is a thinking mind,
That in the realm of books can find
A treasure surpassing Australian ore,
And live with the great and good of yore.
The sage's lore and the poet's lay,
The glories of empires passed away;
The world's great drama will thus unfold
And yield a pleasure better than gold.
Better than gold is a peaceful home
Where all the fireside characters come,
The shrine of love, the heaven of life,
Hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife.
However humble the home may be,
Or tried with sorrow by heaven's decree,
The blessings that never were bought or sold,
And center there, are better than gold.
MY HEART LEAPS UP
_By_ WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
THE BAREFOOT BOY
_By_ JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy,--
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art,--the grown-up man
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye,--
Outward sunshine, inward joy;
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
O for boyhood's painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee's morning chase,
Of the wild flower's time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole's nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries blow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;
Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!
For, eschewing books and tasks
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy,--
Blessings on the barefoot boy!
O for boyhood's time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,--
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!
Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
O for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread;
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O'er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frogs' orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from they feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat;
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt's for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil
Up and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
RAIN ON THE ROOF
[Footnote: Coates Kinney, born in New York in 1826, gives this account
of the way in which the song came to be written: "The verses were
written when I was about twenty years of age, as nearly as I can
remember. They were inspired close to the rafters of a little story-
and-a-half frame house. The language, as first published, was not
composed, it came. I had just a little more to do with it than I had
to do with the coming of the rain. This poem, in its entirety, came
to me and asked me to put it down, the next afternoon, in the course
of a solitary and aimless wandering through a summer wood."]
When the humid showers hover
Over all the starry spheres
And the melancholy darkness
Gently weeps in rainy tears,
What a bliss to press the pillow
Of a cottage-chamber bed,
And to listen to the patter
Of the soft rain overhead!
Every tinkle on the shingles.
Has an echo in the heart:
And a thousand dreamy fancies
Into busy being start,
And a thousand recollections
Weave their air-threads into woof,
As I listen to the patter
Of the rain upon the roof.
Now in memory comes my mother,
As she was long years agone,
To regard the darling dreamers
Ere she left them till the dawn:
O! I see her leaning o'er me,
As I list to this refrain
Which is played upon the shingles
By the patter of the rain.
Then my little seraph sister,
With her wings and waving hair,
And her star-eyed cherub brother--
A serene, angelic pair!--
Glide around my wakeful pillow,
With their praise or mild reproof,
As I listen to the murmur
Of the soft rain on the roof.
Art hath naught of tone or cadence
That can work with such a spell
In the soul's mysterious fountains,
Whence the tears of rapture well,
As that melody of Nature,
That subdued, subduing strain
Which is played upon the shingles
By the patter of the rain.
CID CAMPEADOR
INTRODUCTION
The national hero of Spain is universally known as the Cid, and around
his name have gathered tales as marvelous as those of King Arthur and
his Knights of the Round Table. Some historians have doubted the
existence of the Cid, while others, whom we may prefer to believe, give
him a distinct place in history. According to the latter, he was a
descendant of one of the noblest families of Castile, and as early as
1064 his name is mentioned as that of a great warrior. So far as we are
concerned, we need not discuss the matter, for it is our purpose to see
him as a great hero whose name stood for honor and bravery, and whose
influence upon the youth of Spain has been wonderful. Accordingly, we
must know the Cid as he appears in song and story rather than as he is
known in history.
There are several prose chronicles in Spanish, which tell the story of
the Cid, and numberless poems and legends. The English poet, Robert
Southey, has given us the best translation of these, and from his
famous work, _Chronicle of the Cid_, we take the selections which are
printed in this volume. According to the Spanish accounts, Rodrigo
was born in 1026 in Burgos, the son of Diego Laynez, who was then the
head of the house of Layn Calvo. As a youth he was strong in arms and
of high repute among his friends, for he early bestirred himself to
protect the land from the Moors.
While Rodrigo was still in his early youth, his father was grievously
insulted and struck in the face by Count Don Gomez. Diego was a man so
old that his strength had passed from him, and he could not take
vengeance, but retired to his home to dwell in solitude and lament over
his dishonor. He took no pleasure in his food, neither could he sleep
by night nor would he lift up his eyes from the ground, nor stir out of
his house, nor commune with his friends, but turned from them in
silence as if the breath of his shame would taint them. The Count was a
mighty man in arms and so powerful that he had a thousand friends among
the mountains. Rodrigo, young as he was, considered this power as
nothing when he thought of the wrong done to his father, and determined
to take his own revenge. His father, seeing of how good heart he was,
gave him his sword and his blessing. Rodrigo went out, defied the
Count, fought with and killed him, and cutting off his head carried it
home. The old man was sitting at table, the food lying before him
untasted, when Rodrigo returned, and, pointing to the head which hung
from the horse's collar, dropping blood, bade him look up, saying,
"Here is the herb which will restore to you your appetite. The tongue
which insulted you is no longer a tongue, the hand no longer a hand."
Then the old man arose, embraced his son and placed him above him at
the table, saying, "The man who brought home that head must be the head
of the house of Layn Calvo."
At about this time, the king, Don Ferrando, who honors upon Rodrigo for
his success against the Moors, called him to aid against the King of
Aragon, who claimed the city of Calahorra, but had consented to let the
ownership of the city rest upon a trial by combat between two of their
greatest knights. The King of Aragon chose Don Martin Gonzalez, and Don
Ferrando, Rodrigo. The latter was well pleased at the prospect of the
battle, but before the day of the combat he started on a pilgrimage,
which he had previously vowed.
[Illustration: RODRIGO AND THE LEPER]
"Rodrigo forthwith set out upon the road, and took with him twenty
knights. And as he went he did great good, and gave alms, feeding the
poor and needy. And upon the way they found a leper, struggling in a
quagmire, who cried out to them with a loud voice to help him for the
love of God; and when Rodrigo heard this, he alighted from his beast
and helped him, and placed him upon the beast before him, and carried
him with him in this manner to the inn where he took up his lodging
that night. At this were his knights little pleased. And when supper
was ready he bade his knights take their seats, and he took the leper
by the hand, and seated him next himself, and ate with him out of the
same dish. The knights were greatly offended at this foul sight,
insomuch that they rose up and left the chamber. But Rodrigo ordered a
bed to be made ready for himself and for the leper, and they twain
slept together. When it was midnight and Rodrigo was fast asleep, the
leper breathed against him between his shoulders, and that breath was
so strong that it passed through him, even through his breast; and he
awoke, being astounded, and felt for the leper by him, and found him
not; and he began to call him, but there was no reply. Then he arose in
fear, and called for light, and it was brought him; and he looked for
the leper and could see nothing; so he returned into the bed, leaving
the light burning. And he began to think within himself what had
happened, and of that breath which had passed through him, and how the
leper was not there. After a while, as he was thus musing, there
appeared before him one in white garments, who said unto him, 'Sleepest
thou or wakest thou, Rodrigo?' and he answered and said, 'I do not
sleep: but who art thou that bringest with thee such brightness and so
sweet an odour?' Then said he, 'I am Saint Lazarus, and know that I was
a leper to whom thou didst so much good and so great honour for the
love of God; and because thou didst this for His sake hath God now
granted thee a great gift; for whensoever that breath which thou hast
felt shall come upon thee, whatever thing thou desirest to do, and
shalt then begin, that shalt thou accomplish to thy heart's desire,
whether it be in battle or aught else, so that thy honour shall go on
increasing from day to day; and thou shalt be feared both by Moors and
Christians, and thy enemies shall never prevail against thee, and thou
shalt die an honourable death in thine own house, and in thy renown,
for God hath blessed thee,--therefore go thou on, and evermore
persevere in doing good;' and with that he disappeared. And Rodrigo
arose and prayed to our lady and intercessor St. Mary, that she would
pray to her blessed son for him to watch over both his body and soul in
all his undertakings; and he continued in prayer till the day broke.
Then he proceeded on his way, and performed his pilgrimage, doing much
good for the love of God and of St. Mary."
Rodrigo was successful in his combat against Martin Gonzalez, and after
the death of the latter rose much higher in esteem with King Ferrando.
At no time was Rodrigo unworthy of his confidence, so that finally the
king knighted him after this manner: The king girded on his sword and
gave him the kiss, but not the blow. Usually this blow was given with
the hand upon the neck, at which time the king said, "Awake, and sleep
not in the affairs of knighthood." The king omitted this, knowing that
Rodrigo needed no such command. To do the new knight more honour, the
queen gave him his horse and her daughter fastened on his spurs. From
that day he was called Ruydiez. Ruy is merely an abbreviation of
Rodrigo, and Ruydiez means Rodrigo the son of Diego. Thereafter the
king commanded him to knight nine noble squires with his own hand, and
he took his sword before the altar and knighted them.
It was soon after this that there came to the king messengers from the
Moors, whom Ruydiez had overpowered, all bringing him tribute and
praising the generous treatment he had accorded them after his victory.
At the same time they called him _Cid_, which meant _lord_, and from
this time on by the king's orders Ruydiez vas called _The Cid_, because
the Moors had so named him. To this name is added the word _Campeador_,
which means _The Conqueror_.
The remaining incidents from the life of The Cid are taken directly
from Southey's _Chronicle of the Cid_.
THE CID MAKES A BRAVE MAN OF A COWARD
Here the history relates that Martin Pelaez, the Asturian, came with a
convoy of laden beasts, carrying provisions to the host of the Cid; and
as he passed near the town the Moors sallied out in great numbers
against him; but he, though he had few with him, defended the convoy
right well, and did great hurt to the Moors, slaying many of them, and
drove them into the town. This Martin Pelaez, who is here spoken of,
did the Cid make a right good knight of a coward, as ye shall hear.
When the Cid first began to lay siege to the city of Valencia, this
Martin Pelaez came unto him; he was a knight, a native of Santillana in
Asturias, a hidalgo, great of body and strong of limb, a well-made man
of goodly semblance, but withal a right coward at heart, which he had
shown in many places when he was among feats of arms. And the Cid was
sorry when he came unto him, though he would not let him perceive this;
for he knew he was not fit to be of his company. Howbeit he thought
that since he was come, he would make him brave, whether he would or
not.
And when the Cid began to war upon the town, and sent parties against
it twice and thrice a day, as ye have heard, for the Cid was alway upon
the alert, there was fighting and tourneying every day. One day it fell
out that the Cid and his kinsmen and friends and vassals were engaged
in a great encounter, and this Martin Pelaez was well armed; and when
he saw that the Moors and Christians were at it, he fled and betook
himself to his lodging, and there hid himself till the Cid returned to
dinner. And the Cid saw what Martin Pelaez did, and when he had
conquered the Moors he returned to his lodging to dinner.
Now it was the custom of the Cid to eat at a high table, seated on his
bench, at the head. And Don Alvar Fañez, and Pero Bermudez, and other
precious knights, ate in another part, at high tables, full honourably,
and none other knights whatsoever dared take their seats with them,
unless they were such as deserved to be there; and the others who were
not so approved in arms ate upon estrados, at tables with cushions.
This was the order in the house of the Cid, and every one knew the
place where he was to sit at meat, and every one strove all he could to
gain the honour of sitting to eat at the table of Don Alvar Fañez and
his companions, by strenuously behaving himself in all feats of arms;
and thus the honour of the Cid was advanced. This Martin Pelaez,
thinking that none had seen his badness, washed his hands in turn with
the other knights, and would have taken his place among them.
And the Cid went unto him, and took him by the hand and said, "You are
not such a one as deserves to sit with these, for they are worth more
than you or than me; but I will have you with me:" and he seated him
with himself at table.
And he, for lack of understanding, thought that the Cid did this to
honour him above all the others.
On the morrow the Cid and his company rode towards Valencia, and the
Moors came out to the tourney; and Martin Pelaez went out well armed,
and was among the foremost who charged the Moors, and when he was in
among them he turned the reins, and went back to his lodging; and the
Cid took heed to all that he did, and saw that though he had done badly
he had done better than the first day.
And when the Cid had driven the Moors into the town he returned to his
lodging, and as he sat down to meat he took this Martin Pelaez by the
hand, and seated him with himself, and bade him eat with him in the
same dish, for he had deserved more that day than he had the first.
And the knight gave heed to that saying, and was abashed; howbeit he
did as the Cid commanded him; and after he had dined he went to his
lodging and began to think upon what the Cid had said unto him, and
perceived that he had seen all the baseness which he had done; and then
he understood that for this cause he would not let him sit at board
with the other knights who were precious in arms, but had seated him
with himself, more to affront him than to do him honour, for there were
other knights there better than he, and he did not show them that
honour. Then resolved he in his heart to do better than he had done
heretofore.
Another day the Cid and his company and Martin Pelaez rode toward
Valencia, and the Moors came out to the tourney full resolutely, and
Martin Pelaez was among the first, and charged them right boldly; and
he smote down and slew presently a good knight, and he lost there all
the bad fear which he had had, and was that day one of the best knights
there; and as long as the tourney lasted there he remained, smiting and
slaying and overthrowing the Moors, till they were driven within the
gates, in such manner that the Moors marveled at him, and asked where
that devil came from, for they had never seen him before.
And the Cid was in a place where he could see all that was going on,
and he gave good heed to him, and had great pleasure in beholding him,
to see how well he had forgotten the great fear which he was wont to
have. And when the Moors were shut up within the town, the Cid and all
his people returned to their lodging, and Martin Pelaez full leisurely
and quietly went to his lodging also, like a good knight.
[Illustration: MARTIN PELAEZ SLEW A GOOD KNIGHT]
And when it was the hour of eating, the Cid waited for Martin Pelaez;
and when he came, and they had washed, the Cid took him by the hand and
said, "My friend, you are not such a one as deserves to sit with me
from henceforth, but sit you here with Don Alvar Fañez, and with these
other good knights, for the good feats which you have done this day
have made you a companion for them"; and from that day forward he was
placed in the company of the good.
And the history saith that from that day forward this knight, Martin
Pelaez, was a right good one, and a right valiant, and a right
precious, in all places where he chanced among feats of arms, and he
lived alway with the Cid, and served him right well and truly. And the
history saith, that after the Cid had won the city of Valencia, on the
day when they conquered and, discomfited the king of Seville, this
Martin Pelaez was so good a one, that setting aside the body of the Cid
himself, there was no such good knight there, nor one who bore such
part, as well in the battle as in the pursuit. And so great was the
mortality which he made among the Moors that day, that when he returned
from the business the sleeves of his mail were clotted with blood, up
to the elbow; insomuch that for what he did that day his name is
written in this history, that it may never die.
And when the Cid saw him come in that guise, he did him great honour,
such as he never had done to any knight before that day, and from
thenceforward gave him a place in all his actions and in all his
secrets, and he was his great friend. In this knight Martin Pelaez was
fulfilled the example which saith, that he who betaketh himself to a
good tree, hath good shade, and he who serves a good lord winneth good
guerdon; for by reason of the good service which he did the Cid, he
came to such good state that he was spoken of as ye have heard; for the
Cid knew how to make a good knight, as a good groom knows how to make a
good horse.
THE CID DEFEATS TWO MOORISH KINGS
And my Cid lay before Alcocer fifteen weeks; and when he saw that the
town did not surrender, he ordered his people to break up their camp,
as if they were flying, and they left one of their tents behind them,
and took their way along the Salon, with their banners spread. And when
the Moors saw this they rejoiced greatly, and there was a great stir
among them, and they praised themselves for what they had done in
withstanding him, and said that the Cid's bread and barley had failed
him, and he had fled away, and left one of his tents behind him. And
they said among themselves, "Let us pursue them and spoil them, for if
they of Teruel should be before us, the honour and the profit will be
theirs, and we shall have nothing." And they went out after him, great
and little, leaving the gates open and shouting as they went; and there
was not left in the town a man who could bear arms.
And when my Cid saw them coming he gave orders to quicken their speed,
as if he was in fear, and would not let his people turn till the Moors
were far enough from the town. But when he saw that there was a good
distance between them and the gates, then he bade his banner turn, and
spurred towards them, crying, "Lay on, knights, by God's mercy the
spoil is our own." God! what a good joy was theirs that morning! My
Cid's vassals laid on without mercy--in one hour, and in a little
space, three hundred Moors were slain, and the Cid and Alvar Fañez had
good horses and got between them and the castle, and stood in the
gateway sword in hand, and there was a great mortality among the Moors;
and my Cid won the place, and Pero Bermudez planted his banner upon the
highest point of the castle. And the Cid said, "Blessed be God and all
his saints, we have bettered our quarters both for horses and men."
And he said to Alvar Fañez and all his knights, "Hear me, we shall get
nothing by killing these Moors; let us take them and they shall show us
their treasures which they have hidden in their houses, and we will
dwell here and they shall serve us." In this manner did my Cid win
Alcocer, and take up his abode therein.
Much did this trouble the Moors of Teca, and it did not please those of
Teruel, nor of Calatayud. And they sent to the king of Valencia to tell
him that one who was called Ruydiez the Cid, whom King Don Alfonso had
banished, was come into their country, and had taken Alcocer; and if a
stop were not put to him, the king might look upon Teca and Teruel and
Calatayud as lost, for nothing could stand against him, and he had
plundered the whole country, along the Salon on the one side, and the
Siloca on the other. When the king of Valencia, whose name was Alcamin,
heard this, he was greatly troubled; and incontinently he spake unto
two Moorish kings, who were his vassals, bidding them take three
thousand horsemen, and all the men of the border, and bring the Cid to
him alive, that he might make atonement to him for having entered his
land.
Fariz and Galve were the names of these two Moorish kings and they set
out with companies of King Alcamin from Valencia, and halted the first
night in Segorve, and the second night at Celfa de Canal. And they sent
their messengers through the land to all the Councils thereof, ordering
all men at arms, as well horsemen as footmen, to join them, and the
third night they halted at Calatayud, and great numbers joined them;
and they came up against Alcocer, and pitched their tents round about
the castle. Every day their host increased, for their people were many
in number, and their watchmen kept watch day and night; and my Cid had
no succour to look for except the mercy of God, in which he put his
trust. And the Moors beset them so close that they cut off their water,
and albeit the Castillians would have sallied against them, my Cid
forbade this. In this guise were my Cid and his people besieged for
three weeks, and when the fourth week began, he called for Alvar Fañez,
and for his company, and said unto them, "Ye see that the Moors have
cut off our water, and we have but little bread; they gather numbers
day by day, and we become weak, and they are in their own country. If
we would depart they would not let us, and we cannot go out by night
because they have beset us round about on all sides, and we cannot pass
on high through the air, neither through the earth which is underneath.
