?tatc College of agrtculture m CornEll mnibttsitp Stbata, M. S- iCiftrarp Cornell University Library PS 507.P3 American literary readings, 3 1924 014 529 774 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924014529774 AMERICAN LITERARY READINGS Edited WITH INTRODUCTION, NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES, SOME THOUGHT QUESTIONS, AN OUT- LINE OF AMERICAN LITERATURE AND A BRIEF ESSAY ON ENGLISH METRICS By LEONIDAS WARREN PAYNE, Jr. Associate Professor of English in The University of Texas Author of "Southern Literary Readings'l and "Learn to Spell" RAND McNALLY & COMPANY Chicago New York Copyright, IQ17 By Leonidas Warhen Payne, Jr. i '•.(fSTol TO HER Through whose self-sacrifice and encourage- ment all my books have been made possible THE CONTENTS The figures in parentheses indicate the pages on which the Notes will be found. PACE The Preface ' . . xi The Introduction . . ... xiii I. New York and Middle States Group 1. WASHINGTON IRVING — 1. Portrait (facing) . . . I 2. Biographical Sketch . i 3. Rip Van Winkle (525) 7 4. Westminster Abbey (529) . . . 26 2. JAMES FENIMORE COOPER — 1. Portrait (facing) ... . ... 38 2. Biographical Sketch 38 3. The Last of the Mohicans (Chapter III, Hawk-eye, Chingachgook, and Uncas) (532) . 46 3. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT — 1. Portrait (facing) . .... -56 2. Biographical Sketch . . . 56 3. yhanatopsis (534) . . . 62 4. To a Waterfowl (536) ... ... -64 5. The Death of the Flowers (537) .... 65 6. Robert of Lincoln (538) . ... ... 67 4. WALT WHITMAN — 1. Portrait (facing) ... . -70 2. Biographical Sketch 70 3. Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking (539) 80 4. When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd (540) 87 5. O Captain! My Captain! (544) 96 6. The Mystic Trumpeter (544) ... -97 II. New England Group 5. RALPH WALDO EMERSON — Portrait (/ocireg) . . . 1 01 ^Biographical Sketch loi Heroism (545) . . 106 Compensation (549) . 118 Concord Hymn (553) . . 139 The Rhodora (554) . 140 The Humble-Bee (555) 140 Days (555) 142 [vii] viii American Literary Readings 6. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE— page 1. Portrait (/acjng) . . -143 2. Biographical Sketch ... ... . i43 3. The Ambitious Guest (556) ... 149 4. The Great Carbuncle (558) .' . 158 5. The Wedding-Knell (560) . . 174 7. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW — 1. Portrait (jacing) . . .184 2. Biographical Sketch 184 3. Evangeline (561) . . . 190 4. A Psalm of Life (576) . . 256 5. Hymn to the Night (577) . . . . .257 6. Maidenhood (578) .... . . 258 7. Excelsior (578). . 260 8. The Wreck of the Hesperus (579) • . . 262 9. The Arrow and the Song (581) . . ... 265 10. Divina Commedia (581) 265 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER- 1. Portrait (jacing) 2. Biographical Sketch 3. Snow-Bound (582) 4. Ichabod (588) 5. Skipper Ireson's Ride (589) 266 266 272 294 296 6. In School-Days (590) . . 299 9. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES — 1. Portrait (facing) . . 301 2. Biographical Sketch . .301 3. The Last Leaf (591) 307 4. The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table (Section IV, including "The Chambered Nautilus") (592) . 308 5. The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table (Section XI, including "The Deacon's Masterpiece") (595) . . 319 10. HENRY DAVID THOREAU — 1. Portrait- (/ocOTg) .... 325 2. Biographical Sketch 325 3. Brute Neighbors (Chapter XII of Walden, or Life in the Woods) (596) . -331 11. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL — 1. Portrait (facing) . ... 344 2. Biographical Sketch • . . . . . 344 3. The Vision of Sir Launfal (599) . . 349 '4. TheCourtin' (605) . . . 360 5. A Fable for Critics (excerpts) (606) . . . 363 6. Our Literature (609) .... .... 372 The Contents ix III. Southern Group 12. EDGAR ALLAN POE — I 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10. Portrait (Joeing) 377 Biographical Sketch 377 Review of Hawthorne's Twice-told Tales (6io) 382 The Cask of Amontillado (61 1) 390 The Purloined Letter (612) . . 398 To Science (614) . . 419 To Helen (615) . 419 Israfel (616) 420 Ulalume (617) . . 422 Eldorado (618) . 425 13. HENRY TIMROD — 1. Portrait (Joeing) . ... 426 2. Biographical Sketch 426 3. Spring (619) . 430 4. Ode (620) 432 14. PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE — 1. Portrait (Joeing) . 434 2. Biographical Sketch 434 3. Aspects of the Pines (621) 436 4. Composed in Autumn (622) 437 15. SIDNEY LANIER — 1. Portrait (Joeing) 438 2. Biographical Sketch ... . 438 3. Song of the Chattahoochee (622) 443 16. O. HENRY — 1. Portrait (Joeing) . 