Now then, if it please you, let us go out and fight with them, though
they are many in number, and either defeat them or die an honourable
death."
Then Minaya answered and said, "We have left the gentle land of
Castille, and are come hither as banished men, and if we do not beat
the Moors they will not give us food*. Now though we are but few, yet
are we of a good stock, and of one heart and one will; by God's help
let us go out and smite them to-morrow, early in the morning, and you
who are not in a state of penitence go and shrieve yourselves and
repent ye of your sins." And they all held that what Alvar Fañez had
said was good. And my Cid answered, "Minaya, you have spoken as you
should do." Then ordered he all the Moors, both men and women, to be
thrust out of the town, that it might not be known what they were
preparing to do; and the rest of that day and the night also they
passed in making ready for the battle. And on the morrow at sunrise the
Cid gave his banner to Pero Bermudez, and bade him bear it boldly like
a good man as he was, but he charged him not to thrust forward with it
without his bidding. And Pero Bermudez kissed his hand, being well
pleased. Then leaving only two foot soldiers to keep the gates, they
issued out; and the Moorish scouts saw them and hastened to the camp.
Then was there such a noise of tambours as if the earth would have been
broken, and the Moors armed themselves in great haste. Two royal
banners were there, and five city ones, and they drew up their men in
two great bodies, and moved on, thinking to take my Cid and all his
company alive; and my Cid bade his men remain still and not move till
he should bid them.
Pero Bermudez could not bear this, but holding the banner in his hand,
he cried, "God help you, Cid Campeador; I shall put your banner in the
middle of that main body; and you who are bound to stand by it--I shall
see how you will succour it." And he began to prick forward. And the
Campeador called unto him to stop as he loved him, but Pero Bermudez
replied he would stop for nothing, and away he spurred and carried his
banner into the middle of the great body of the Moors. And the Moors
fell upon him, that they might win the banner, and beset him on all
sides, giving him many great blows to beat him down; nevertheless his
arms were proof, and they could not pierce them, neither could they
beat him down, nor force the banner from him, for he was a right brave
man, and a strong, and a good horseman, and of great heart. And when
the Cid saw him thus beset he called to his people to move on and help
him. Then placed they their shields before their hearts, and lowered
their lances with the streamers thereon, and bending forward, rode on.
Three hundred lances were they, each with its pendant, and every man at
the first charge slew his Moor. "Smite them, knights, for the love of
charity," cried the Campeador. "I am Ruydiez, the Cid of Bivar!"
Many a shield was pierced that day, and many a false corselet was
broken, and many a white streamer dyed with blood, and many a horse
left without a rider. The Misbelievers called on Mahomet, and the
Christians on Santiago, and the noise of the tambours and of the
trumpets was so great that none could hear his neighbour. And my Cid
and his company succoured Pero Bermudez, and they rode through the host
of the Moors, slaying as they went, and they rode back again in like
manner; thirteen hundred did they kill in this guise. Wherever my Cid
went, the Moors made a path before him, for he smote them down without
mercy. And while the battle still continued, the Moors killed the horse
of Alvar Fañez, and his lance was broken, and he fought bravely with
his sword afoot. And my Cid, seeing him, came up to an Alguazil who
rode upon a good horse, and smote him with his sword under the right
arm, so that he cut him through and through, and he gave the horse to
Alvar Fañez saying, "Mount, Minaya, for you are my right hand."
When Alvar Fañez was thus remounted, they fell upon the Moors again,
and by this time the Moors were greatly disheartened, having suffered
so great loss, and they began to give way. And my Cid, seeing King
Fariz, made towards him, smiting down all who were in his way; and he
came up to him, and made three blows at him; two of them failed, but
the third was a good one, and went through his cuirass, so that the
blood ran down his legs. And with that blow was the army of the Moors
vanquished, for King Fariz, feeling himself so sorely wounded, turned
his reins and fled out of the field, even to Teruel. And Martin
Antolinez, the good Burgalese, came up to King Galve, and gave him a
stroke on the head, which scattered all the carbuncles out of his
helmet, and cut through it even to the skin; and the king did not wait
for another such, and he fled also. A good day was that for
Christendom, for the Moors fled on all sides. King Fariz got into
Teruel, and King Galve fled after him, but they would not receive him
within the gates, and he went on to Calatayud. And the Christians
pursued them even to Calatayud. And Alvar Fañez had a good horse; four
and thirty did he slay in that pursuit with the edge of his keen sword,
and his arm was all red, and the blood dropt from his elbow. And as he
was returning from the spoil he said, "Now am I well pleased, for good
tidings will go to Castille, how my Cid has won a battle in the field."
My Cid also turned back; his coif was wrinkled, and you might see his
full beard; the hood of his mail hung down upon his shoulders, and the
sword was still in his hand. He saw his people returning from the
pursuit, and that of all his company fifteen only of the lower sort
were slain, and he gave thanks to God for this victory. Then they fell
to the spoil, and they found arms in abundance, and great store of
wealth; and five hundred and ten horses. And he divided the spoil,
giving to each man his fair portion, and the Moors whom they had put
out of Alcocer before the battle, they now received again into the
castle, and gave to them also a part of the booty, so that all were
well content. And my Cid had great joy with his vassals.
Then the Cid called unto Alvar Fañez and said, "Cousin, you are my
right hand, and I hold it good that you should take of my fifth as much
as you will, for all would be well bestowed upon you;" but Minaya
thanked him, and said, that he would take nothing more than his share.
And the Cid said unto him, "I will send King Don Alfonso a present from
my part of the spoils. You shall go into Castille, and take with you
thirty horses, the best which were taken from the Moors, all bridled
and saddled, and each having a sword hanging from the saddle-bow; and
you shall give them to the King, and kiss his hand for me, and tell him
that we know how to make our way among the Moors. And you shall take
also this bag of gold and silver, and purchase for me a thousand masses
in Saint Mary's at Burgos, and hang up there these banners of the
Moorish kings whom we hare overcome. Go then to Saint Pedro's at
Cardena, and salute my wife Doña Ximena, and my daughters, and tell
them how well I go on, and that if I live I will make them rich women.
And salute for me the Abbot Don Sebuto, and give him fifty marks of
silver; and the rest of the money, whatever shall be left, give to my
wife, and bid them all pray for me." Moreover the Cid said unto him,
"This country is all spoiled, and we have to help ourselves with sword
and spear. You are going to gentle Castille; if when you return you
should not find us here, you will hear where we are."
[Illustration: ALVAR FAÑEZ WENT HIS WAY TO CASTILLE]
Alvar Fañez went his way to Castille, and he found the king in
Valladolid, and he presented to him the thirty horses, with all their
trappings, and swords mounted with silver hanging from the saddle-bows.
And when the king saw them, before Alvar Fañez could deliver his
bidding, he said unto him, "Minaya, who sends me this goodly present?"
And Minaya answered, "My Cid Ruydiez, the Campeador, sends it, and
kisses by me your hands. For since you were wroth against him, and
banished him from the land, he being a man disherited, hath helped
himself with his own hands, and hath won from the Moors the Castle of
Alcocer. And the king of Valencia sent two kings to besiege him there,
with all his power, and they begirt him round about, and cut off the
water and bread from us so that we could not subsist. And then holding
it better to die like good men in the field, than shut up like bad
ones, we went out against them, and fought with them in the open field,
and smote them and put them to flight; and both the Moorish kings were
sorely wounded, and many of the Moors were slain, and many were taken
prisoners, and great was the spoil which we won in the field, both of
captives and of horses and arms, gold and silver and pearls, so that
all who are with him are rich men. And of his fifth of the horses which
were taken that day, my Cid hath sent you these, as to his natural
lord, whose favour he desireth. I beseech you, as God shall help you,
show favour unto him."
Then King Don Alfonso answered, "This is betimes in the morning for a
banished man to ask favour of his lord; nor is it befitting a king, for
no lord ought to be wroth for so short a time. Nevertheless, because
the horses were won from the Moors, I will take them, and rejoice that
my Cid hath sped so well. And I pardon you, Minaya, and give again unto
you all the lands which you have ever held of me, and you have my
favour to go when you will, and come when you will. Of the Cid
Campeador, I shall say nothing now, save only that all who chuse to
follow him may freely go, and their bodies and goods and heritages are
safe." And Minaya said, "God grant you many and happy years for his
service. Now I beseech you, this which you have done for me, do also to
all those who are in my Cid's company, and show favour unto them." And
the king gave order that it should be so. Then Minaya kissed the king's
hand and said, "Sir, you have done this now, and you will do the rest
hereafter."
In three weeks time after this came Alvar Fañez from Castille. Two
hundred men of lineage came with him, every one of whom wore sword girt
to his side, and the foot soldiers in their company were out of number.
When my Cid saw Minaya he rode up to him, and embraced him without
speaking, and kissed his mouth and the eyes in his head. And Minaya
told him all that he had done. And the face of the Campeador
brightened, and he gave thanks to God, and said, "It will go well with
me, Minaya, as long as you, live!" God, how joyful was that whole host
because Alvar Fañez was returned! for he brought them greetings from
their kinswomen and their brethren, and the fair comrades whom they had
left behind. God, how joyful was my Cid with the fleecy beard, that
Minaya had purchased the thousand masses, and had brought him the
biddings of his wife and daughters! God, what a joyful man was he!
THE CID DOES BATTLE WITH DON RAMON BERENGUER
When Don Ramon Berenguer the Count of Barcelona heard how my Cid was
overrunning the country, it troubled him to the heart, and he held it
for a great dishonour, because that part of the land of the Moors was
in his keeping. And he spake boastfully, saying, "Great wrong doth that
Cid of Bivar offer unto me; he smote my nephew in my own court and
never would make amends for it, and now he ravages the lands which are
in my keeping, and I have never defied him for this nor renounced his
friendship; but since he goes on in this way I must take vengeance." So
he and King Abenalfange gathered together a great power both of Moors
and Christians, and went in pursuit of the Cid, and after three days
and two nights they came up with him in the pine-forest of Tebar, and
they came on confidently, thinking to lay hands on him. Now my Cid was
returning with much spoil, and had descended from the Sierra into the
valley when tidings were brought him that Count Don Ramon Berenguer and
the King of Denia were at hand, with a great power, to take away his
booty, and take or slay him. And when the Cid heard this he sent to Don
Ramon saying, that the booty which he had won was none of his, and
bidding him let him go on his way in peace; but the Count made answer,
that my Cid should now learn whom he had dishonoured, and make amends
once for all.
Then my Cid sent the booty forward, and bade his knights make ready.
"They are coming upon us," said he, "with a great power, both of Moors
and Christians, to take from us the spoils which we have so hardly won,
and without doing battle we cannot be quit of them; for if we should
proceed they would follow till they overtook us; therefore let the
battle he here, and I trust in God that we shall win more honour, and
something to boot. They came down the hill, drest in their hose, with
their gay saddles, and their girths wet; we are with our hose covered
and on our Galician saddles; a hundred such as we ought to beat their
whole company. Before they get upon the plain ground let us give them
the points of our lances; for one whom we run through, three will jump
out of their saddles; and Ramon Berenguer will then see whom he has
overtaken to-day in the pine-forest of Tebar, thinking to despoil him
of the booty which I have won from the enemies of God and of the
faith."
While my Cid was speaking, his knights had taken their arms, and were
ready on horseback for the charge. Presently they saw the pendants of
the Frenchmen coming down the hill, and when they were nigh the bottom,
my Cid bade his people charge, which they did with a right good will,
thrusting their spears so stiffly that by God's good pleasure not a man
whom they encountered but lost his seat. So many were slain and so many
wounded that the Moors were dismayed forthwith, and began to fly. The
Count's people stood firm a little longer, gathering round their Lord;
but my Cid was in search of him, and when he saw where he was, he made
up to him, clearing the way as he went, and gave him such a stroke with
his lance that he felled him down to the ground. When the Frenchmen saw
their Lord in this plight they fled away and left him; and the pursuit
lasted three leagues, and would have been continued farther if the
conquerors had not had tired horses. So they turned back and collected
the spoils, which were more than they could carry away. Thus was Count
Ramon Berenguer made prisoner, and my Cid won from him that day the
good sword Colada, which was worth more than a thousand marks of
silver.
That night did my Cid and his men make merry, rejoicing over their
gains. And the Count was taken to my Cid's tent, and a good supper was
set before him; nevertheless he would not eat, though my Cid besought
him so to do. And on the morrow my Cid ordered a feast to be made, that
he might do pleasure to the Count, but the Count said that for all
Spain he would not eat one mouthful, but rather die, since he had been
beaten in battle by such a set of ragged fellows.
And Ruydiez said to him, "Eat and drink, Count, of this bread and of
this wine, for this is the chance of war; if you do as I say you shall
be free; and if not you will never return again into your own lands."
And Don Ramon answered, "Eat you, Don Rodrigo, for your fortune is fair
and you deserve it; take you your pleasure, but leave me to die." And
in this mood he continued for three days, refusing all food.
But then my Cid said to him, "Take food, Count, and be sure that I will
set you free, you and any two of your knights, and give you wherewith
to return into your own country." And when Don Ramon heard this, he
took comfort and said, "If you will indeed do this thing I shall marvel
at you as long as I live." "Eat then," said Ruydiez, "and I will do it;
but mark you, of the spoil which we have taken from you I will give you
nothing; for to that you have no claim, neither by right nor custom,
and besides we want it for ourselves, being banished men, who must live
by taking from you and from others as long as it shall please God."
Then was the Count full joyful, being well pleased that what should be
given him was not of the spoils which he had lost; and he called for
water and washed his hands, and chose two of his kinsmen to be set free
with him; the one was named Don Hugo, and the other Guillen Bernalto.
And my Cid sate at the table with them, and said, "If you do not eat
well, Count, you and I shall not part yet." Never since he was Count
did he eat with better will than that day! And when they had done he
said, "Now, Cid, if it be your pleasure let us depart." And my Cid
clothed him and his kinsmen well with goodly skins and mantles, and
gave them each a goodly palfrey, with rich caparisons, and he rode out
with them on their way. And when he took leave of the Count he said to
him, "Now go freely, and I thank you for what you have left behind; if
you wish to play for it again let me know, and you shall either have
something back in its stead, or leave what you bring to be added to
it."
The Count answered, "Cid, you jest safely now, for I have paid you and
all your company for this twelvemonths, and shall not be coming to see
you again so soon."
Then Count Ramon pricked on more than apace, and many times looked
behind him, fearing that my Cid would repent what he had done, and send
to take him back to prison, which the Perfect one would not have done
for the whole world, for never did he do disloyal thing.
THE CID PUNISHES ALMOFALEZ, AND IS RECONCILED TO THE KING
Now Zulema had sent for my Cid, and the cause was this. His brother,
the King of Denia, had taken counsel with Count Ramon Berenguer, and
with the Count of Cardona, and with the brother of the Count of Urgel,
and with the chiefs of Balsadron and Remolin and Cartaxes, that they
should besiege the Castle of Almenar, which my Cid had fortified by
command of King Zulema. And they came up against it while my Cid was
away, besieging the Castle of Estrada, which is in the rivers Tiegio
and Sege, the which he took by force. And they fought against it and
cut off the water. And when my Cid came to the king at Tamarit, the
king asked him to go and fight with the host which besieged Almenar;
but my Cid said it would be better to give something to King
Abenalfange that he should break up the siege and depart; for they were
too great a power to do battle with, being as many in number as the
sands on the sea shore. And the King did as he counselled him, and sent
to his brother King Abenalfange, and to the chiefs who were with him,
to propose this accord, and they would not.
Then my Cid, seeing that they would not depart for fair means, armed
his people, and fell upon them. That was a hard battle and well fought
on both sides, and much blood was shed, for many good knights on either
party were in the field; howbeit he of good fortune won the day at
last, he who never was conquered. King Abenalfange and Count Ramon and
most of the others fled, and my Cid followed, smiting and slaying for
three leagues; and many good Christian knights were made prisoners.
Ruydiez returned with great honour and much spoil, and gave all his
prisoners to King Zulema, who kept them eight days, and then my Cid
begged their liberty and set them free. And he and the king returned to
Zaragoza, and the people came out to meet them, with great joy, and
shouts of welcome. And the king honoured my Cid greatly, and gave him
power in all his dominions.
At this time it came to pass that Almofalez, a Moor of Andalusia, rose
up with the Castle of Rueda, which was held for King Don Alfonso. And
because he held prisoner there the brother of Adefir, another Moor,
Adefir sent to the King of Castille, beseeching him to come to succour
him, and recover the Castle. And the King sent the Infante Don Ramiro
his cousin, and the Infante Don Sancho, son to the King of Navarre, and
Count Don Gonzalo Salvadores, and Count Don Nuño Alvarez, and many
other knights with them: and they came to the Castle, and Almofalez
said he would not open the gates to them, but if the king came he would
open to him. And when King Don Alfonso heard this, incontinently he
came to Rueda. And Almofalez besought him to enter to a feast which he
had prepared; howbeit the King would not go in, neither would his
people have permitted him so to have risked his person. But the Infante
Don Sancho entered, and Don Nuño, and Don Ganzalo, and fifteen other
knights; and as soon as they were within the gate, the Moors threw down
great stones upon them and killed them all. This was the end of the
good Count Don Gonzalo Salvadores, who was so good a knight in battle
that he was called "He of the Four Hands." The bodies were ransomed,
seeing that there was no remedy, the Castle being so strong, and Don
Gonzalo was buried in the Monastery of Ona, according as he had
appointed in his will; and the Infante Don Sancho with his forefathers
the Kings of Navarre, in the royal Monastery of Naxara.
Greatly was King Don Alfonso troubled at this villainy, and he sought
for the Cid, who was in those parts; and the Cid came to him with a
great company. And the king told him the great treason which had been
committed, and took the Cid into his favour, and said unto him that he
might return with him into Castille. My Cid thanked him for his bounty,
but he said he never would accept his favour unless the king granted
what he should request; and the king bade him make his demand. And my
Cid demanded that when any hidalgo should be banished, in time to come,
he should have the thirty days, which were his right, allowed him, and
not nine only, as had been his case; and that neither hidalgo nor
citizen should be proceeded against till they had been fairly and
lawfully heard: also, that the king should not go against the
privileges and charters and good customs of any town or other place,
nor impose taxes upon them against their right; and if he did, that it
should be lawful for the land to rise against him, till he had amended
the misdeed.
And to all this the king accorded, and said to my Cid that he should go
back into Castille with him; but my Cid said he would not go into
Castille till he had won that castle of Rueda, and delivered the
villainous Moors thereof into his hands, that he might do justice upon
them.