445 2. Biographical Sketch . 445 3. The Ransom of Red Chief (623) . 448 4. The Last Leaf (624) . . . 460 IV. Central and Western Group 17. ABRAHAM LINCOLN — 1. Portrait (Joeing) . . 467 2. Biographical Sketch . 467 3. Gettysburg Address (625) . . . 468 18. MARK TWAIN 1. Portrait (facing) . 469 2. Biographical Sketch . . . ... 469 3. The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County (626) . .477 X American Literary Readings 19. BRET HARTE— page 1. Portrait (Joeing) ... 484 2. Biographical Sketch 484 3. The Luck of Roaring Camp (628) 486 20. JOAQUIN MILLER — 1. Portrait (facing) 499 2. Biographical Sketch . 499 3. Kit Carson's Ride (629) . 502 4. Columbus (630) .... . . . 505 21. EUGENE FIELD — 1. Portrait (facing) 507 2. Biographical Sketch < 507 3. In the Firelight (630) . 509 4. Dutch Lullaby (631) 510 22. JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY — 1. Portrait (facing) . . 512 2. Biographical Sketch ■ 512 3. Afterwhiles (631) . . 514 4. The Raggedy Man (632) ... 516 23. WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY— 1. Portrait (facing) .... 519 2. Biographical Sketch 519 3. Gloucester Moors (632) 522 The Notes . 525 A Pronouncing List of Proper Names 634 An Outline of American Literature 638 A Brief Essay on English Metrics 642 THE PREFACE This volume is intended to be used as a basal text in classes in American literature. An effort has been made to include all the major authors and some of the more im- portant minor ones, and to give enough material to be fairly representative of the different types of work produced by each of these. No selection from authors whose works are now merely of historic or antiquarian interest has been included. The absolutely essential classics have been chosen as far as length and character of the selection would permit. The apparent unequal representation in the cases of recent writers, particularly Lanier, Mark Twain, and Moody, is due to copyright restrictions. An effort has been made also to conform to the standard texts, but in most instances the original texts were followed. In practically every case, complete works have been given, the exceptions being the chapters from Cooper's The Last of the Mohicans and Thoreau's Walden and the sections from Lowell's A Fable for Critics and Holmes's The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, and in these instances enough is extracted to make a unified effect and to arouse interest in the complete work. The plan of the present book is largely the same as that of Charles M. Curry's Literary Readings and the present editor's Southern Literary Readings, both published by Rand McNally & Company. The biographical sketches and the notes and questions are made full enough to elucidate the text, pique interest, and stimulate thought, but not too full, it is hoped, to overshadow the literatvire itself or prevent outside study and reference work on the part of the pupil. My thanks are due to the courteous cooperation of the members of the reading-room staff in the Library of Congress, where the notes and sketches were prepared. I also wish to express my gratitude to the publishing houses which have given me permission to reprint certain copyrighted material : To Charles Scribner's Sons for "Song of the Chattahoo- chee," from Poems of Lanier by Sidney Lanier, and " Dutch Lullaby" and "In the Firelight" by Eugene Field; The Bobbs-Merrill Company for " Af terwhiles " and "The [xij xii The Preface Raggedy Man" by James Whitcomb Riley; Doubleday Page & Company for "The Ransom of Red Chief," from Whirligigs, and "The Last Leaf," from The Trimmed Lamp and Other Stories of the Four Million, by O. Henry; the Whittaker & Ray-Wiggin Company for "Kit Carson's Ride" and "Columbus" by Joaquin Miller. "The Luck of Roaring Camp" by Bret Harte, "Divina Commedia" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and "Glou- cester Moors" by William Vaughn Moody, are used, by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston. "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking," "When Lilacs LastintheDooryardBloom'd," "OCaptaiin! My Captain!" and "The Mystic Trumpeter" by Walt Whitman are used by permission of Horace K. Traubel, literary executor. I am also indebted to Mrs. Mary Day Lanier for help in revising the sketch of Sidney Lanier, reprinted here from my Southern Literary Readings. L. W. Payne, Jr. Austin, Texas January, 1917 THE INTRODUCTION I. The Aim of Literary Study The tendency to reduce the study of the history of litera- ture to a subordinate place and to exalt the study