So the king thanked him greatly, and returned into Castille, and my Cid
remained before the castle of Rueda. And he lay before it so long, and
beset it so close, that the food of the Moors failed, and they had no
strength to defend themselves; and they would willingly have yielded
the castle, so they might have been permitted to leave it and go
whither they would; but he would have their bodies, to deliver them up
to the king. When they saw that it must be so, great part of them came
out, and yielded themselves prisoners; and then my Cid stormed the
castle and took Almofalez and them who held with him, so that none
escaped; and he sent him and his accomplices in the treason to the
king. And the king was right glad when they were brought before him,
and he did great justice upon them, and sent to thank my Cid for having
avenged him.
[Illustration: The Defeat of Almofalez]
After my Cid had done this good service to King Don Alfonso, he and
King Zulema of Zaragoza entered Aragon, slaying, and burning, and
plundering before them, and they returned to the Castle of Monzon with
great booty. Then the Cid went into King Abenalfange's country, and did
much mischief there: and he got among the mountains of Moriella, and
beat down everything before him, and destroyed the Castle of Moriella.
And King Zulema sent to bid him build up the ruined Castle of Alcala,
which is upon Moriella; and the Cid did so. But King Abenalfange, being
sorely grieved hereat, sent to King Pedro of Aragon, and besought him
to come and help him against the Campeador. And the king of Aragon
gathered together a great host in his anger, and he and the king of
Denia came against my Cid, and they halted that night upon the banks of
the Ebro; and King Don Pedro sent letters to the Cid, bidding him leave
the castle which he was then edifying. My Cid made answer, that if the
king chose to pass that way in peace, he would let him pass, and show
him any service in his power. And when the king of Aragon saw that he
would not forsake the work, he marched against him, and attacked him.
Then there was a brave battle, and many were slain; but my Cid won the
day, and King Abenalfange fled, and King Don Pedro was taken prisoner,
and many of his counts and knights with him. My Cid returned to
Zaragoza with this great honour, taking his prisoners with him; and he
set them all freely at liberty, and having tarried in Zaragoza a few
days, set forth for Castille, with great riches and full of honours.
Having done all these things in his banishment, my Cid returned to
Castille, and the king received him well and gave him the Castle of
Dueñas, and of Orcejon, and Ybia, and Campo, and Gaña, and Berviesca,
and Berlanga, with all their districts. And he gave him privileges with
leaden seals appendant, and confirmed with his own hand, that whatever
castles, towns, and places he might win from the Moors, or from any one
else, should be his own, quit and free for ever, both for him and for
his descendants. Thus was my Cid received into the king's favour, and
he abode with him long time, doing him great services, as his Lord.
THE DEATH OF THE CID
It is written in the history which Abenalfarax, the nephew of Gil Diaz,
composed in Valencia, that for five years the Cid Ruydiez remained Lord
thereof in peace, and in all that time he sought to do nothing but to
serve God, and to keep the Moors quiet who were under his dominion; so
that Moors and Christians dwelt together in such accord that it seemed
as if they had always been united; and they all loved and served the
Cid with such good will that it was marvelous. And when these five
years were over tidings were spread far and near, which reached
Valencia, that King Bucar, the Miramamolin of Morocco, holding himself
disgraced because the Cid Campeador had conquered him in the field of
Quarto near unto Valencia, where he had slain or made prisoners all his
people, and driven him into the sea, and made spoil of all his
treasures--King Bucar calling these things to mind, had gone himself
and stirred up the whole Paganism of Barbary to cross the sea again,
and avenge himself if he could; and he had assembled so great a power
that no man could devise their numbers.
When the Cid heard these tidings he was troubled at heart; howbeit he
dissembled this, so that no person knew what he was minded to do; and
thus the matter remained for some days. And when he saw that the news
came thicker and faster, and that it was altogether certain that King
Bucar was coming over sea against him, he sent and bade all the Moors
of Valencia assemble together in his presence, and when they were all
assembled he said unto them, "Good men of the Aljama, ye well know that
from the day wherein I became Lord of Valencia, ye have always been
protected and defended, and have past your time well and peaceably in
your houses and heritages, none troubling you nor doing you wrong;
neither have I who am your Lord ever done aught unto you that was
against right. And now true tidings are come to me that King Bucar of
Morocco is arrived from beyond sea, with a mighty power of Moors, and
that he is coming against me to take from me this city which I won with
so great labour. Now therefore, seeing it is so, I hold it good and
command that ye quit the town, both ye and your sons and your women,
and go into the suburb of Alcudia and the other suburbs, to dwell there
with the other Moors, till we shall see the end of this business
between me and King Bucar." Then the Moors, albeit they were loath,
obeyed his command: and when they were all gone out of the city, so
that none remained, he held himself safer than he had done before.
Now after the Moors were all gone out of the city, it came to pass in
the middle of the night that the Cid was lying in his bed, devising how
he might withstand this coming of King Bucar, for Abenalfarax saith
that when he was alone in his palace his thoughts were of nothing else.
And when it was midnight there came a great light into the palace, and
a great odour, marvelous sweet. And as he was marveling what it might
he, there appeared before him a man as white as snow; he was in the
likeness of an old man, with gray hair and crisp, and he carried
certain keys in his hand; and before the Cid could speak to him he
said, "Sleepest thou, Rodrigo, or what art thou doing?" And the Cid
made answer, "What man art thou who askest me?" And he said, "I am
Peter, the Prince of the Apostles, who come unto thee with more urgent
tidings than those for which thou art taking thought concerning King
Bucar, and it is, that thou art to leave this world, and go to that
which hath no end; and this will be in thirty days. But God will show
favour unto thee, so that thy people shall discomfit King Bucar, and
thou, being dead, shalt win this battle for the honour of thy body:
this will be with the help of Santiago, whom God will send to the
business; but do thou strive to make atonement for thy sins, and so
thou shalt be saved. All this Jesus Christ vouchsafeth thee for the
love of me, and for the reverence which thou hast alway shown to my
Church."
When the Cid Campeador heard this he had great pleasure at heart, and
he let himself fall out of bed upon the earth, that he might kiss the
feet of the Apostle St. Peter; but the Apostle said, "Strive not to do
this, for thou canst not touch me; but be sure that all this which I
have told thee will come to pass." And when the blessed Apostle had
said this he disappeared, and the palace remained full of a sweeter and
more delightful odour than heart of man can conceive. And the Cid
Ruydiez remained greatly comforted by what St. Peter had said to him,
and as certain that all this would come to pass, as if it were already
over.
Early on the morrow he sent to call all his honourable men to the
Alcazar; and when they were all assembled before him, he began to say
unto them, weeping the while, "Friends and kinsmen and true vassals and
honourable men, many of ye must well remember when King Don Alfonso our
Lord twice banished me from this land, and most of ye for the love
which ye bore me followed me into banishment, and have guarded me ever
since. And God hath shown such mercy to you and to me, that we have won
many battles against Moors and Christians; those which were against
Christians, God knows, were more through their fault than my will, for
they strove to set themselves against the good fortune which God had
given me, and to oppose his service, helping the enemies of the faith.
Moreover we won this city in which we dwell, which is not under the
dominion of any man in the world, save only my Lord the King Don
Alfonso, and that rather by reason of our natural allegiance than of
anything else. And now I would have ye know the state in which this
body of mine now is; for be ye certain that I am in the latter days of
my life, and that thirty days hence will be my last. Of this I am well
assured; for for these seven nights past I have seen visions. I have
seen my father Diego Laynez and Diego Rodriguez my son; and every time
they say to me, 'You have tarried long here, let us go now among the
people who endure for ever.' Now, notwithstanding man ought not to put
his trust in these things, nor in such visions, I know this by other
means to be certain, for Sir St. Peter hath appeared to me this night,
when I was awake and not sleeping, and he told me that when these
thirty days were over I should pass away from this world. Now ye know
for certain that King Bucar is coming against us, and they say that
thirty and six Moorish kings are coming with him; and since he bringeth
so great a power of Moors and I have to depart so soon, how can ye
defend Valencia! But be ye certain, that by the mercy of God I shall
counsel ye so that ye shall conquer King Bucar in the field, and win
great praise and honour from him, and Doña Ximena, and ye and all that
ye have, go hence in safety; how ye are to do all this I will tell ye
hereafter, before I depart."
After the Cid said this he sickened of the malady of which he died. And
the day before his weakness waxed great, he ordered the gates of the
town to be shut, and went to the Church of St. Peter; and there the
Bishop Don Hieronymo being present, and all the clergy who were in
Valencia, and the knights and honourable men and honourable dames, as
many as the Church could hold, the Cid Ruydiez stood up, and made a
full noble preaching, showing that no man whatsoever, however
honourable or fortunate they may be in this world, can escape death;
"to which," said he, "I am now full near; and since ye know that this
body of mine hath never yet been conquered, nor put to shame, I beseech
ye let not this befall it at the end, for the good fortune of man is
only accomplished at his end. How this is to be done, and what we all
have to do, I will leave in the hands of the Bishop of Don Hieronymo,
and Alvar Fañez, and Pero Bermudez." And when he had said this he
placed himself at the feet of the Bishop, and there before all the
people made a general confession of all his sins, and all the faults
which he had committed against our Lord Jesus Christ. And the Bishop
appointed him his penance and assoyled him of his sins.
Then he arose and took leave of the people, weeping plenteously, and
returned to the Alcazar, and betook himself to his bed, and never rose
from it again; and every day he waxed weaker and weaker, till seven
days only remained of the time appointed. Then he called for the
caskets of gold in which was the balsam and the myrrh which the Soldan
of Persia had sent him; and when these were put before him he bade them
bring him the golden cup, of which he was wont to drink; and he took of
that balsam and of that myrrh as much as a little spoonful, and mingled
it in the cup with rose-water and drank of it; and for the seven days
which he lived he neither ate nor drank aught else than a little of
that myrrh and balsam mingled with water. And every day after he did
this, his body and his countenance appeared fairer and fresher than
before, and his voice clearer, though he waxed weaker and weaker daily,
so that he could not move in his bed.
On the twenty-ninth day, being the day before he departed, he called
for Dona Ximena, and for the Bishop Don Hieronymo, and Don Alvar Fañez
Minaya, and Pero Bermudez, and his trusty Gil Diaz; and when they were
all five before him, he began to direct them what they should do after
his death; and he said to them:
"Ye know that King Bucar will presently be here to besiege this city,
with seven and thirty Kings, whom he bringeth with him, and with a
mighty power of Moors.
"Now, therefore, the first thing which ye do after I have departed,
wash my body with rose-water many times and well, as blessed be the
name of God it is washed within and made pure of all uncleanness to
receive his holy body to-morrow, which will be my last day. And when it
has been well washed and made clean, ye shall dry it well, and anoint
it with this myrrh and balsam, from these golden caskets, from head to
foot, so that every part shall be anointed, till none be left.
"And you my Sister Doña Ximena, and your women, see that ye utter no
cries, neither make any lamentation for me, that the Moors may not know
of my death. And when the day shall come in which King Bucar arrives,
order all the people of Valencia to go upon the walls, and sound your
trumpets and tambours, and make the greatest rejoicings that ye can.
"And when ye would set out for Castille, let all the people know in
secret, that they make themselves ready, and take with them all that
they have, so that none of the Moors in the suburb may know thereof;
for certes ye cannot keep the city, neither abide therein after my
death. And see ye that sumpter beasts be laden with all that there is
in Valencia, so that nothing which can profit may be left. And this I
leave especially to your charge, Gil Diaz.
"Then saddle ye my horse Bavieca, and arm him well; and ye shall
apparel my body full seemlily, and place me upon the horse, and fasten
and tie me thereon so that it cannot fall; and fasten my sword Tizona
in my hand. And let the Bishop Don Hieronymo go on one side of me, and
my trusty Gil Diaz on the other, and he shall lead my horse. You, Pero
Bermudez, shall bear my banner, as you were wont to bear it; and you,
Alvar Fañez, my cousin, gather your company together, and put the host
in order as you are wont to do. And go ye forth and fight with King
Bucar; for be ye certain and doubt not that ye shall win this battle;
God hath granted me this. And when ye have won the fight, and the Moors
are discomfited, ye may spoil the field at pleasure. Ye will find great
riches."
Then the Cid Ruydiez, the Campeador of Bivar, bade the Bishop Don
Hieronymo give him the body of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, and
he received it with great devotion, on his knees, and weeping before
them all.
Then he sate up in his bed and called upon God and St. Peter, and began
to pray, saying, "Lord Jesus Christ, thine is the power, and the
kingdom, and thou art above all kings and all nations, and all kings
are at thy command. I beseech ye, therefore, pardon me my sins and let
my soul enter into the light which hath no end."
And when the Cid Ruydiez had said this, he yielded up his soul, which
was pure and without spot, to God, on that Sunday which is called
Quinquagesima, being the twenty and ninth of May, in the year of our
Lord one thousand and ninety and nine, and in the seventy and third
year of his life.
THE LAST VICTORY
Three days after the Cid had departed King Bucar came into the port of
Valencia, and landed with all his power, which was so great that there
is not a man in the world who could give account of the Moors whom he
brought. And there came with him thirty and six kings, and one Moorish
queen, who was a negress, and she brought with her two hundred
horsewomen, all negresses like herself, all having their hair shorn
save a tuft on the top, and this was in token that they came as if upon
a pilgrimage, and to obtain the remission of their sins; and they were
all armed in coats of mail and with Turkish bows. King Bucar ordered
his tents to be pitched round about Valencia, and Abenalfarax, who
wrote this history in Arabic, saith that there were full fifteen
thousand tents; and he bade that Moorish negress with her archers to
take their station near the city.
And on the morrow they began to attack the city, and they fought
against it three days strenuously, and the Moors received great loss,
for they came blindly up to the walls and were slain there. And the
Christians defended themselves right well; and every time that they
went upon the walls, they sounded trumpets and tambours, and made great
rejoicings, as the Cid had commanded. This continued for eight days or
nine, till the companions of the Cid had made ready everything for
their departure, as he had commanded. And King Bucar and his people
thought that the Cid dared not come out against them; and they were the
more encouraged and began to think of making bastiles and engines
wherewith to combat the city, for certes they weened that the Cid
Ruydiez dared not come out against them, seeing that he tarried so
long. All this while the company of the Cid were preparing all things
to go into Castille, as he had commanded before his death; and his
trusty Gil Diaz did nothing else but labour at this. And the body of
the Cid was prepared after this manner: first it was embalmed and
anointed as the history hath already recounted, and the virtue of the
balsam and myrrh was such that the flesh remained firm and fair, having
its natural color, and his countenance as it was wont to be, and the
eyes open, and his long beard in order, so that there was not a man who
would have thought him dead if he had seen him and not known it.
And on the second day after he had departed, Gil Diaz placed the body
upon a right noble saddle, and this saddle with the body upon it he put
upon a frame; and he dressed the body in a gambax of fine sendal, next
the skin. And he took two boards and fitted them to the body, one to
the breast and the other to the shoulders; these were so hollowed out
and fitted that they met at the sides and under the arms, and the hind
one came up to the pole, and the other up to the beard; and these
boards were fastened into the saddle, so that the body could not move.
All this was done by the morning of the twelfth day; and all that day
the people of the Cid were busied in making ready their arms, and in
loading beasts with all that they had, so that they left nothing of any
price in the whole city of Valencia, save only the empty houses. When
it was midnight they took the body of the Cid, fastened to the saddle
as it was, and placed it upon his horse Bavieca, and fastened the
saddle well; and the body sat so upright and well that it seemed as if
he was alive. And it had on painted hose of black and white, so
cunningly painted that no man who saw them would have thought but that
they were greaves and cuishes, unless he had laid his hand upon them,
and they put on it a surcoat of green sendal, having his arms blazoned
thereon, and a helmet of parchment, which was cunningly painted that
every one might have believed it to be iron; and his shield was hung
round his neck, and they placed the sword Tizona in his hand, and they
raised his arm, and fastened it up so subtilely that it was a marvel to
see how upright he held the sword. And the Bishop Don Hieronymo went on
one side of him, and the trusty Gil Diaz on the other, and he led the
horse Bavieca, as the Cid had commanded him.
[Illustration: THEY WENT OUT FROM VALENCIA AT MIDNIGHT]
And when all this had been made ready, they went out from Valencia at
midnight, through the gate of Roseros, which is towards Castille. Pero
Bermudez went first with the banner of the Cid, and with him five
hundred knights who guarded it, all well appointed. And after these
came all the baggage. Then came the body of the Cid, with an hundred
knights, all chosen men, and behind them Doña Ximena with all her
company, with six hundred knights in the rear. All these went out so
silently, and with such a measured pace, that it seemed as if there
were only a score. And by the time that they had all gone out it was
broad day.
Now Alvar Fañez Minaya had set the host in order, and while the Bishop
Don Hieronymo and Gil Diaz led away the body of the Cid, and Doña
Ximena, and the baggage, he fell upon the Moors. First, he attacked the
tents of that Moorish queen, the negress, who lay nearest to the city;
and this onset was so sudden, that they killed full a hundred and fifty
Moors before they had time to take arms or go to horse. But that Moorish
negress was so skillful in drawing the Turkish bow, that it was held for
a marvel; and it is said that they called her in Arabic Nugueymat Turya,
which is to say, _the Star of the Archers_. And she was the first that
got on horseback, and with some fifty that were with her, did some hurt
to the company of the Cid; but in time they slew her, and her people
fled to the camp. And so great was the uproar and confusion, that few
there were who took arms, but instead thereof they turned their backs
and fled toward the sea.
And when King Bucar and his kings saw this, they were astonished. And
it seemed to them that there came against them on the part of the
Christians full seventy thousand knights, all as white as snow; and
before them a knight of great stature, upon a white horse with a bloody
cross, who bore in one hand a white banner, and in the other a sword
which seemed to be of fire, and he made a great mortality among the
Moors who were flying. And King Bucar and the other kings were so
greatly dismayed that they never checked the reins till they had ridden
into the sea; and the company of the Cid rode after them, smiting and
slaying and giving them no respite; and they smote down so many that it
was marvelous, for the Moors did not turn their heads to defend
themselves. And when they came to the sea, so great was the press among
them to get to the ships, that more than ten-thousand died in the
water. And of the six and thirty kings, twenty and two were slain. And
King Bucar and they who escaped with him hoisted sails and went their
way.