of the classics themselves has become in recent years more and more pronounced. Secondary textbooks are now com-- bining the history with the selections, but with the emphasis largely upon the latter. This is certainly a development in the right direction, for it is vastly more important for the high-school pupils to be reading the literature itself than to be committing to memory numerous facts about the writers and their books. Of course, a modicum of literary history is necessary, especially for studying tendencies and movements and for making estimates of particular pro- ductions and authors; the historical backgrounds, social, economic, and literary, should be clearly outlined, and the distinct literary movements and stylistic fashions should be at least briefly expounded and interpreted. But by all means this should be a subsidiary and not a primary end, and certainly the pupils should be first made acquainted, through actual contact, with the best models of the various kinds of literary expression in the various periods. (A brief outline of American literature by periods will be found on pp. 638-641.) It is not enough for the selections to satisfy the mere historic curiosity as to the kind of writing that was being produced and most widely read in a given period. This is decidedly interesting and valuable to the special student of literature, and it has the same cultural value as has the study of other sorts of history; but it is unwise to ask the average high-school student to spend much of his time in conning over the mere historical facts in the develop- ment of our literature. The primary or essential demand is for the use by the pupil of complete classics, — the very best examples of our various literary types, with such helps as will lead him to form the habit of reading closely and such critical apparatus as will develop in him the ability to [xiii] xiv American Literary Readings appreciate and recognize literary values. As far as possible, material should be selected which will command his interest and at the same time be of permanent value to him in training his artistic taste and developing his literary judg- ment. In no case should a puerile or depraved taste or a temporary fad be pandered to. The best in every kind is what our children should have, and we must not allow the child's preferences to direct us so absolutely as to make us fail to give him what is really good for him, that is, what will tend to develop and refine his taste and character. In the present volume the aim has been to cull from ■the mass of nineteenth-century American literature certain essential masterpieces which, every child should know, and to present them with suiScient critical apparatus to make them easily understood and thoroughly accessible from the literary point of view. It is a well-known fact that the pupil frequently has no idea how to study an assignment in literature. About all he knows to do is to read over in a desultory way the required nurnber of lines or pages of an assignment, without making the slightest effort to get below the surface into the real import and force and literary values of the piece he is supposed to study. With the proper kind of notes, study suggestions, and leading questions before him, he can easily attain some skill in making the literary attack for himself. Hence we have given in the back of this book full introductory and explanatory notes, and followed these by a fairly exhaustive list of questions and exercises, all of which are intended to open to the pupil the real literary values of the selections. It is not intended, of course, that these questions should be followed mechanically in the recitation. The very worst possible method of teaching a classic is that by which the pupils are made to memorize notes and give mechanical answers to stereotyped questions. The helps will defeat their own end if they are ever allowed to usurp the main interest of the recitation. Let it be repeated until there can be no chance of mistake, the literature itself is the main thing. The notes should be used only in connection with the text, and never studied for their own sake. The questions should be similarly used only as an adjunct to the complete understanding and interpretation of the text. Most teachers will prefer to ask their own questions, but it is hoped that the exercises and questions found in the volume 1 nt? irujuuiM^ Hon will at least be suggestive to the teacher, and certainly afford a guide for study and interpretation for the pupil. Occasionally the teacher may wish to select particular questions for