Then Alvar Fañez and his people, when they had discomfited the Moors,
spoiled the field, and the spoil thereof was so great that they could
not carry it away. And they loaded camels and horses with the noblest
things which they found, and went after the Bishop Don Hieronymo and
Gil Diaz, who, with the body of the Cid, and Doña Ximena, and the
baggage, had gone on till they were clear of the host, and then waited
for those who were gone against the Moors. And so great was the spoil
of that day, that there was no end to it: and they took up gold, and
silver, and other precious things as they rode through the camp, so
that the poorest man among the Christians, horseman or on foot, became
rich with what he won that day.
THE BURIAL
On the third day after the coming of King Don Alfonso, they would have
interred the body of the Cid; but when the king heard what Doña Ximena
had said, that while it was so fair and comely it should not be laid in
a coffin, he held that what she said was good. And he sent for the
ivory chair which had been carried to the Cortes of Toledo, and gave
order that it should be placed on the right of the altar of St. Peter;
and he laid a cloth of gold upon it, and upon that placed a cushion
covered with a right noble tartari, and he ordered a graven tabernacle
to be made over the chair, richly wrought with azure and gold, having
thereon the blazonry of the kings of Castille and Leon, and the king of
Navarre, and the Infante of Aragon, and of the Cid Ruydiez the
Campeador. And he himself, and the king of Navarre, and the Infante of
Aragon, and the Bishop Don Hieronymo, to do honor to the Cid, helped to
take his body from between the two boards, in which it had been
fastened at Valencia. And when they had taken it out, the body was so
firm that it bent not on either side, and the flesh so firm and comely,
that is seemed as if he were yet alive. And the king thought that what
they purported to do and had thus begun, might full well be effected.
And they clad the body in a full noble tartari, and in cloth of purple,
which the Soldan of Persia had sent him, and put him on hose of the
same, and set him in his ivory chair; and in his left hand they placed
his sword Tizona in its scabbard, and the strings of his mantle in his
right. And in this fashion the body of the Cid remained there ten years
and more, till it was taken thence, as the history will relate anon.
And when his garments waxed old, other good ones were put on.
Now Don Garcia Tellez, the abbot, and the trusty Gil Diaz, were wont
every year to make a great festival on the day of the Cid's departure,
and on that anniversary they gave food and clothing to the poor, who
came from all parts round about. And it came to pass when they made the
seventh anniversary, that a great multitude assembled as they were wont
to do, and many Moors and Jews came to see the strange manner of the
Cid's body. And it was the custom of the abbot Don Garcia Tellez, when
they made that anniversary, to make a right noble sermon to the people:
and because the multitude which had assembled was so great that the
church could not hold them, they went out into the open place before
the monastery, and he preached unto them there.
And while he was preaching there remained a Jew in the church, who
stopped before the body of the Cid, looking at him to see how nobly he
was there seated, having his countenance so fair and comely, and his
long beard in such goodly order, and his sword Tizona in its scabbard
in his left hand, and the strings of his mantle in his right, even in
such manner as King Don Alfonso had left him, save only that the
garments had been changed, it being now seven years since the body had
remained there in that ivory chair. Now there was not a man in the
church save this Jew, for all the others were hearing the preachment
which the abbot made. And when this Jew perceived that he was alone, he
began to think within himself and say, "This is the body of that
Ruydiez the Cid, whom they say no man in the world ever took by the
beard while he lived. . . . I will take him by the beard now, and see
what he can do to me." And with that he put forth his hand to pull the
beard of the Cid; . . . but before his hand could reach it, God who
would not suffer this thing to be done, sent his spirit into the body,
and the Cid let the strings of his mantle go from his right hand,
and laid hand on his sword Tizona, and drew it a full palm's length
out of the scabbard.
And when the Jew saw this, he fell upon his back for great fear, and
began to cry out so loudly, that all they who were without the church
heard him, and the abbot broke off his preachment and went into the
church to see what it might be. And when they came they found this Jew
lying upon his back before the ivory chair, like one dead, for he had
ceased to cry out, and had swooned away. And then the Abbot Don Garcia
Tellez looked at the body of the Cid, and saw that his right hand was
upon the hilt of the sword, and that he had drawn it out a full palm's
length; and he was greatly amazed.
And he called for holy water, and threw it in the face of the Jew, and
with that the Jew came to himself.
Then the abbot asked him what all this meant, and he told him the whole
truth; and he knelt down upon his knees before the abbot, and besought
him of his mercy that he would make a Christian of him, because of this
great miracle which he had seen, and baptize him in the name of Jesus
Christ, for he would live and die in his faith, holding all other to be
but error. And the abbot baptized him in the name of the Holy Trinity,
and gave him to name Diego Gil.
And all who were there present were greatly amazed, and they made a
great outcry and great rejoicings to God for this miracle, and for the
power which he had shown through the body of the Cid in this manner;
for it was plain that what the Jew said was verily and indeed true,
because the posture of the Cid was changed. And from that day forward
Diego Gil remained in the monastery as long as he lived, doing service
to the body of the Cid.
After that day the body of the Cid remained in the same posture, for
they never took his hand off the sword, nor changed his garments more,
and thus it remained three years longer, till it had been there ten
years in all. And then the nose began to change color. And when the
Abbot Don Garcia Tellez and Gil Diaz saw this, they weened that it was
no longer fitting for the body to remain in that manner. And three
bishops from the neighbouring provinces met there, and with many masses
and vigils, and great honour, they interred the body after this manner.
They dug a vault before the altar, beside the grave of Doña Ximena, and
vaulted it over with a high arch; and there they placed the body of the
Cid, seated as it was in the ivory chair, and in his garments, and with
the sword in his hand, and they hung up his shield and his banner upon
the walls.
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG
_By_ Oliver Goldsmith
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a Man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes,
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a Dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This Dog and Man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The Dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad and bit the Man.
Around from all the neighboring streets
The wond'ring neighbors ran,
And swore the Dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a Man.
The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the Dog was mad,
They swore the Man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied:
The Man recover'd of the bite,
The Dog it was that died.
MOTHER'S WAY
[Footnote: _From Father Ryan's Poems, copyright by P. J. Kennedy &
Sons, N. Y._]
_By_ FATHER RYAN
Oft within our little cottage,
As the shadows gently fall,
While the sunlight touches softly
One sweet face upon the wall,
Do we gather close together,
And in hushed and tender tone
Ask each other's full forgiveness
For the wrong that each has done.
Should you wonder why this custom
At the ending of the day,
Eye and voice would quickly answer:
"It was once our mother's way."
If our home be bright and cheery,
If it holds a welcome true,
Opening wide its door of greeting
To the many--not the few;
If we share our father's bounty
With the needy day by day,
'Tis because our hearts remember
This was ever mother's way.
Sometimes when our hands grow weary,
Or our tasks seem very long;
When our burdens look too heavy,
And we deem the right all wrong;
Then we gain a new, fresh courage,
And we rise to proudly say:
"Let us do our duty bravely--
This was our dear mother's way."
Then we keep her memory precious,
While we never cease to pray
That at last, when lengthening shadows
Mark the evening of our day,
They may find us waiting calmly
To go home our mother's way.
SONG OF THE BROOK
_By_ ALFRED 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 waterbreak
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 sunbeam 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.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
_By_ GRACE E. SELLON
Among the most distinguished and interesting buildings in the town of
Portland, Maine, is the rather severe-looking house built in the latter
part of the eighteenth century by General Peleg Wadsworth. From the
very date of its erection, this structure became the object of not a
little pride among the citizens of Portland as the first in the town to
be made of brick; but this local fame grew in the course of a century
to world-wide celebrity when the dwelling came to be known as the
childhood home of the most loved of American poets.
In 1808 the daughter of General Wadsworth, with her husband, Stephen
Longfellow, and their two little children, removed from the house in
the eastern part of Portland, where their second son, Henry, had been
born a little over a year before, to live in the Wadsworth home. There
the young mother, surrounded by the scenes endeared to her as those in
which her own youth had been spent, devoted herself to the care and
training of her children, while the father continued to pursue an
honorable career as a lawyer and able representative, in public
affairs, of the Federalist party. As the years passed, the little
family grew considerably until it came to consist of four girls and
five boys. Yet the mother found time for close companionship with all
of her children and active interest in the affairs of each. And the
father, though much occupied with duties outside of the home, watched
carefully the progress made by his boys and girls and tried to put in
their way the advantages that would help them to become rightminded and
useful men and women.
[Illustration: HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 1807-1882]
Indeed, so wholesome and well-ordered was the Longfellow home that it
must have been a pleasant place to look in upon when all the family had
assembled at evening in the living room. While the mother read perhaps
from a book of verse, for she was especially fond of poetry, and the
father gave himself up to some work on history, theology or law, the
children would study quietly for probably an hour or more. Then, their
lessons prepared, they would draw up in a little group to listen to a
story, possibly from the _Arabian Nights_, or would gather about the
piano in the parlor where Henry would sing to them the popular songs of
that day. Sometimes the music would become so irresistibly gay that the
children would begin to dance to its accompaniment and to awaken the
echoes of the staid old dwelling-house with sounds of unrestrained
delight that would have fallen with startling effect upon the ears of
their Puritan ancestors.
Always a leader in these amusements was Henry Longfellow. His lively
nature found especial delight in social pleasures. In fact, when he was
but eight months old his mother discovered that he wished "for nothing
so much as singing and dancing." Then, too, he was fond of playing
ball, of swimming, coasting and skating and of all the other ordinary
games and sports. However, he was an especially thoughtful boy, and
even from his earliest years was a very conscientious student and took
pride in making a good record at school. During the years passed at the
Portland Academy, where he was placed when six years old, he worked so
industriously and with such excellent results that although he found it
very hard--too hard in fact--to be perfect in deportment, his earnest
efforts were recognized by the master of the school who sent home from
time to time a _billet_ or short statement in which Henry's recitations
and his general conduct were highly praised. The _billet_ was a matter
of no small consequence to the boy, at least in the earliest part of his
school life, for in his first letter--a few lines written with much
labor when he was seven years old, and sent to his father in Boston--one
of the four sentences that make up the curt little note announces with
due pride, "I shall have a billet on Monday."
While the boy was pursuing his regular studies at school, he found
interest in reading other books than those required in his school
course--various English classics contained in his father's library.
Like the delight that he felt in such reading, was that which he found
in rambling through the woods on the outskirts of the town and about
the farms of his two grandfathers and of his uncle Stephenson. He liked
the quiet of natural scenes, and was moved with deep wonder by the
ever-changing beauty of the woods and fields, the ocean and the
mountains. Because of this genuine love for nature and his tender
regard for every living creature, he could not share his companions'
pleasure in hunting expeditions. Indeed, it is said that on one
occasion when he had shot a robin, he became so filled with pity and
sorrow for the little dead bird that he could never again take part in
such cruel sport.
It was not long before the effect of the combined influences of Henry
Longfellow's reading of classic poets and of his rambles about the
country surrounding his native town was made apparent in an event that
doubtless seemed to him then to be the most important that had befallen
in his career of thirteen years. He had been visiting his grandfather
Wadsworth at Hiram, and while there had gone to a near-by town where is
situated Lovell's Pond, memorable as the scene of a struggle with the
Indians.
Henry had been so moved by the story that he could relieve his feelings
only by telling it in verse. The four stanzas thus produced he so
longed to see in print that he could not resist the desire to convey
them secretly to the letter-box of the Portland _Gazette_, and deposit
them there with mingled hope and mistrust. With what keen expectation he
awaited the appearance of the newspaper perhaps only other youthful
authors in like positions can fully feel. When at length the paper
arrived, Henry must wait until his father had very deliberately opened
it, read its columns and then without comment had laid it aside, before
he could learn the fate of his verses.
But when, at length, he had the opportunity to scan the columns of the
paper, he forgot all his anxiety and the hard period of waiting. There
on the page before him he saw:
_The Battle of Lovell's Pond_
Cold, cold is the north wind and rude is the blast
That sweeps like a hurricane loudly and fast,
As it moans through the tall waving pines lone and drear,
Sings a requiem sad o'er the warrior's bier.
The war-whoop is still, and the savage's yell
Has sunk into silence along the wild dell;
The din of the battle, the tumult, is o'er
And the war-clarion's voice is now heard no more.
The warriors that fought for their country--and bled,
Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed;
No stone tells the place where their ashes repose,
Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes.
They died in their glory, surrounded by fame,
And Victory's loud trump their death did proclaim;
They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast,
And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.
_Henry_.
It is little wonder that through the day he read the verses again and
again and that his thoughts were filled with the excitement and joy of
success. That evening while visiting at the home of Judge Mellen, the
father of one of his closest friends, he was sitting interestedly
listening to a conversation on the subject of poetry, when he was
startled by seeing the judge take up the _Gazette_ and hearing him
say: "Did you see the piece in to-day's paper? Very stiff, remarkably
stiff; moreover, it is all borrowed, every word of it." So unexpected
and harsh was the censure that Henry felt almost crushed and could
hardly conceal his feelings until he could reach home. Not until he had
gone to bed and was shielded from all critical eyes did he give vent to
his bitter disappointment.
In the following year (1821), his course at the Academy having come to
an end, he took the entrance examinations for Bowdoin College. Though
both he and his elder brother passed these successfully, they did not
go to the College at Brunswick for another year. Henry then entered
upon his course of study with such earnestness and enthusiasm that in a
class, consisting of students several of whom later became notable, he
ranked as one of the first. Like his classmate Hawthorne, he was
especially devoted to the study of literature. So genial and courteous
was his bearing toward all, and such a lively interest did he take in
all the worthier activities of the life at the college, that though he
chose as his intimate friends only those whose tastes agreed with his
own, he was generally liked and admired.
Perhaps the success of his course at Bowdoin increased his confidence
in his ability to write for publication, though indeed it had been
proved that the outcome of his first venture along this line had not
after all destroyed the budding hopes of the young writer. For previous
to entering college he had continued to make contributions to the
_Gazette_. Other compositions in both prose and verse were now sent at
various times to the Portland periodical; and in October, 1824, appeared
in a Boston magazine entitled _The United States Literary Gazette_ the
first of a series of seventeen poems composed by _H. W. L._
A constant sympathizer and admirer during these early years of
authorship was Henry's friend William Browne, a boy whose literary
aspirations had led him to form with Henry, before the latter entered
Bowdoin, a sort of association by which various literary enterprises
were attempted. Indeed, it seems probable that at this time Henry
looked rather to such companions than to his parents for appreciation
of his developing ability. At all events, we find him writing to his
father in March, 1824:
"I feel very glad that I am not to be a physician--that there are quite
enough in the world without me. And now, as somehow or other this
subject has been introduced, I am curious to know what you do intend to
make of me--whether I am to study a profession or not; and if so, what
profession. I hope your ideas upon this subject will agree with mine,
for I have a particular and strong prejudice for one course of life, to
which you, I fear, will not agree. It will not be worth while for me to
mention what this is, until I become more acquainted with your own
wishes."
Later, however, urged by the unpleasant prospect of being compelled to
obey his father's desire that he become a lawyer, Henry decided that he
must express his own hopes quite plainly. In a letter of December,
1824, appears the passage:
"The fact is--and I will not disguise it in the least, for I think I
ought not--the fact is, I most eagerly aspire after future eminence in
literature; my whole soul burns most ardently for it, and every earthly
thought centers in it. There may be something visionary in this, but I
flatter myself that I have prudence enough to keep my enthusiasm from
defeating its own object by too great haste. Surely, there never was a
better opportunity offered for the exertion of literary talent in our
own country than is now offered. To be sure, most of our literacy men
thus far have not been professedly so, until they have studied and
entered the practice of theology, law, or medicine. But this is
evidently lost time. I do believe that we ought to pay more attention
to the opinion of philosophers, that 'nothing but Nature can qualify a
man for knowledge.'
"Whether Nature has given me any capacity for knowledge or not, she has
at any rate given me a very strong predilection for literary pursuits,
and I am almost confident in believing that, if I can ever rise in the
world, it must be by the exercise of my talent in the wide field of
literature. With such a belief, I must say that I am unwilling to
engage in the study of the law."
Nevertheless, Stephen Longfellow was not convinced by his son's words
of the wisdom of the course proposed, and at length replied in no
uncertain terms: "A literary life, to one who has the means of support,
must be very pleasant. But there is not wealth enough in this country
to afford encouragement and patronage to merely literary men. And as
you have not had the fortune (I will not say whether good or ill) to be
born rich, you must adopt a profession which will afford you
subsistence as well as reputation." In the same letter, however, he
granted willingly Henry's request to be allowed a year at Cambridge for
the study of general literature. In response, the young student, after
thanking his father for the privilege of the proposed attendance at
Cambridge, writes: "Nothing delights me more than reading and writing.
And nothing could induce me to relinquish the pleasures of literature,
little as I have yet tasted them. Of the three professions I should
prefer the law. I am far from being a fluent speaker, but practice must
serve as a talisman where talent is wanting. I can be a lawyer. This
will support my real existence, literature an _ideal_ one."
Henry's career at Bowdoin was now drawing to a close, and it is likely
that like most other students he regarded his graduation with some
degree of regret. For in addition to the deeper pleasure that he had
gained from his studies, he had found not a little enjoyment in the
social life at the college. His handsome appearance made him an
attractive figure at all gatherings; and his amiability and courtesy
caused him to be as well liked by the young women whom he met on these
occasions as by his classmates. In fact, the unusual refinement
expressed by his clear, fair complexion, the sincerity reflected in his
blue eyes, with their steadfast gaze, and the erect bearing of his
slender figure, won confidence and admiration everywhere.
Whatever anxiety Henry Longfellow may have felt in looking forward to
the period that lay beyond his graduation from Bowdoin College was
wholly cleared away by a most surprising event that occurred at the
time of the closing exercises. A gift of money had been made to the
college for the purpose of founding a Professorship of the Modern
Languages, and it was now decided to establish this position. It is
said that one of the trustees of the college who had been very
favorably impressed by Henry Longfellow's translation of an ode of
Horace, proposed that he be appointed to the new office. As a result,
it was made known to the young graduate that if he would prepare
himself by a period of study in Europe, the professorship would be his
to accept.
This unexpected good fortune was so gratifying to Henry's parents as
well as to himself that they decided at once to send him abroad at
their own expense. However, the plan could not be immediately carried
out; it was necessary to wait several months for a favorable sailing
season. The period of delay Henry spent partly in the composition of
various articles and poems, and partly in studying law. At length, when
spring was well advanced, he set sail from New York and a month later
reached the French city of Havre. Then began the period of three years
spent in travel through France, Spain, Italy and Germany, during which
he gave himself diligently to the study of the languages and
literatures of these countries and to extensive observation of manners
and customs, works of art, points of historic interest and to all else
that is of value to an eager, open-minded student. Thus he imbibed much
of the national spirit of these lands and came into such vital
appreciation of this spirit as it is expressed in literature that later
he was able to become a most successful translator and to use foreign
legends with excellent effect in his own compositions.
During his second year abroad, in the midst of most satisfactory
progress, Henry received from his father the startling news that
Bowdoin College had withdrawn the offer of the professorship. The
mingled feelings thus awakened, and especially the reserve strength of
the young man's character, are made plain in his reply:
"I assure you, my dear father, I am very indignant at this. They say I
am too young! Were they not aware of this three years ago? If I am not
capable of performing the duties of the office, they may be very sure
of my not accepting it. I know not in what light they may look upon it,
but for my own part, I do not in the least regard it as a favor
conferred upon me. It is no sinecure; and if my services are an
equivalent for my salary, there is no favor done me; if they be not, I
do not desire the situation. . . . I feel no kind of anxiety for my
future prospects. Thanks to your goodness, I have received a good
education. I know you cannot be dissatisfied with the progress I have
made in my studies. I speak honestly, not boastingly. With the French
and Spanish languages I am familiarly conversant, so as to speak them
correctly, and write them with as much ease and fluency as I do the
English. The Portuguese I read without difficulty. And with regard to
my proficiency in the Italian, I have only to say that all at the hotel
where I lodge took me for an Italian until I told them I was an
American."
Nevertheless, when Henry returned to Portland in the summer of 1829, he
received the appointment to the desired professorship at Bowdoin
College, and went to live at Brunswick. His success was assured from
the start, for he had thoroughly prepared himself for his work, was
enthusiastic in his desire to share with his classes the impressions
received from the culture of the Old World, and was so young in years
and at heart that he could readily awaken the interest and sympathy of
youthful students. The earnestness and industry with which he devoted
himself to his duties at this time may be judged from the following
extract from a letter dated June 27, 1830:
"I rise at six in the morning, and hear a French recitation of
Sophomores immediately. At seven I breakfast, and am then master of my
time till eleven, when I hear a Spanish lesson of Juniors. After that I
take a lunch; and at twelve I go into the library, where I remain till
one. I am then at leisure for the afternoon till five, when I have a
French recitation of Juniors. At six, I take coffee; then walk and
visit friends till nine; study till twelve, and sleep till six, when I
begin the same round again. Such is the daily routine of my life. The
intervals of college duty I fill up with my own studies. Last term I
was publishing text-books for the use of my pupils, in whom I take a
deep interest. This term I am writing a course of lectures on French,
Spanish and Italian literature. I shall commence lecturing to the two
upper classes in a few days. You see, I lead a very sober, jog-trot
kind of life. My circle of acquaintances is very limited. I am on very
intimate terms with three families, and that is quite enough. I like
intimate footings; I do not care for general society."
In the following year (1831) the routine of his life at Brunswick was
interrupted by his marriage with Mary Storer Potter, one of the most
beautiful and generally liked young women of Portland. Her education
and tastes were such that they enabled her to share heartily her
husband's interests, and this sympathetic association in the work to
which he was devoted seemed to fill the measure of the young
professor's happiness.
During the years spent in teaching at Bowdoin the career of Henry
Longfellow as a professional writer had run parallel with that of
teaching. In response to an invitation he had contributed various prose
articles to the _North American Review_ had written some poetry, and by
1835 had completed his _Outre-Mer_, a collection of prose sketches of
his travels.
Not long before the publication of this work the author had received a
most desirable offer of the Smith professorship of Modern Languages at
Harvard University, with a salary of fifteen hundred dollars a year. In
accepting the position the young man decided upon a trip abroad for the
purpose of further study. Accordingly, with his wife he set sail for
Hamburg in June, 1835. They stayed for a short time in London, where
they met Carlyle, traveled then to Stockholm and Copenhagen, where the
summer was passed in learning the Swedish and Danish languages, and in
October reached Amsterdam. Here Mrs. Longfellow fell ill, and while she
was recovering her husband undertook the study of Dutch. In Rotterdam
Mrs. Longfellow again became ill, and died in that city on October 29.
The loss fell so heavily upon Longfellow that he could not speak nor
write of it. However, he disciplined himself to work and spent several
months at Heidelberg, gaining a fuller knowledge of the German language
and literature. In this city he met for the first time the poet Bryant.
After traveling in Switzerland he returned to America late in 1836.
At the close of the same year he established himself at Cambridge, and
there began a career of large usefulness and success at Harvard
University. At the same time he wrote extensively both prose and verse,
and by the time of his third visit to Europe, in 1842, had produced the
prose romance _Hyperion_ as well as the volumes of verse entitled
_Voices of the Night_ and _Ballads and Other Poems_ and the drama _The
Spanish Student_.
At this period of his life, Longfellow's journals and letters show much
unrest and even at times a loss of interest in his work. His trip
abroad for his health did not restore the satisfaction and contentment
that he had once known. The needs of both heart and mind must be
supplied in order that he might be at peace. Consequently we are not
surprised by his marriage, in July, 1843, to Frances Appleton, the
heroine of the romance _Hyperion_, and a most admirable and attractive
young woman, fitted in every way to be the companion of the poet. The
couple went to live in the Craigie House [Footnote: This house is
celebrated not only as the poet's home but as having been at one time
the headquarters of Washington.] at Cambridge, and entered upon a life
of almost ideal domestic harmony.
Year after year passed, with little to mar the calm of the Longfellow
home. The professor's days were filled with lectures to the college
classes, with composition of original verse or translation from foreign
literature and with letter writing, answers to unnumbered requests for
autographs and calls from distinguished persons or from obscure but
aspiring writers. Only a man of rare patience and kindness would have
given such a great portion of his time as Longfellow gave during these
and all the subsequent years of his life to answering the many
inexcusable and often ridiculous requests for explanation of the
motives and meaning of his writings, for help in obtaining public
recognition, for criticism of poems that the writers submitted and for
a variety of other favors.
Often there were visits to the opera or attendance at concerts, always
in company with Mrs. Longfellow. Sometimes the day was darkened by the
illness of one of the children. Then again, with the little ones of the
household, the Harvard professor, casting aside his dignity, with all
serious cares, would enter with all, his heart into some childish game.
Such a good time did he have that he found it worth while to make in
his journal such entries as: "Worked hard with the children, making
snow-houses in the front yard, to their infinite delight;" "After
dinner had all the children romping in the haymow;" "Coasted with my
boys (Charles and Ernest) for two hours on the bright hill-side behind
the Catholic Church;" "After tea, read to the boys the Indian story of
_The Red Swan._" Frequently he accompanied on pleasure excursions
his three daughters, the young girls described for us in the familiar
lines:
"Grave Alice and laughing Allegra
And Edith with golden hair."
From time to time the journal records an idea for a poem or the
beginning of the work of composition, sometimes expressing the doubts
and fears that attend this beginning. Thus under date of November 16,
1845, is the statement:
"Before church, wrote 'The Arrow and the Song,' which came into my mind
as I stood with my back to the fire, and glanced on to the paper with
arrowy speed. Literally an improvisation."
Later, on November 28, is recorded: "Set about 'Gabrielle,'[Footnote:
The poem Evangeline, to which the poet at first intended to give the
title Gabrielle.] my idyl in hexameters, in earnest. I do not mean to
let a day go by without adding something to it, if it be but a single
line. F. and Sumner are both doubtful of the measure. To me it seems
the only one for such a poem." And again, on December 7, "I know not
what name to give to--not my new baby, but my new poem. Shall it be
'Gabrielle,' or 'Celestine,' or 'Evangeline'?" In the journal for 1854
is noted on June 22, "I have at length hit upon a plan for a poem on
the American Indian, which seems to me the right one and the only. It
is to weave together their beautiful traditions into a whole. I have
hit upon a measure, too, which I think the right and only one for such
a theme;" and on June 28, "Work at 'Manabozho'; or, as I think I shall
call it, 'Hiawatha,'--that being another name for the same personage."
As these literary projects came to fill more and more the poet's
thought, he began to feel increasingly hampered by the work of his
college classes. So urgent did the desire become to rid himself of
duties that grew constantly more irksome, that at length, in 1854, he
resigned his professorship. The mingled relief and regret thus afforded
are expressed in his journal under date of September 12: "Yesterday I
got from President Walker a note, with copy of the vote of the
Corporation, accepting my resignation, and expressing regrets at my
retirement. I am now free! But there is a good deal of sadness in the
feeling of separating one's self from one's former life."
For several years thereafter Longfellow's life flowed along peacefully.
These were most profitable years, for he was always an industrious
worker and would not allow moodiness or disinclination to work to
deprive him of opportunities for worthy labor. His three greatest
works, _Evangeline_, _Hiawatha_ and _The Courtship of Miles Standish_,
appeared at intervals of a few years. But this period of comparative
ease and quiet was brought to an abrupt close by the tragic death of
Mrs. Longfellow in 1861. Her dress had taken fire from a lighted match
that had fallen to the floor, and as a result she died the next day.
The poet's grief and feeling of loss were inexpressible, yet he
maintained an appearance of calm. After a long time he became able to
resume his work, and in the years that remained to him, he produced,
besides minor writings, the two series of _The Tales of a Wayside
Inn_. But he never ceased to miss the close companionship of his
wife. He found consolation in caring for his children, sharing alike
their pleasures and their more serious interests. Then, too, he had
several intimate friends whose affection was always a source of great
joy to him. With the exception of a fourth trip to Europe, he passed
the rest of his life quietly, giving to the world the fruits of his
matured poetic powers, continually extending kindly encouragement to
struggling writers, and dispensing charity without parade of his
kindness. So fully were all the promises of his youth realized in his
character and his intellectual life during this final period, that when
death came in 1882, after a brief period of illness, the people of his
own land and those of many other nations as well felt that a great and
good man had passed from earth.
One who reads the journal and the letters in which the home life of
Longfellow is plainly pictured is impressed perhaps even more than by
his poems with the fitness of his title, _The Children's Poet_. One
cannot fail to find, in such words as those in the following extract
from a letter, the gentleness of his regard for children: "My little
girls are flitting about my study, as blithe as two birds. They are
preparing to celebrate the birthday of one of their dolls; and on
the table I find this programme, in E.'s handwriting, which I purloin
and send to you, thinking it may amuse you. What a beautiful world this
child's world is! So instinct with life, so illuminated with
imagination! I take infinite delight in seeing it go on around me, and
feel all the tenderness of the words that fell from the blessed lips:
'Suffer the little children to come unto me.' After that benediction
how can any one dare to deal harshly with a child!" To this loving
interest children everywhere have responded. On the poet's seventy-
second birthday, about seven hundred children of Cambridge gave him an
armchair made of the chestnut-tree celebrated in _The Village
Blacksmith_. A poem was written in answer to the gift, and a copy of
this was given to every child who came to visit the poet and sit in his
chair. And children did come to visit him in great numbers. On one
occasion, in the summer of 1880, the journal records: "Yesterday I had
a visit from two schools: some sixty girls and boys, in all. It seems
to give them so much pleasure that it gives me pleasure." The last
letter that the poet is known to have written was one addressed to a
little girl who had sent him a poem on his seventy-fifth birthday; and
only four days before his death he received a visit from four Boston
boys in whose albums he placed his autograph.
The strongest claim to the high regard in which Longfellow's poems are
held is based on the very qualities that endear him to his child-
readers. All his life, even in the midst of affliction and sorrow, he
was governed by true, deep kindness for all living things, and by a
spirit of helpfulness that is the most beautiful thing expressed in his
poetry. Then, too, he was willing always to write simply, that all
might be benefited by his pure, high thinking. So consistently and with
such power did he put into practice the religion of good will and
service to others that his life seems to have been a realization of the
desire expressed in Wordsworth's lines:
"And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety."
Some of Longfellow's poems that children like most are named in the
following paragraphs:
Perhaps the most interesting for the youngest readers are _Paul Revere's
Ride_ and _The Wreck of the Hesperus; The Children's Hour_, in which the
poet tells of the daily play-time with his little girls; and _The
Village Blacksmith_, together with the verses _From My Arm-Chair_,
written when the children gave the chair made from the chestnut tree
that had once shaded the Village Blacksmith.
Story-telling poems that children of from ten to twelve years of age
can enjoy are: _The Happiest Land_, _The Luck of Edenhall_, _The Elected
Knight_, _Excelsior_, _The Phantom Ship_, _The Discoverer of the North
Cape_, _The Bell of Atri_, _The Three Kings_, _The Emperor's Bird's
Nest_ and _The Maiden and the Weathercock_. _The Windmill_ and the
translation _Beware_ are especially lively, little poems; and _The Arrow
and the Song_ and _Children_ are quite as cheerful though quieter. More
serious is _The Day Is Done_, well liked for the restful melody; _The
Old Clock on the Stairs_, with its curious refrain; and the famous
_Psalm of Life_, the lesson of which has helped many a young boy and
girl.
Among the story-poems for children older than twelve years are
Longfellow's greatest works, _Evangeline_, _Hiawatha_ and _The Courtship
of Miles Standish_; and the minor poems, _Elizabeth_, _The Beleaguered
City_ and _The Building of the Ship_. Nature poems that appeal to
readers of this age are the _Hymn to the Night_, _The Rainy Day_, _The
Evening Star_, _A Day of Sunshine_, _The Brook and the Wave_, _Rain in
Summer_, and _Wanderer's Night Songs_.
Children who are fond of imagining will enjoy _The Belfry of Bruges_ and
_Travels by the Fireside_, and those who like song-poems may select _The
Bridge_ or _Stay, Stay at Home, My Heart_.
Nearly all of the poems that have been named are found in collections
of Longfellow's works under the titles of the volumes in which they
were originally published. _A Psalm of Life_, for example, is one of the
group entitled _Voices of the Night_; and _Paul Revere's Ride_ is one of
the _Tales of a Wayside Inn_.
[Illustration: HER GENTLE HAND IN MINE]
FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS
_By_ HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
When the hours of Day are numbered,
And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlor wall;
Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;
He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!
They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!
And with them the Being Beauteous,*
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.
With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.
And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.
Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.
O, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died!
*[Footnote: This refers to Longfellow's first wife, Mary Storer Potter,
whom he married in 1831. On his second visit to Europe, Mrs. Longfellow
died at Rotterdam in 1835.]
TO H. W. L.,
ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 27TH FEBRUARY, 1867.
_By_ JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
I need not praise the sweetness of his song,
Where limpid verse to limpid verse succeeds
Smooth as our Charles, when, fearing lest he wrong
The new moon's mirrored skiff, he slides along,
Full without noise, and whispers in his reeds.
With loving breath of all the winds his name
Is blown about the world, but to his friends
A sweeter secret hides behind his fame,
And Love steals shyly through the loud acclaim,
To murmur a _God bless you!_ and there ends.
* * * * *
Surely if skill in song the shears may stay
And of its purpose cheat the charmed abyss,
If our poor life be lengthened by a lay,
He shall not go, although his presence may,
And the next age in praise shall double this.
Long days be his, and each as lusty-sweet
As gracious natures find his song to be;
May Age steal on with softly-cadenced feet
Falling in music, as for him were meet
Whose choicest verse is harsher-toned than he!
While this little tribute may not be as simple to read as some of the
things in this book, yet it is beautiful to those who can read it.
[Illustration: LONGFELLOW'S HOME AT CAMBRIDGE]
One of the fine things about good poetry is that it will not only bear
study and examination, but will yield new beauty and new pleasure as it
is better understood. For instance, take the first stanza above. Lowell
says Longfellow's poetry is sweet and easily understood and that one
line follows another smoothly. To make us see how smoothly, he makes a
beautiful comparison, draws for us an exquisite picture. As smooth, he
says, as is our own river Charles when at night, fearing to disturb by
so much as a single ripple the reflection of the crescent moon, a
mirrored skiff, it glides along noiselessly but whispering gently to
the reeds that line its shores.
Again, Lowell says that the very winds love Longfellow, and waft his
name about the world, giving him fame and honor; but his friends know
him to be a man with a loving heart, and so they steal up to him and
murmur through the noisy shoutings of the crowd a simple _God bless
you!_ which they know Longfellow will appreciate on his birthday
more than all his fame.
To understand the first line in the third stanza, we must know of the
three Fates who in the old Greek myth controlled the life of every man.
One spun the thread of life, a second determined its course, and the
third stood by with shears ready to cut the thread where death was due.
Lowell says if being a skillful poet will make a man immortal, if
our life can be lengthened by a song, then Longfellow shall not leave
us even though his body goes, and in another generation his fame shall
be doubly great.
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
_By_ HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp and black and long;
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,--
He earns whate'er he can;
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night.
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like sexton ringing the village bell
When the evening sun is low.
And children, coming home from school,
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the naming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
[Illustration: THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH]
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling--rejoicing--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!
What a clear little poem this is! From beginning to end there is
scarcely a thing that needs to be explained. We can see the two
pictures almost as though they had been painted for us in colors. If
anything is obscure, it is the comparison of the sparks to the chaff
from a threshing-floor. And if that isn't clear to us it is because
times have changed, and we no longer see grain threshed out on a floor.
His "limpid verse to limpid verse succeeds, smooth as our Charles!"
Longfellow uses skill in the song. He shows us the old blacksmith at
his forge and draws us with the other children to see his work. We
learn to love the strong old man, independent, proud and happy. We
sympathize with him as he weeps and admire him so much that we delight
at the lesson Longfellow so skillfully places at the end.
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS
_By_ HENRY WADSWOHTH LONGFELLOW
It was the schooner Hesperus,
That sailed the wintry sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
To bear him company.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds
That ope in the month of May.
The skipper he stood beside the helm
His pipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now West, now South.
Then up and spake an old Sailor,
Had sailed the Spanish Main,
"I pray thee, put into yonder port,
For I fear a hurricane.
"Last night the moon had a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see!"
The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.
Colder and colder blew the wind
A gale from the Northeast;
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.
[Illustration: He Bound Her To The Mast.]
Down came the storm, and smote amain,
The vessel in its strength;
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable's length.
"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
And do not tremble so;
For I can weather the roughest gale,
That ever wind did blow."
He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.
"O father! I hear the church-bells ring.
O say, what may it be?"
"'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"--
And he steered for the open sea.
"O father! I hear the sound of guns.
O say, what may it be?"
"Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angry sea!"
"O father! I see a gleaming light.
O say, what may it be?"
But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
That saved she might be;
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
On the Lake of Galilee.
And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.
And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf,
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!
Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman's Woe!