study, and sometimes it may be wise to require written answers to be prepared outside of the class. At least enough questions should be assigned to make the pupils feel the necessity of definite preparation for class recitation. If the questions are never resorted to specifically, the pupils will soon develop the habit of ignoring them. Minute and detailed study of a single classic is frequently advantageous, but on the whole it is better for the pupils to get the big idea or dominant impression of many pieces of literature than to be surfeited by a too minute and ex- tended study of one classic. Many teachers make the mis- take of spending entirely too much time on some single long masterpiece, like Evangeline for example, so that the pupils become thoroughly disgusted with it. Interminable drill and analysis will kill the spirit of the finest piece of literature in the world. Pupils like variety and progress from one type to another and from one selection to another, and when they are held too long at one task they inevitably rebel and lose their zest and interest. In many city schools the same classics are held in the course year after year and drilled on so minutely and persistently that both the pupils' and the teacher's vitality and alertness are sapped and deadened. Again, it has been demonstrated that it will not do to force too much poetry upon young minds. Poetry is more concentrated, more suited to minute analysis, more easily taught, and hence more attractive to the adult mind of the teacher; but the child naturally prefers the less con- centrated and more easily grasped content of prose. It is desirable, then, to mix the two types in some equitable proportion. An attempt has been made in this volume to give about an equal amount of prose and poetry. The poetical selections are somewhat more ntunerous because they are usually shorter, but the number of pages of each kind is very nearly equal. A detailed study of the technique of verse is not desirable in the grades or in the high-school course of study, but at least the essential elements of metrics should be presented rather early in the pupil's preparation for literary study. The natural tendency of the child is to overemphasize the xvi American Literary Readings rhythm of poetical selections, and one of the teacher's chief aims in the earlier years is to prevent the sing-song or mechanical rendition of metrical passages. The fact that the child does want to read his poetry in this sing-song fashion is clear proof that he can be easily taught the elements of meter at an early stage, and we should always take advantage of this instinct and direct and inform him. Not many technical terms should be memorized, but the four fundamental and two occasional English rhythms and the more common matters of meter should at least be presented. The brief treatise given on pp. 642-647 will, it is believed, answer all practical purposes. It may be necessary here to give a warning against a too prominent emphasis on the mere mechanics of verse. The very novelty of the subject is likely to lead some teachers into extremes. Only a small fraction of the pupil's time and energy should be consumed in these mechanical exercises of scansion. Just ehough practice to give the young reader an introduction into the mechanics of English meter so that he can recog- nize the different types is all that is necessary. II. Classification of Selections A ntmiber of teachers in recent years have preferred to study literature by types instead of chronologically by authors or by literary schools, or movements, as has been the prevailing custom in the past. In the present volume we have attempted to include as many different types as was consistent with the other aims of the book, and for the convenience of teachers who desire to present the material by types we have grouped the selections in the following table under the commonly accepted rubrics. Of cotirse, in any such classification there will inevitably be some overlapping, and the teacher must be depended upon to point out instances of such. Poetry is classified as epic, dramatic, and Ijnic, and additional divisions are sometimes given to cover didactic and satiric verse. Under the epic we have placed all narrative verse, including the literary ballads. In a limited volimie like the present we have found it impractical to include drama, either in poetry or in prose. The lyric is easily divided into subordinate types, and for convenience we may classify the kinds of lyrics under five headings — 1 ne iniruauction xvu namely, greater lyrics: (i) ode, (2) elegy, (3) idyl; lesser