A DOG OF FLANDERS
[Footnote: This story has been abridged somewhat]
_By_ LOUISE DE LA RAMEE
Nello and Patrasche were left all alone in the world. They were friends
in a friendship closer than brotherhood.
Nello was a little Ardennois; Patrasche was a big Fleming. They were
both of the same age by length of years, yet one was still young and
the other already old. They had dwelt together almost all their days;
both were orphaned and destitute and owed their lives to the same hand.
Their home was a little hut on the edge of a little Flemish village, a
league from Antwerp.
It was the hut of an old man--a poor man--of old Jehan Daas, who in his
time had been a soldier and who remembered the wars that had trampled
the country as oxen tread down the furrows, and who had brought from
his service nothing except a wound which had made him a cripple.
When Jehan Daas had reached his full eighty his daughter had died in
the Ardennes, hard by Stavelot, and had left him in legacy her two-
year-old son. The old man could ill contrive to support himself, but he
took up the additional burden uncomplainingly, and it soon became
welcome and precious to him. Little Nello--which was but a pet
diminutive for Nicholas--throve with him, and the old man and the
little child lived in the poor little hut contentedly.
They were terribly poor--many a day they had nothing at all to eat.
They never by any chance had enough. To have had enough to eat would
have been to have reached paradise at once. But the old man was gentle
and good to the boy and the boy was a beautiful, innocent, truthful,
tender-hearted creature; and they were happy on a crust and a few
leaves of cabbage and asked no more of earth or heaven, save, indeed,
that Patrasche should be always with them, since without Patrasche
where would they have been?
Jehan Daas was old and crippled and Nello was but a child--and
Patrasche was their dog.
A dog of Flanders--yellow of hide, large of limb, with wolflike ears
that stood erect, and legs bowed and feet widened in the muscular
development wrought in his breed by the many generations of hard
service. Patrasche came of a race which had toiled hard and cruelly
from sire to son in Flanders many a century--slaves of slaves, dogs of
the people, beasts of the shafts and harness, creatures that lived
training their sinews in the gall of the cart, and died breaking their
hearts on the flints of the street.
Before he was fully grown he had known the bitter gall of the cart and
collar. Before he had entered his thirteenth month he had become the
property of a hardware dealer, who was accustomed to wander over the
land north and south, from the blue sea to the green mountains. They
sold him for a small price because he was so young.
This man was a drunkard and a brute. The life of Patrasche was a life
of abuse.
His purchaser was a sullen, ill-living, brutal Brabantois, who heaped
his cart full with pots and pans, and flagons and buckets, and other
wares of crockery and brass and tin, and left Patrasche to draw the
load as best he might while he himself lounged idly by the side in fat
and sluggish ease, smoking his black pipe and stopping at every wine
shop or café on the road.
One day, after two years of this long and deadly agony, Patrasche was
going on as usual along one of the straight, dusty, unlovely roads that
lead to the city of Rubens.
It was full midsummer and exceedingly warm. His cart was heavy, piled
high with goods in metal and earthenware. His owner sauntered on
without noticing him otherwise than by the crack of the whip as it
curled around his quivering loins.
The Brabantois had paused to drink beer himself at every wayside house,
but he had forbidden Patrasche to stop for a moment for a draft from
the canal. Going along thus, in the full sun, on a scorching highway,
having eaten nothing for twenty-four hours, and, which was far worse
for him, not having tasted water for nearly twelve; being blind with
dust, sore with blows, and stupefied with the merciless weight which
dragged upon his loins, Patrasche, for once, staggered and foamed a
little at the mouth and fell.
He fell in the middle of the white, dusty road, in the full glare of
the sun; he was sick unto death and motionless. His master gave him the
only medicine in his pharmacy--kicks and oaths and blows with the oak
cudgel--which had been often the only food and drink, the only wage and
reward, ever offered to him.
But Patrasche was beyond the reach of any torture or of any curses.
Patrasche lay, dead to all appearances, down in the white powder of the
summer dust. His master, with a parting kick, passed on and left him.
After a time, among the holiday makers, there came a little old man who
was bent, and lame, and feeble. He was in no guise for feasting. He was
poor and miserably clad, and he dragged his silent way slowly through
the dust among the pleasure seekers.
He looked at Patrasche, paused, wondered, turned aside, then kneeled
down in the rank grass and weeds of the ditch and surveyed the dog with
kindly eyes of pity.
There was with him a little, rosy, fair-haired, dark-eyed child of a
few years old, who pattered in amid the bushes, that were for him
breast high, and stood gazing with a pretty seriousness upon the poor,
great, quiet beast.
Thus it was that these two first met--the little Nello and the big
Patrasche. They carried Patrasche home; and when he recovered he was
harnessed to the cart that carried the milk cans of the neighbors to
Antwerp. Thus the dog earned the living of the old man and the boy who
saved him.
There was only one thing which caused Patrasche any uneasiness in his
life, and it was this: Antwerp, as all the world knows, is full at
every turn of old piles of stones, dark, and ancient, and majestic,
standing in crooked courts, jammed against gateways and taverns, rising
by the water's edge, with bells ringing above them in the air, and ever
and again out of their arched doors a swell of music pealing.
There they remain, the grand old sanctuaries of the past, shut in amid
the squalor, the hurry, the crowds, the unloveliness, and the commerce
of the modern world, and all day long the clouds drift, and the birds
circle, and the winds sigh around them, and beneath the earth at their
feet there sleeps--Rubens.
And the greatness of the mighty master still rests upon Antwerp.
Wherever we turn in its narrow streets his glory lies therein, so that
all mean things are thereby transfigured; and as we pace slowly through
the winding ways, and by the edge of the stagnant waters, and through
the noisome courts, his spirit abides with us, and the heroic beauty of
his visions is about us, and the stones that once felt his footsteps,
and bore his shadow, seem to rise and speak of him with living voices.
For the city which is the tomb of Rubens still lives to us through him,
and him alone.
Now, the trouble of Patrasche was this:
Into these great, sad piles of stones, that reared their melancholy
majesty above the crowded roofs, the child Nello would many and many a
time enter and disappear through their dark, arched portals, while
Patrasche, left upon the pavement, would wearily and vainly ponder on
what could be the charm which allured from him his inseparable and
beloved companion.
[Illustration: RESCUE OF PATRASCHE]
Once or twice he did essay to see for himself, clattering up the steps
with his milk cart behind him, but thereon he had been always sent back
again summarily by a tall custodian in black clothes and silver chains
of office, and, fearful of bringing his little master into trouble, he
desisted and crouched patiently before the church until such time as
the boy reappeared.
What was it? wondered Patrasche.
He thought it could not be good or natural for the lad to be so grave,
and in his dumb fashion he tried all he could to keep Nello by him in
the sunny fields or in the busy market places.
But to the church Nello would go. Most often of all he would go to the
great cathedral; and Patrasche, left without on the stones by the iron
fragments of the Quentin Matsys's gate, would stretch himself and yawn
and sigh, and even howl now and then, all in vain, until the doors
closed and the child perforce came forth again, and, winding his arms
about the dog's neck, would kiss him on his broad, tawny-colored
forehead and murmur always the same words:
"If I could only see them, Patrasche! If I could only see them!"
What were they? pondered Patrasche, looking up with large, wistful,
sympathetic eyes.
One day, when the custodian was out of the way and the doors left ajar,
he got in for a moment after his friend, and saw. "They" were two great
covered pictures on either side of the choir.
Nello was kneeling, wrapt as in an ecstasy, before the altar picture of
the "Assumption," and when he noticed Patrasche and rose and drew the
dog gently out into the air, his face was wet with tears, and he looked
up at the veiled places as he passed them and murmured to his
companion:
"It is so terrible not to see them, Patrasche, just because one is poor
and cannot pay! He never meant that the poor should not see them when
he painted them, I am sure. And they keep them shrouded there---
shrouded in the dark---the beautiful things! And they never feel the
light, and no eyes look upon them unless rich people come and pay. If I
could only see them I would be content to die."
But he could not see them, and Patrasche could not help him, for to
gain the silver piece that the church exacts for looking on the glories
of the "Elevation of the Cross" and the "Descent from the Cross" was a
thing as utterly beyond the powers of either of them as it would have
been to scale the heights of the cathedral spire.
The whole soul of the little Ardennois thrilled and stirred with an
absorbing passion for art.
Going on his way through the old city in the early daybreak before the
sun or the people had seen them, Nello, who looked only a little
peasant boy, with a great dog drawing milk to sell from door to door,
was in a heaven of dreams whereof Rubens was the god. Nello, cold and
hungry, with stockingless feet in wooden shoes, and the winter winds
blowing among his curls and lifting his poor, thin garments, was in
rapture of meditation wherein all that he saw was the beautiful face of
the Mary of "Assumption," with the waves of her golden hair lying upon
her shoulders and the light of an eternal sun shining down upon her
brow. Nello, reared in poverty, and buffeted by fortune, and untaught
in letters, and unheeded by men, had the compensation or the curse
which is called genius.
No one knew it--he as little as any. No one knew it.
"I should go to my grave quite content if I thought, Nello, that when
thou growest a man thou couldst own this hut and the little plat of
ground and labor for thyself and be called Baas by thy neighbors," said
the old man Jehan many an hour from his bed.
Nello dreamed of other things in the future than of tilling the little
rood of earth, and living under the wattle roof, and being called Baas
by neighbors, a little poorer or a little less poor than himself. The
cathedral spire, where it rose beyond the fields in the ruddy evening
skies or in the dim, gray, misty morning, said other things to him than
this. But these he told only to Patrasche, whispering, childlike, his
fancies in the dog's ear when they went together at their work through
the fogs of the daybreak or lay together at their rest amongst the
rustling rushes by the water's side.
There was only one other besides Patrasche to whom Nello could talk at
all of his daring fancies. This other was little Alois, who lived at
the old red mill on the grassy mound, and whose father, the miller, was
the best-to-do husbandman in all the village.
Little Alois was a pretty baby, with soft, round, rosy features, made
lovely by those sweet, dark eyes that the Spanish rule has left in so
many a Flemish face.
Little Alois often was with Nello and Patrasche. They played in the
fields, they ran in the snow, they gathered the daisies and bilberries,
they went up to the old gray church together, and they often sat
together by the broad wood fire in the millhouse.
One day her father, Baas Cogez, a good man, but stern, came on a pretty
group in the long meadow behind the mill.
It was his little daughter sitting amidst the hay, with the great,
tawny head of Patrasche on her lap, and many wreaths of poppies and
blue cornflowers round them both. On a clean, smooth slab of pine wood
the boy Nello drew their likeness with a stick of charcoal.
The miller stood and looked at the portrait with tears in his eyes, it
was so strangely like, and he loved his own child closely and well.
Then he roughly chid the little girl for idling there whilst her mother
needed her within, and sent her indoors crying and afraid. Then,
turning, he snatched the wood from Nello's hands.
[Illustration: NELLO AND PATRASCHE]
"Dost much of such folly?" he asked. But there a tremble in his voice.
Nello colored and hung his head. "I draw everything I see," he
murmured.
Baas Cogez went into his millhouse sore troubled in his mind. "This lad
must not be so much with Alois," he said to his wife that night.
"Trouble may come of it hereafter. He is fifteen now and she is twelve,
and the lad is comely." And from that day poor Nello was allowed in the
millhouse no more.
Nello had a secret which only Patrasche knew. There was a little
outhouse to the hut, which no one entered but himself--a dreary place
but with an abundant clear light from the north. Here he had fashioned
himself rudely an easel in rough lumber, and here, on the great sea of
stretched paper, he had given shape to one of the innumerable fancies
which possessed his brain.
No one ever had taught him anything; colors he had no means to buy; he
had gone without bread many a time to procure even the poor vehicles
that he had there; and it was only in black and white that he could
fashion the things he saw. This great figure which he had drawn here in
chalk was only an old man sitting on a fallen tree--only that. He had
seen old Michel, the woodman, sitting so at evening many a time.
He never had had a soul to tell him of outline or perspective, of
anatomy or of shadow, and yet he had given all the weary, worn-out age,
all the sad, quiet patience, all the rugged, careworn pathos of his
original, and given them so that the old, lonely figure was a poem,
sitting there, meditative and alone, on the dead tree, with the
darkness of descending night behind him.
It was rude, of course, in a way, and had many faults no doubt; and yet
it was real, true to nature, true to art, mournful, and, in a manner,
beautiful.
Patrasche had lain quiet countless hours watching its gradual creation
after the labor of each day was done, and he knew that Nello had a
hope--vain and wild perhaps, but strongly cherished--of sending this
great drawing to compete for a prize of 200 francs a year, which it was
announced in Antwerp would be open to every lad of talent, scholar or
peasant, under eighteen, who attempted to win it with unaided work of
chalk or pencil. Three of the foremost artists in the town of Rubens
were to be the judges and elect the victor according to his merits.
All the spring and summer and autumn Nello had been at work upon this
treasure, which, if triumphant, would build him his first steps toward
independence and the mysteries of the arts, which he blindly,
ignorantly and yet passionately adored.
The drawings were to go in on the 1st of December and the decision to
be given on the 24th, so that he who should win might rejoice with all
his people at the Christmas season.
In the twilight of a bitter winter day, and with a beating heart, now
quick with hope, now faint with fear, Nello placed the great picture on
his little green milk cart and left it, as enjoined, at the doors of a
public building.
He took heart as he went by the cathedral. The lordly form of Rubens
seemed to rise from the fog and darkness and to loom in its
magnificence before him, whilst the lips, with their kindly smile,
seemed to him to murmur, "Nay, have courage! It was not by a weak heart
and by faint fears that I wrote my name for all time upon Antwerp."
The winter was sharp already. That night, after they reached the hut,
snow fell, and it fell for many days after that, so that the paths and
the divisions of the fields were all obliterated, and all the smaller
streams were frozen over and the cold was intense upon the plains.
Then, indeed, it became hard work to go round for milk, while the world
was all dark, and carry it through the darkness to the silent town.
In the winter time all drew nearer to each other, all to all except to
Nello and Patrasche, with whom none now would have anything to do,
because the miller had frowned upon the child. Nello and Patrasche were
left to fare as they might with the old, paralyzed, bedridden man in
the little cabin, whose fire often was cold, and whose board often was
without bread, for there was a buyer from Antwerp who had taken to
drive his mule in of a day for the milk of the various dairies, and
there were only three or four of the people who had refused the terms
of purchase and remained faithful to the little green cart. So that the
burden which Patrasche drew had become light, and the centime pieces in
Nello's pouch had become, alas! light likewise.
The weather was wild and cold. The snow was six feet deep; the ice was
firm enough to bear oxen and men upon it everywhere. At this season the
little village always was gay and cheerful. At the poorest dwelling
there were possets and cakes, sugared saints and gilded Jesus. The
merry Flemish bells jingled everywhere on the horses, everywhere within
doors some well-filled soup pot sang and smoked over the stove, and
everywhere over the snow without laughing maidens pattered in bright
kerchiefs and stout skirts going to and from mass. Only in the little
hut it was dark and cold.
[Illustration: NELLO LEFT HIS PICTURE AT THE DOOR]
Nello and Patrasche were left utterly alone; for one night in the week
before the Christmas day death entered there and took away from life
forever old Jehan Daas. who had never known of life aught save poverty
and pain. He had long been half dead, incapable of any movement except
a feeble gesture, and powerless for anything beyond a gentle word. And
yet his loss fell on them both with a great horror in it; they mourned
him passionately. He had passed away from them in his sleep, and when
in the gray dawn they learned their bereavement, unbearable solitude
and desolation seemed to close around them. He had long been only a
poor, feeble, paralyzed old man who could not raise a hand in their
defense, but he had loved them well; his smile always had welcomed
their return. They mourned for him unceasingly, refusing to be
comforted, as in the white winter day they followed the deal shell that
held his body to the nameless grave by the little church. They were his
only mourners, these two whom he had left friendless upon the earth--
the young boy and the old dog.
Nello and Patrasche went home with broken hearts. But even of that
poor, melancholy, cheerless home they were denied the consolation.
There was a month's rental overdue for the little place, and when Nello
had paid the last sad service to the dead he had not a coin left. He
went and begged grace of the owner of the hut, a cobbler who went every
Sunday night to drink his pint of wine and smoke with Baas Cogez. The
cobbler would grant no mercy. He claimed in default of his rent every
stick and stone, every pot and pan in the hut, and bade Nello and
Patrasche to be out of it by to-morrow.
All night long the boy and the dog sat by the fireless hearth in the
darkness, drawn close together for warmth and sorrow. Their bodies were
insensible to the cold, but their hearts seemed frozen in them.
When the morning broke over the white, chill earth it was the morning
of Christmas eve. With a shudder Nello clasped close to him his only
friend, while his tears fell hot and fast on the dog's forehead.
"Let us go, Patrasche; dear, dear Patrasche!" he murmured. "We will not
wait to be kicked out. Let us go."
They took the old accustomed road into Antwerp. The winner of the
drawing prize was to be proclaimed at noon, and to the public building
where he had left his treasure Nello made his way. On the step and in
the entrance hall there was a crowd of youths--some of his age, some
older, all with parents or relatives or friends. His heart was sick
with fear as he went amongst them, holding Patrasche close to him.
The great bells of the city clashed out the hour of noon with brazen
clamor. The doors of the inner hall were opened; the eager, panting
throng rushed in. It was known that the selected picture would be
raised above the rest upon a wooden dais.
A mist obscured Nello's sight, his head swam, his limbs almost failed
him. When his vision cleared he saw the drawing raised on high; it was
not his own. A slow, sonorous voice was proclaiming aloud that victory
had been adjudged to Stephan Kiesslinger, born in the burg of Antwerp,
son of a wharfinger in that town.
When Nello recovered consciousness he was lying on the stones without,
and Patrasche was trying with every art he knew to call him back to
life. In the distance a throng of youths of Antwerp were shouting
around their successful comrade and escorting him with acclamation to
his home upon the quay.
He rallied himself as best he could, for he was weak from fasting, and
retraced his steps to the village. Patrasche paced by his side with his
head drooping and his strong limbs feeble under him from hunger and
sorrow.
The snow was falling fast; a keen hurricane blew from the north; it was
bitter as death on the plains. It took them long to traverse the
familiar paths, and the bells were sounding four of the clock as they
approached the hamlet. Suddenly Patrasche paused, arrested by a scent
in the snow, scratched, whined, and drew out with his teeth a small
case of brown leather. He held it up to Nello in the darkness. Where
they were there stood a little Calvary, and a lamp burned dully under
the cross. The boy mechanically turned the bag to the light. On it was
the name of Baas Cogez and within it were notes for 6,000 francs.