l5aics: (4) song-lyric, (5) sonnet. The more detailed classifi- cation of Ijnics according to the emotion expressed, sUch as love, grief, nature, social, humorous, pathetic, patriotic, philosophic, reUgious, we have largely left to the judgment of the teacher, who may in turn secure the reaction of the pupils on this point in the daily class exercises. The prose selections fall under one of three divisions — namely, the essay, the oration, and the story (including selections from longer narratives). Subdivisions of the first two rubrics may be made according to type, as, of the essay, formal or informal in structure; critical, philosophical, didactic, and the like, in subject-matter. The short prose narratives may be variously classified into the sketch, the tale, the short story; or again, according to purpose or aim, into stories of character, situation, local color, hiomor, pathos, and the like. I. Epic or Narrative: Longfellow, Evangeline, Excelsior, The Wreck of the Hesperus; Whittier, Skipper Ireson's Ride; Lowell, The Vision of Sir Launfal, The Courtin' ; Miller, Kit Carson's Ride. II. Lyric: 1. Ode: Bryant, To a Waterfowl; Whitman, Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking, The Mystic Trumpeter; Timrod, Ode. 2. Elegy: Bryant, Thanatopsis, The Death of the Flowers; Poe, Ulalume; Whitman, When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd, O Captain! My Captain! 3. Idyl: Whittier, Snow-Bound. 4. Song-lyric: Bryant, Robert of Lincoln; Poe, To Helen, Israfel, Eldorado; Emerson, Concord Hymn, The Rhodora, The Humble-Bee, Days; Longfellow, A Psalm of Life, Hjrtnn to the Night, Maidenhood, The Arrow and the Song; Whittier, In School-Days, Ichabod; Holmes, The Last Leaf, The Chambered Nautilus; Field, Dutch Lullaby, In the Fire- Ught; Miller, Columbus; Lanier, Song of the Chattahoochee; Riley, Afterwhiles, The Raggedy Man; Timrod, Spring; Hayne, Aspects of the Pines ; Moody, Gloucester Moors. 5. Sonnet: Longfellow, Divina Commedia; Hayne, Composed in Autumn; Poe, To Science. in. Satiric: Lowell, A Fable for Critics; Holmes, The Deacon's Master- piece. PROSE I. Essay: Irving, Westminster Abbey; Poe, Review of Hawthorne's '"Twice-told Tales"; Emerson, Compensation, Heroism; Holmes, "The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," Section IV, "The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," Section XI; rfeoreow. Brute Neighbors (Chapter XII of "Walden, or Life in the Woods"). xviii American Literary Readings II. Oration: Lincoln, Gettysburg Speech; Lowell, Our Literature. III. Story: Irving, Rip Van Winkle; Cooper, "The Last of the Mo- hicans" (Chapter III, Hawk-eye, Chingachgook, and Uncas) ; Poe, The Cask of Amontillado, The Purloined Letter; Hawthorne, The "Ambitious Guest, The Great Carbuncle, The Wedding-Knell; Mark Twain, The Celebrated Jumping Prog of Calaveras County; Bret Harte, The Luck of Roaring Camp; O. Henry, The Ransom of Red Chief, The Last Leaf. III. Oral Reading of Masterpieces Finally atid by all means, the oral rendition of literary masterpieces should be insisted on in all the high-school grades. The surest test of real literary appreciation is the ability to reproduce in good oral reading the m.aterial studied. Membry work, then, becomes an essential aid in this practical exercise of oral reproduction. The pupils should be trained to do good oral reading directly from the text, of course, but a finished and final oral rendition from memory will fix the real literary values of a masterpiece in the child's mind in a way that no amount of mere cursory reading will do. A rapid sight reading of each selection, before the more detailed literary study is made, is essential to a consecutive grasp of the selection as a whole; but the final test of all the study put upon a selection is the pupil's ability to reproduce its thought content and its emotional and esthetic values by a good oral reading;, and in the case of the shorter selections, undoubtedly the surest means of attaining this full literary appreciation on the part of the pupil is to demand of him accurate and expressive memory reproduction before the whole class or the entire school. From an engraving by E. Burney, after a photograph WASHINGTON IRVING AMERICAN LITERARY READINGS WASHINGTON IRVING 1783-1859 Washington Irving has been called "The Father of American Literature," just as the great statesman and soldier for whom he was named is called "The Father of His Country." In a certain sense, Irving is the father of American literature. He was not our first author to devote himself entirely to literature, for Charles Brockden Brown had done that just before him; but he was the first of our authors to gain recognition abroad, or as Thackeray happily phrased it in his essay "Nil Nisi Bonum," "Irving was the first ambassador whom the New World of letters sent to the Old." The Sketch Book was, in fact, the first positive answer to the tantalizing British query, "Who reads an American book?" Irving was born in New York City, April 3, 1783, the year which marked the defeat of Comwallis and the close of the Revolution, and his mother, who was an ardent patriot, decided to name him for the great American general, for, she said, "Washington's work is ended, and the child shall be named for him." When Irving was six years old, his old Scotch nurse presented him to President Washington for his blessing. Irving remembered the incident, remarking in later years, "That blessing has attended me through life." It is interesting, finally, to note in this connection that Irving's last great work was the five-volume Life of Washington, which appeared 'in 1859 just before his death. Irving's parents were both born abroad, his father being of Scotch and his mother of English descent. There were born to them eleven children, of whom Washington was the youngest. He was a delicate child, and his education, so far as formal school training is concerned, was desultory. He read tales of travel and adventure, particularly the Arabian Nights and Robinson Crusoe, when he ought to have been studying his arithmetic; and it is said that he would [I] 2 American Literary Readings willingly write the other boys' compositions if they would work his sums for him. He dropped out of school at sixteen, failing to take advantage of the opportunity of, attending Columbia College as two of his brothers did. Instead, he spent his time in reading tales of romance, slipping away from home before and after family prayers to attend the newly opened theater, and roaming the country roundabout, listen- ing to the good wives' tales about ghosts and fairies in the sur- rounding hills and valleys. He made several long holiday excursions into the Hudson River hill country farther north, going on one of his trips even as far north as Canada, and collecting all the while those legends and nature pictures which he has "so well preserved in "Rip Van Winkle" and "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow." The plan for young Irving's future was that he should become a lawyer. The chief result of his five years of desultory study of law, largely in Judge Hoffman's office, was his acquaintance with the Judge's daughter, Matilda. She was a beautiful and quick-witted girl, and Irving fell desperately in love with her. She was equally attracted to the handsome and genial youth and promised to marry him, but she developed rapid tuberculosis and died in her eight- eenth year. Irving's devotion to her memory is one of the most beautiful things in his life. He did not secliide himself from society nor become sentimentally morbid; indeed, he was always delighted with the society of women, and the evidence seems to show that he had some serious intentions of marrying later in life. But the fact remains that he never married, and after his death there were found among his t;herished personal belongings a lock of Miss Hoffman's hair and her Bible and prayerbook. Irving's constitution was still frail, and so in 1804 it was decided that he should visit Europe partly in search of health, but partly also for literary and cultural advantages. He traveled through Italy, France-, and England, meeting many distinguished persons and rriaking many friends by his genial manners and attractive personality. On his return in 1806, he was admitted to the bar, but he devoted his time more to social engagements and literary experiments than to his profession. Before his trip abroad he had contributed to a New York paper a series of light satiric letters, sign- ing them "Jonathan Oldstyle," a name which indicates at this early period his predilection for the seventh-century Washington Irving 3 Addisonian prose style. With James K. Paulding he now undertook another experiment, a semi-monthly periodical called Salmagundi. It was modeled on the Spectator of Addison and Steele, and though it did not run quite a year, it gave both of these men an outlet for their literary aspira- tions and eventually led to other undertakings in authorship. Irving's works may be divided into three classes; his humorous and serious sketches and essays, his longer con- nected narratives, and his biographical and historical narra- tives. The first