The sight aroused the lad a little from his stupor. He thrust it in his
shirt and stroked Patrasche and drew him onward.
Nello made straight for the millhouse and went to the house-door and
struck on the panels. The miller's wife opened it, weeping, with little
Alois clinging close to her skirts.
"Is it thee, thou poor lad?" she asked kindly through her tears. "Get
thee gone ere the Baas sees thee. We are in sore trouble to-night. He
is out seeking for a power of money that he has let fall riding
homeward, and in this snow he never will find it. And God knows it will
go nigh to ruin us. It is heaven's own judgment for the things we have
done to thee."
Nello put the note case within her hand and signed to Patrasche within
the house.
"Patrasche found the money to-night," he said quickly. "Tell Baas Cogez
so. I think he will not deny the dog shelter and food in his old age.
Keep him from pursuing me, and I pray of you to be good to him."
Ere woman or dog knew what he did he had stooped and kissed Patrasche,
then had closed the door hurriedly on him and had disappeared in the
gloom of the fast falling night.
It was six o'clock at night when, from an opposite entrance, the miller
at last came, jaded and broken, into his wife's presence. "It is lost
forever," he said, with an ashen cheek and a quiver in his voice. "We
have looked with lanterns everywhere. It is gone--the little maiden's
portion and all."
His wife put the money into his hand and told him how it had come back
to her. The strong man sank, trembling, into a seat and covered his
face with his hands, ashamed, almost afraid.
"I have been cruel to the lad," he murmured at length. "I deserve not
to have good at his hands."
Little Alois, taking courage, crept close to her father, and nestled
against him her curly, fair head.
"Nello may come here again, father?" she whispered. "He may come to-
morrow, as he used to do?"
The miller pressed her in his arms. His hard, sunburned face was pale
and his mouth trembled. "Surely, surely," he answered his child. "He
shall bide here on Christmas day and any other day he will. In my greed
I sinned, and the Lord chastened me. God helping me, I will make amends
to the boy--I will make amends."
When the supper smoked on the board and the voices were loudest and
gladdest, and the Christ child brought choicest gifts to Alois,
Patrasche, watching always an occasion, glided out when the door was
unlatched by a careless newcomer, and as swiftly as his weak and tired
limbs would bear him, sped over the snow in the bitter, black night. He
had only one thought--to follow Nello.
Snow had fallen freshly all evening long. It was now nearly ten
o'clock. The trail of the boy's footsteps was almost obliterated. It
took Patrasche long and arduous labor to discover any scent which could
guide him in pursuit. When at last he found it, it was lost again
quickly, and lost and recovered, and again lost, and again recovered a
hundred times and more. It was all quite dark in the town. Now and then
some light gleamed ruddily through the crevices and house shutters, or
some group went homeward with lanterns, chanting drinking songs. The
streets were all white with ice, and high walls and roofs loomed black
against them. There was scarce a sound save the riot of the wind down
the passages as it tossed the creaking signs.
So many passers-by had trodden through and through the snow, so many
diverse paths had crossed and recrossed each other that the dog had a
hard task to retain any hold of the track he followed. But he kept on
his way though the cold pierced him to the bone and the jagged ice cut
his feet, and the hunger in his body gnawed like a rat's tooth. But he
kept on his way--a poor, gaunt, shivering, drooping thing--in the
frozen darkness, that no one pitied as he went--and by long patience
traced the steps he loved into the heart of the burg and up to the
steps of the great cathedral.
"He is gone to the things that he loved," thought Patrasche. He could
not understand, but he was full of sorrow and of pity for the art
passion that to him was so incomprehensible and yet so sacred.
The portals of the cathedral were unclosed after the midnight mass.
Some heedlessness in the custodians, too eager to go home and feast or
sleep, or too drowsy to know whether they turned the keys aright, had
left one of the doors unlocked. By that accident the footfalls
Patrasche sought had passed through into the building, leaving the
white marks of the snow upon the dark stone floor.
By that slender white thread, frozen as it fell, he was guided through
the intense silence, through the immensity of the vaulted space--guided
straight to the gates of the chancel--and stretched there upon the
stones, he found Nello. He crept up noiselessly and touched the face of
the boy.
"Didst thou dream that I should be faithless and forsake thee? I--a
dog?" said that mute caress.
The lad raised himself with a low cry and clasped him close.
"Let us lie down and die together," he murmured. "Men have no need of
us, and we are all alone."
In answer Patrasche crept closer yet and laid his head upon the young
man's breast. The tears stood in his great, brown, sad eyes. Not for
himself; for himself he was happy.
Suddenly through the darkness a great white radiance streamed through
the vastness of the aisles. The moon, that was at her height, had
broken through the clouds. The snow had ceased to fall. The light
reflected from the snow without was clear as the light of dawn. It fell
through the arches full upon the two pictures above, from which the
boy, on his entrance, had flung back the veil. "The Elevation" and "The
Descent from the Cross" for one instant were visible as by day.
Nello rose to his feet and stretched his arms to them. The tears of a
passionate ecstasy glistened on the paleness of his face.
"I have seen them at last!" he cried aloud. "Oh God, it is enough!"
When the Christmas morning broke and the priests came to the temple
they saw them lying on the stones together. Above, the veils were drawn
back from the great visions of Rubens, and the fresh rays of the
sunrise touched the thorn-crowned head of God.
As the day grew on there came an old, hard-featured man who wept as
women weep.
"I was cruel to the lad," he murmured, "and now I would have made
amends--yea, to the half of my substance--and he should have been to me
as a son."
There came also as the day grew apace a painter who had fame in the
world and who was liberal of hand and of spirit.
"I seek one who should have had the prize yesterday had worth won," he
said to the people, "a boy of rare promise and genius. An old
woodcutter on a fallen tree at eventide, that was all his theme. I
would find him and take him with me and teach him art."
And a little child with curling fair hair, sobbing bitterly as she
clung to her father's arm, cried aloud: "O Nello, come! We have all
ready for thee. The Christ child's hands are full of gifts, and the old
piper will play for us; and the mother says thou shalt stay by the
hearth and burn nuts with us all the Noel week long--yes even to the
feast of the kings! And Patrasche will be happy! O Nello, wake and
come!"
But the young, pale face, turned upward to the great Rubens with a
smile upon its mouth, answered them all, "It is too late."
For the sweet sonorous hells went ringing through the frost, and the
sunlight shone upon the plains of snow, and the populace trooped gay
and glad through the streets, but Nello and Patrasche no more asked
charity at their hands. All they needed now Antwerp gave unbidden.
When they were found the arms of the boy were folded so closely around
the dog that it was difficult to draw them away. The people of the
little village, contrite and ashamed, took the little boy tenderly in
their arms and bore him away to his last resting place. Patrasche was
not forgotten, for all the villagers felt the strength of his devotion.
* * * * *
Of all the characters in this story, which is the most important and
the most interesting? The author has showed us which she considers the
most important by the title she has given to the tale--_A Dog of
Flanders_. Let us see just what she has told us about Patrasche,
that we may know whether he is worthy of being the hero of a story.
First, as to his appearance, we are given the following facts:
1. Yellow of hide.
2. Large of limb.
3. Wolflike ears.
4. Legs bowed and feet widened.
5. Large, wistful, sympathetic eyes.
6. Great, tawny head.
7. (Later) Drooping and feeble; gaunt.
The picture which the author paints for us of Patrasche's appearance is
not beautiful; we do not love him just for his looks. As to his
character and abilities, we are told, or are enabled to find out from
his actions, the following things:
1. Strong and industrious. He used to draw the heavy cart of the
hardware dealer.
2. Grateful. He loved those who had saved his life, and worked for them
willingly.
3. Careful of his young master. He was troubled when Nello went into
the dim churches.
4. Wise. He felt that it was good for Nello to be as much as possible
in the sunny fields or among happy people.
5. Sympathetic. He looked at Nello with _wistful, sympathetic eyes_.
6. Understanding. He realized that the picture that Nello was drawing
was something which meant much to him.
7. Loving. He grieved passionately with Nello at the old man's death.
8. Acute of sense. He discovered the pocket book in the snow.
9. Faithful. He refused to stay in the miller's warm kitchen while
Nello was out in the cold.
10. Persistent and patient. He never gave up the search, difficult
though it was, until he had found his master.
11. Unselfish. He was happy for himself, but he wept because his master
was unhappy.
Do you think a dog could have all these qualities, or do you think the
author, in her anxiety to have us like the dog, has given him
characteristics which he could not really possess? Have you not,
yourself, known dogs that were as intelligent, as affectionate and as
faithful as Patrasche?
ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY
_By_ ANNA McCALEB
In the writings of Alice and Phoebe Cary are to be found many
references which show how fondly they remembered the little brown house
in which they were born. This house was on a farm in the Miami Valley
in Ohio, eight miles north of Cincinnati. Alice was born April 26th,
1820, and Phoebe, September 24th, 1824, and there was one brother
between them. Robert Gary, the father, was a kindly, gentle man, fond
of reading, especially romances and poetry. The education for which he
had so much longed he had been unable to obtain, and this made him
quiet and diffident with strangers, although in his own family he was
most loving and most companionable. Even the animals on the farm loved
him, and the horses and cattle would follow him about watching for the
kindly word and pat, or for the lump of salt or sugar which he was so
certain to have for them. This Robert Cary was a descendant of Sir
Robert Cary, a famous English knight of the time of Henry V, and Phoebe
was always very proud of this ancestry of hers--so proud, in fact, that
she had the Gary arms engraved on a seal ring.
It would seem that the enthusiastic admiration which the daughters all
their life had for their mother was nothing beyond her deserts, for she
seems to have been far from an ordinary woman. Despite the fact that
she had nine children, and that she did the work for the entire family,
she managed to keep up her interest in public affairs, and to read
history, essays, biography and politics, as often as books on such
subjects came to her hand.
In the little brown house with its overhanging cherry tree, which
tapped the roof and scratched the attic window-panes, and with its
sweetbrier under the window, the children lived a simple and happy
life. Naturally in a family of this size they divided themselves into
groups, and Alice and Phoebe, who in their later life were so
inseparable, do not seem to have singled each other out as companions
in their childhood. Alice's special comrade was her next older sister,
Rhoda, Thom she persisted to her dying day in thinking of as the real
genius of the family, while the constant playmate of the active Phoebe
was her next younger brother. The children spent much time out-of-
doors, gathering nuts and flowers in their season, and gaining that
love of nature which stayed with them all their lives. As they grew
older, they were sent to the district school, and were taught household
tasks, Alice taking readily enough to housekeeping, while Phoebe
became, even as a child, remarkably proficient with the needle.
The struggle to keep out of debt was a constant one with the Cary
family, and Alice said long years afterward, "For the first fourteen
years of my life it seemed as if there was actually nothing in
existence but work." However, By 1832 family affairs had improved
somewhat, and a new and larger house was built upon the farm. It seemed
as if all the ill luck of the family dated from the building of the new
house, in which they were never as happy as they had been in the little
brown house.
When she was a woman, Alice told with perfect faith the "family ghost
story," which concerned this new house. She said that just before the
removal of the family to the new house, they were all driven to the
shelter of the old house by a sudden and violent summer storm. As Alice
herself stood at the window looking out, she exclaimed to her mother,
"Why is Rhoda at the new house with baby Lucy, and why does she have
the door open?"
They all looked, and all saw Rhoda standing in the doorway of the new
house, with the baby in her arms.
"She was probably out with the child and took shelter in the nearest
place when the storm came up," said the mother, and then she called
loudly, "Rhoda!"
The figure in the doorway did not move, and in a few moments Rhoda came
down from upstairs, where she had left little Lucy asleep, declaring
that she had not been near the new house.
The family believed most sincerely that this was a warning of trouble
to come, and certain it is that in 1833, within one month of each
other, Rhoda and little Lucy died. Lucy had been Alice's special
charge, as Rhoda had been her special companion, and the girl's heart
was almost broken by this double loss. How deep and lasting her grief
was may be seen from a remark that she made to one of her friends,
speaking of Lucy's death.
"I was not fourteen when she died--I am almost fifty now. It may seem
strange when I tell you that I do not believe that there has been an
hour of any day since her death in which I have not thought of her and
mourned for her."
In 1835 Mrs. Cary died, and two years later the father married again.
The stepmother, a hard-headed, practical woman, could see nothing but
laziness in the desire of Alice and Phoebe to read and write. During
the day she insisted that they must keep busy about the house; in the
evening she refused to allow them to burn candles, and thus the girls
often worked with no light except what was afforded by a saucer of lard
with a twist of rag stuck into it for a wick. For books they had but
the Bible, a Hymn Book, a _History of the Jews, Lewis and Clark's
Travels_, Pope's _Essays_, _Charlotte Temple_, a romance, and a
mutilated novel, _The Black Penitents_. The last pages of this novel
were missing, and Alice often declared that it was a lifelong regret to
her that she never learned how the story "turned out."
With these meager helps and with no incentives to work except their own
desires, Alice and Phoebe constantly wrote poems and stories. At the
age of fourteen, Phoebe, without telling her father or even her sister,
sent a poem to a Boston publisher. She heard nothing from it, but some
time later came upon it, copied in a Cincinnati paper from the Boston
journal. She laughed and cried in her excitement, but still she told no
one.
About this time the father and stepmother removed to another house
which had been built on the farm, and left the children in possession
of the old one, so that their life was decidedly happier and their
chances for work were multiplied.
Alice from this time on published numerous poems, chiefly in church
papers, and her writings began to attract attention throughout the
country. There was a freshness and charm about her little poems which
won for them the favorable opinion of some of the best judges of poetry
in the country. Of her "Pictures of Memory," Poe said that it was one
of the most rhythmically perfect lyrics in the English language.
Whittier wrote to the sisters, and Horace Greeley visited them in 1849,
and thus slowly they gained the recognition and the encouragement which
led them in 1850 to a rather daring step.
This was no less than a removal to New York. Alice went first, but she
soon sent for Phoebe and their younger sister Elmina. In thus setting
out for the great city and settling down to earn her living, Alice Cary
was no doubt influenced by a rather painful circumstance which had
taken place in her life. There had come to their neighborhood, some
little time before, a man, her superior in age and education, who had
recognized her unusual gifts and attractiveness, and had spent much
time with her. She came to love him deeply and sincerely, and it would
seem that he was but little less attracted by her. However, his family
managed to persuade him that his best interests demanded that he should
not marry this country-bred girl, and he returned to his home, leaving
Alice to watch and hope for his coming. The gradual relinquishment of
her dream and the final conviction that the sort of home life for which
she felt herself most fitted was not after all to be hers, led Alice
Cary to feel that she must take up some definite work to support
herself and to help her sisters. She herself said later, in speaking
about the removal to New York, "Ignorance stood me in the stead of
courage and of books"--she knew so little about the great city to which
she was going that she feared it little.
The sisters made up their minds from the first that they would have a
home; they had a horror of the boarding-house atmosphere. Their first
home was but two, or three rooms, high up in a big building in an
unfashionable part of the town. Alice papered rooms, Phoebe painted
doors and framed pictures; but the impress of their individuality was
on the rooms, and every one who entered them felt their coziness and
"hominess." Papers and magazines paid but little for contributions in
those days, and it was only by living in the most economical and humble
way that they managed to avoid their great horror--debt. But their life
was by no means barren, for they became acquainted with many pleasant
people, who were always glad and proud to be invited to the little tea
parties in the three rooms under the roof.
The publication in 1852 of Alice's _Clovernook Papers_ brought to
her increasing recognition and new friends. These simple, original
little sketches of rural scenery and rural life were just the things
which Alice Cary knew best how to write, and they became very popular
all over the country. Before 1856 the sisters had removed to the pretty
house in Twentieth Street which was their home for the rest of their
lives. Alice bought the house and the furnishings; indeed it was she
who did most of the planning for the household, and who paid most of
the bills. She worked early and late, driven always by the obligations
to be met. A biographer says of her: "I have never known any other
woman so systematically and persistently industrious as Alice Cary."
Phoebe worked indeed, but spasmodically--she waited on her moods.
The home life of the sisters was most pleasant and simple. They had no
"society manners;" the witty Phoebe was as willing to flash out her
brightest puns for Alice's enjoyment as she was for a drawing-room full
of appreciative listeners; while Alice's gentleness and sweetness were
shown constantly to her sister and were not reserved for company only.
Their great occasions were their Sunday evening receptions, and the
people who gathered then under their roof were far from an ordinary
company. Horace Greeley, Bayard Taylor, Richard and Elizabeth Stoddard,
Justin McCarthy, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Ole Bull, P. T. Barnum,
Elizabeth Cady Stanton--these were but a part of the brilliant company
which delighted to gather on Sunday evening and enjoy the sweetness and
womanliness of Alice, and the wit of Phoebe.
Interrupted by the death of the beloved younger sister Elmina, this
life in the Twentieth Street house went on for over twelve years, until
in 1868 Alice Cary became a confirmed invalid. After she was confined
to her room, however, she wanted life and brightness about her, and had
the door of her room always left open, that she might hear the cheerful
sounds of the household.
[Illustration: ALICE CARY 1820-1871]
During their life in New York, Phoebe had had numerous offers of
marriage, but it had never cost her anything to say, "I don't want to
marry anybody." Soon after the beginning of Alice's invalid days,
however, Phoebe received an offer of marriage from a man whom she felt
that she could love, and with whom she was sure she could be happy. She
had always felt that in the home she was second to Alice, and she
confessed once to a friend, "Sometimes I feel a yearning to have a life
of my very own; my own house and work and friends; and to feel myself
the center of all."
However, much as it cost her, she resolutely put away the thought of
this possible happiness because she knew that her sister could not
endure her absence in what were very clearly the last days of her life.
In February, 1870, Alice Cary died, and Phoebe from that time on seemed
but half a person. To one of her friends she said pathetically: "For
thirty years I have gone straight to her bedside as soon as I arose in
the morning, and wherever she is, I am sure she wants me now." She
tried to take up her work--indeed she felt that in her sister's absence
she had double work to do; but it was of no use, and in a little more
than a year after her sister's death she too died.
These two sisters, who were so constantly associated for so many years,
differed very decidedly in many respects. Alice, the frailer in body,
was much the stronger in will power; indeed her ability to force
herself to begin and to stick to anything which she thought was to be
done was the marvel of her friends. This intense energy often jarred on
the more easy-going Phoebe, just as Phoebe's refusal to do literary
work unless she were exactly in the right mood, often jarred upon
Alice. However, the two sisters never showed their irritation; they
were always sweet and gentle in their dealings with each other.
Naturally, Alice's superior energy resulted in an output of literary
work which was much larger than Phoebe's. There was a difference, too,
besides that of quantity in the work of the sisters. Alice possessed a
more objective imagination, that is, she could, in the ballads which
she was so fond of writing, place herself in the position of those whom
she was describing, and make their feelings her own. Phoebe, on the
other hand, in her serious poems held more closely to her own
experiences. Both the sisters were very fond of children, though in a
different way, Alice feeling for them a sort of mother-love, while
Phoebe always felt toward them as though they were comrades. It is the
genuine love for children which makes the children's stories and poems
of Alice and Phoebe Cary live.
Shortly after Phoebe died one of her friends wrote, "The wittiest woman
in America is dead;" and constantly on all sides was heard the saying,
"O, if I had only taken down the many wonderfully bright things that I
heard her say!" Her parodies have rarely been excelled, and some of her
humorous poems are irresistibly funny. The best known perhaps of her
parodies is the one on Longfellow's _The Day Is Done_, of which a
stanza may be quoted here. For the original stanza which runs:
"I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain,"
Phoebe Gary substituted the words:
"I see the lights of the baker
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of hunger comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not like being sick
And resembles sorrow only,
As a brickbat resembles a brick."
However, more than for anything else, perhaps, Phoebe Cary will be
remembered for her lyric, _One Sweetly Solemn Thought_. Not long
before she died she heard a story of something which this little
poem had accomplished, which made her very happy. A gentleman going to
China was entrusted with a package for an American boy in China.
Arriving at his destination, he failed to find the boy, but was told
that he might discover him in a certain gambling house. As he sat and
waited, he watched with disgust and loathing the dreadful scenes going
on about him. At a table near him sat a young boy and a man of perhaps
forty, drinking and playing cards; they were swearing horribly and
using the vilest language.
At length, while the older man shuffled and dealt the cards, the boy
leaned back in his chair and half unconsciously began to hum, finally
singing under his breath Phoebe Cary's hymn, _One Sweetly Solemn
Thought_.
"Where did you learn that hymn?" cried the older gambler abruptly.
"At Sunday School at home," replied the boy, surprised.
The older man threw the cards on the floor. "Come, Harry," he said,
"let's get out of this place. I am ashamed that I ever brought you
here, and I shall do my best to keep you from entering such a place
again."
Together the two passed from the gambling house, and the man who
watched them learned later that they were both true to their resolution
to live a different life.
NEARER HOME
_By_ PHOEBE CARY
One sweetly solemn thought
Comes to me o'er and o'er;
I am nearer home to-day
Than I ever have been before;
Nearer my Father's house,
Where the many mansions be;
Nearer the great white throne,
Nearer the crystal sea;
Nearer the bound of life,
Where we lay our burdens down;
Nearer leaving the cross,
Nearer gaining the crown!
But lying darkly between,
Winding down through the night,
Is the silent, unknown stream,
That leads at last to the light.
Closer and closer my steps
Come to the dread abysm:
Closer Death to my lips
Presses the awful chrism.
Oh, if my mortal feet
Have almost gained the brink;
If it be I am nearer home
Even to-day than I think,
Father, perfect my trust;
Let my spirit feel in death
That her feet are firmly set
On the rock of a living faith!
PICTURES OF MEMORY
_By_ ALICE CARY
Among the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory's wall
Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth best of all;
Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe;
Nor for the violets golden
That sprinkle the vale below;
Not for the milk-white lilies
That lean from the fragrant ledge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge;
[Illustration: IN THAT DIM OLD FOREST]
Nor for the vines on the upland,
Where the bright red berries rest,
Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip,
It seemeth to me the best.
I once had a little brother,
With eyes that were dark and deep;
In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep:
Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the autumn eves,
I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.
Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face;
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.
THE ESCAPE FROM PRISON
[Footnote: This selection is taken from _Cast Up By the Sea_. Paul
Grey, smuggler, and owner of a trim little smuggling boat, the _Polly_,
has come to the French coast to meet his French confederate, Captain
Dupuis. He expects merely to exchange cargoes, as he has done in the
past, and to run back, avoiding revenue cruisers; but Captain Dupuis,
who owes Captain Grey money which he has no desire to pay, and whose
fingers itch for the prize money to be gained by capturing a smuggler,
sends out in his boat a pilot who guides the _Polly_ into a harbor where
a French war vessel waits for her. Dick Stone, Grey's right-hand man,
advises fighting, but Captain Grey sees the uselessness of this and
allows himself and his men to be made prisoners. The selection begins at
this point.]
_By_ SIR SAMUEL W. BAKER
[Footnote: Sir Samuel W. Baker (1821-1893) was an English traveler and
explorer. Besides _Cast Up by the Sea_, Baker wrote _The Rifle and the
Hound in Ceylon_; _The Albert Nyansa_; _Wild Beasts and their Ways_, and
other books.]
In an hour after the arrival of the "Polly" in the deceitful port, Paul
and his entire crew were marched through the streets of a French
village, and were drawn up opposite the prison entrance.
Upon their arrival at the gate they were met by the governor and the
principal jailer, who allotted them to various cells in separate
parties. Paul, as their captain, was placed in a superior apartment,
together with Dick Stone, whom he had requested might be permitted to
accompany him.
As the door of the prison had closed upon their admittance to the
court-yard, Paul had noticed a remarkably pretty girl about eighteen
who had fixed her eyes upon him with extreme earnestness. As he was now
led with Dick Stone to the room that they were to occupy he observed
that she accompanied the jailer, and appeared to observe him with great
interest. Taking from his pocket a guinea that was pierced with a hole,
he slipped it into her hand; at the same time laughingly he told her in
a few words of broken French to suspend it as a charm around her neck
to preserve her from everything English.
Instead of receiving it with pleasure, as he had expected, she simply
looked at it with curiosity for an instant, and then, keeping it in her
hand, she asked in her native tongue with intense feeling, "Have you
seen Victor? My dear brother Victor, a prisoner in England?"
"Silly girl," said the jailer, her father, "England is a large place,
and there are too many French prisoners to make it likely that Victor
should be known"; at the same time the feelings of the father yielded
to a vague hope as he looked inquiringly at Paul.
"There are many fine fellows," answered Paul, "who have had the
misfortune to become prisoners of war, but they are all cared for, and
receive every attention in England. When was your brother taken?" he
asked, as he turned to the handsome dark-eyed girl who had just
questioned him.
[Illustration: HE SLIPPED A GUINEA INTO HER HAND]
"A year ago next Christmas," she replied; "and we have only once heard
from him; he was then at a place called Falmouth, but we do not know
where that is."
"Falmouth!" said Paul; "why, I know the place well; with a fair wind
the 'Polly' would make it in a few hours from the spot where I live.
Your brother then is imprisoned only half a day's sail from my house!"
"Oh! what good fortune, _mon Dieu,_" exclaimed the excited girl, as she
clasped her hands in delight, as though the hour of her brother's
deliverance was at hand. "How can we reach him? surely you can help us?"
"Alas! I am also a prisoner," replied Paul. "At this moment my wife is
sorrowing alone in our cottage on the cliff, and she is looking vainly
upon the sea expecting my return. How can I help you? Believe me, if it
were possible, I would." At the recollection of Polly's situation Paul
hastily brushed a tear from his eye with the back of his rough hand,
which instantly awoke the sympathy of the sensitive girl before him.
"Ha! you are married," she exclaimed. "Is she young, and perhaps
beautiful?"
"Young enough for me, and handsomer than most women," replied Paul.
At this moment Dick Stone had lighted his pipe, and as he gave two or
three tremendous puffs he screwed his face into a profoundly serio-
comic expression and winked his right eye mysteriously at Paul.
"I know the young man," said Dick, who now joined in the conversation,
and addressed the jailer whom he had been scrutinizing closely; "I saw
him once at the prison in Falmouth. Rather tall?" said Dick, as he
surveyed the six-foot form of the jailer.
"Yes," said the jailer, eagerly, "as tall as I am."
"Black hair?" continued the impassive Dick, as he cast his eyes upon
the raven locks of both father and daughter.
"Yes, as dark as mine," exclaimed the now excited jailer.
"Roman nose?" said Dick, as he looked at the decided form of the
parent's feature that was shared by the handsome girl.
"Precisely so, well arched," replied the father.
"Had not lost an arm?" said Dick.
"No, he had both his arms," said the jailer.
"And his name," said Dick, "was Victor?"
"Victor Dioré!" exclaimed the jailer's daughter.
"Precisely so--that's the man," replied the stoical Dick Stone; "that's
the man. I know'd him soon after he was captured; and I believe he's
now in Falmouth Jail. I'd almost forgotten his name, for you Mounseers
are so badly christened that I can't remember how you're called."
The jailer and his daughter were much affected at this sudden
intelligence; there could be no doubt that their new prisoner had seen
their lost relative, who appeared to be imprisoned not far from Paul's
residence, and their hearts at once warmed toward both the captives.
They were led into a large but rather dark room, scantily furnished,
with two trestle-beds, a table, and a couple of benches.
"We must talk of this again," said Paul to the jailer's daughter;
"perhaps an exchange of prisoners may be arranged at some future time
that may serve us all."
"Yes," added Dick Stone, "I think we can manage it if we're all true
friends; and may I ask your name, my dear? for you're the prettiest
Mounseer that I've ever set eyes on."
"Léontine," replied the girl.
"Well, Leonteen," continued Dick, "if you'll come and have a chat
sometimes up in this cold-looking room I dare say we'll be able to hit
off some plan that'll make us all agreeable. I've got a secret to tell
you yet, but I don't want to let it out before the old 'un," said Dick,
mysteriously, as he winked his eye at her in masonic style; then,
putting his lips very close to her pretty ear, he whispered, "I can
tell you how to get your brother out of prison; but you must keep it
close."
The door had hardly closed upon the jailer and his daughter, who had
promised to return with breakfast, when Paul turned quickly toward Dick
Stone and exclaimed, "What do you mean, Dick, by such a romance as you
have just composed? Surety all is false; you never met the French
prisoner at Falmouth?"
"Well," replied Dick, "may be I didn't; but perhaps I did. Who knows?--
You see, captain, all's fair in love or war, and it struck me that it's
as well to make friends as enemies; now you see we've made friends all
at once by a little romance. You see the Mounseers are very purlite
people, and so it's better to be purlite when you're in France. You see
the pretty little French girl says her brother's in jail in Falmouth;
well, I've seen a lot of French prisoners in Falmouth with black hair,
and two arms apiece, and a Roman nose; so very likely I've seen her
brother. Well, you see, if we can make friends with the jailer, we may
p'r'aps get the key of the jail! At all events, it ain't a bad
beginning to make friends with the jailer's daughter before we've had
our first breakfast in the French prison."
As Dick Stone finished speaking he looked out of the narrow grated
window that in the thick stone wall appeared as though it had been
intended for musketry; from this aperture he had a beautiful view of
the bay and the French corvette, near to which the unfortunate "Polly"
was now lying at anchor with the French colors flying at the mizzen.
"Well, that's a bad lookout, I must say," said Dick. "Look here,
captain, there's the 'Polly' looking as trim and as saucy, bless her
heart! as though we were all on board; and there's the ugly French flag
flying, and she don't seem to care more about it than a woman with new
ribbons in her bonnet."
Paul looked at his beautiful lugger with bitter feelings. He had sailed
in her for many years, and she had become like a member of his family.
Although fifteen years old, she had been built of such well-seasoned
timber, and had been kept in such excellent repair, that she was better
than most vessels of half her age, and he sighed as he now saw her at
anchor with the French flag fluttering at her masthead. For a long time
he gazed intently upon her without speaking a word; at length he turned
sharply 'round, and in a quick, determined voice, he said, "Dick, I'll
never live to see the 'Polly' disgraced. If you'll stick by me, Dick,
we'll retake her yet, or die!"
For some moments Dick Stone stared Paul carelessly in the face without
a reply; he then tapped the bowl of his empty pipe upon the prison
wall, and carefully refilling it with tobacco, he once more, lighted
it, and puffed for about a minute in perfect silence; he then spoke,
after emitting a dense volume of smoke.
"If I'll stick to you, captain? Well, p'r'aps I never have, and p'r'aps
Dick Stone's a coward? Well, you see, of course I'll stick to yer; but
there's other things to be thought of. What's your plan, captain? It's
of no use doing anything without thinking well first. Now if you'll
tell me what you mean I'll have a little smoke, just half a pipe, and
I'll tell you my opinion."
"My plans are not absolutely defined," said Paul, "but I think that by
making friends with the jailer's daughter we may induce her to risk
much in the endeavor to rescue her brother. We might prevail upon her
to assist in our escape--she might even accompany us to England. Could
we only free ourselves from these prison walls on a dark night, when
the wind blows strong from the south, why should we not surprise the
French crew, and carry off the 'Polly'? Once at sea, there is nothing
that could touch her!" Paul's eyes glistened as he spoke, and the
muscles stood out on his brawny arm as he clinched his fist, and added,
"If I could only once lay hold of Dupuis's throat, and save the
'Polly,' I ask no greater fortune!"
Puff, puff, puff, came in rapid succession from Dick's pipe at these
words; at last, the long exhaustive suck arrived in its turn, and the
usual cloud of smoke enveloped his head, which always exhilarated his
brain.
"Well, captain, d'ye see," replied Dick, "I'll stick to you in
anything, and there's no doubt that there's a chance of success if the
pretty little Mounseer will only help us. But, you see, from what I
know of womankind, they're very fond and very purlite for their
brothers, but they won't run much risk for 'em. Now if they're in love
they're as good as bulldogs; and so I think it's a pity as how you told
her that you'd got a wife a-looking out for you at home! If you'd have
told her that you were a single man, and p'r'aps given her a kiss when
you gave her the lucky guinea, we might have got a little love to help
us, and then we'd have had a better chance, as she'd have gone off with
us all of a heap."
"Dick, you have no conscience," replied Paul; "you surely would not
deceive the girl in such a heartless manner? No!" continued Paul, "I
have told her the truth, and if she can help us I'll do my best to save
her brother; but, on the other hand, why should not you, Dick, make
yourself agreeable to her? You're not a bad-looking fellow, why should
you not do the love-making?"
Dick made no reply, but thoughtfully puffed at-his pipe; then laying
down his smoking counselor upon the window-sill he thrust his right
hand into a deep breeches pocket, and extracted a black-horn pocket
comb, with which he began at once, most carefully to arrange his hair.
Despite the loss of the "Polly" and the misery of his situation Paul
burst out laughing as he witnessed Dick's cool determination to prepare
for love-making.
"I don't know how these Mounseers begin," said the methodical Dick;
"they're a very purlite people, and so they mayn't like our customs. In
England we take 'em round the waist with both arms, and give 'em a
kiss; but p'r'aps it's better not to begin all at once. I'll just ask
her to sit on my knee at first, so as not to frighten her."
"Better not, Dick," said Paul, laughing; "I'm afraid she wouldn't
understand your modesty. Only make yourself agreeable, but don't touch
her, and let time do the rest."
They were interrupted in their conversation by the turning of the
creaking door-lock, and the jailer and his daughter entered with a loaf
of black bread and two jars of water and of milk, which they placed
upon the table. Léontine had already strung the guinea upon a cord,
which was now suspended from her neck.
"Ha! that looks very well!" said Paul; "few French girls wear the
English king's image round their necks."
"I know an Englishman who wears a French girl's picture in his heart,"
said Dick, who, with a sly wink at Paul as a preface, thus made his
first bold advance. "A what?" inquired Léontine.
"A poor devil," replied Dick, "who doesn't care how long he's shut up
in a French prison with such a pretty little Mounseer for a jailer."
"Ha! ha! you English know how to pay compliments," answered Léontine,
who knew just sufficient English to understand Dick's attempt at
French.
"Yes, we're considered a very purlite people," replied Dick, "and we
have a purlite custom when we go to prison of shaking hands with the
jailer and kissing the hand of his pretty daughter." As Dick said these
words he first grasped the hand of the jailer, and then raised to his
lips, redolent of tobacco, the hand of Léontine; at the same time he
whispered, "Don't forget that I have a secret."
Far from being disconcerted at Dick's politeness, Léontine naively
remarked, "You can't tell a secret before three persons; but we shall
have plenty of opportunities, for you may pay us a longer visit than
may be agreeable."
Dick in reply to this remark suddenly assumed one of his most
mysterious expressions, and winking one eye at Léontine, he placed his
forefinger upon his lips as though to enjoin silence, and whispered in
her ear, "Make an opportunity: the secret's about your brother."
More than two months had passed wearily in the French prison, during
which both Paul and Dick Stone had been buoyed up in inaction by the
hope of carrying into execution a plan for their escape. The only view
from the prison windows was the sea, and the street and beach in the
foreground. The "Polly" still lay at anchor in the same spot, as some
difficulty had arisen between Captain Dupuis and the captain of the
corvette that had to be settled in the law courts.
In the meantime both Paul and Dick Stone had not only become great
friends of the jailer, Jean Dioré, and his daughter, but Dick had
quickly found an opportunity to disclose his secret, which succeeded in
winning the heart of the enterprising Léontine. Dick had made a
declaration of love, and to prove his sincerity he proposed that he
should conduct her direct to her brother in the English prison, whose
release should be effected by an exchange; and he had persuaded her
that, if she should aid in the escape of Paul and the entire crew of
the "Polly," there would be no difficulty in obtaining her brother's
release when the facts should become known to the English authorities.
Paul had added his persuasions to those of Dick Stone; he had excited
the sister's warmest feelings by painting the joys he would feel in
rescuing her brother from a miserable existence, and he had gained her
sympathy by a description of the misery and suspense that his own wife
must be suffering in her ignorance of all that had befallen him.
Léontine was won. She was brave as a lion, and, her determination once
formed, she was prepared to act without flinching.
Many times Dick Stone had lighted his pipe, and puffed and considered
as he took counsel with Paul on the plan that the latter had proposed.
All was agreed upon.
Paul had thus arranged the attempt at escape. All was to be in
readiness for the first gale that should blow from either west or
south. Léontine had provided him with a couple of large files and a
small crowbar about two feet long, which she had purchased in the
village with money supplied by Paul; these she had introduced to his
room by secreting them beneath her clothes.
At various times she had purchased large supplies of string twine in
skeins, which to avoid suspicion she had described as required for
making nets; these she had also introduced daily, until sufficient had
been collected for the manufacture of ropes, at which both Paul and
Dick Stone worked inc
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