of these is the most important and will receive the major part of our attention. A History of New York by Diedrich Knickerbocker (1809) was the first really important work by Irving. It was begun as a satiric burlesque on Dr. Samuel Mitchell's Picture of New York, but it was carried out in such a fine spirit of humorous extravaganza that it was at once recognized as an original and imaginative work. It was preceded by a clever series of advertising notes, in the form of news items about the peculiar and distressing disappearance of Diedrich Knickerbocker, "a small, elderly gentleman, dressed in an old black coat and a cocked hat." He had left behind him a curious manuscript, which would be sold to pay his board bill. Naturally when this manuscript was published, everybody wanted to read it, and everybody, except a few serious-minded Dutch historians, was delighted with the fresh and good-natured badinage, the mock-serious exaggera- tion, and the quaint Dutch' reminiscences. The book was talked about and bandied so freely that it gave a new word to the language, Knickerbocker, the generic name of the Dutch freeholders in America, a term later applied to the first distinctive period of American literature. It is a difficult thing for a purely humorous work to hold its place of popu- larity, and so we find to-day few readers of Knickerbocker's History. A little of it is still highly amusing, but the style in writing, as in dress, changes from generation to genera- tion, and the broad splashes of humor and elephantine facetiousness of Knickerbocker's History are not so attractive to modem readers as they were to Irving's contemporaries. After Knickerbocker' s History Irving seems to have rested on his laurels for a period of ten years. He was nominally engaged in business with his brothers, but his duties seem to have been mainly to keep up the social side of the house. He was sent to Washington, ostensibly to protect the claims of 4 American Literary Readings certain business interests before Congress, but his letters relate more of his experiences in Mrs. Dolly Madison's and others' drawing-rooms than of his business activities; He also visited Baltimore and Philadelphia, where he was received in the best society. His literary success had paved the way for him everywhere, and he was already something of a social lion. So ran the merry years away; and some rather serious ones, too, for Irving passed through the War of 1812, not in active service but as a military aid to Gov- ernor Tompkins of New York. In 181 5 he went to England to visit one of his brothers. He intended to stay only a short time, but it was 183 1 before he set foot on American soil again. He became the familiar friend of many notable persons in England and Paris and Dresden, among them Sir Walter Scott, whom he visited at Abbotsford. Then the business affairs of the family had gone to the bad, and Irving turned to literature for support. In i8ig he sent his manuscript sketches back to New York and had them published serially in nine numbers as The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon. Sir Walter Scott interested himself in Irving's behalf and finally succeeded in getting the famous English publishing house of Murray to bring out a standard edition in England during the next year. The book was a great success — the first American book, in fact, that had been widely read in England. Some of the sketches now appeal to us as over-sentimental and even mawkish, but the fine quality of the style, the rich humor, and the emotional fitness of most of the pieces make the Sketch Book a classic in our literature. Four of the papers have been singled out to endure as long as the language — " Rip Van Winkle " and "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,'' two tales supposed to be the posthumous work of Diedrich Knickerbocker, and two serious essays, " Stratf ord-on-Avon " and "Westminster Abbey." Other books of sketches and stories are Bracebridge Hall (1822), Tales of a Traveler (1824), The Alhambra (1832), and Woolfert's Roost (1855). Each of these contains some excel- lent work, but no one of them quite equals the Sketch Book in power and popularity. The Alhambra, called by Prescott ' ' that delightful Spanish Sketch Book, "is, next to the original volume, the best of all the series of short sketches and stories. These essays, sketches, and tales, then, are the produc- tions upon which Irving's literary fame chiefly rests. In this Washington Irving S connection we may quote a significant passage from a letter written by Irving in 1824 when some of his friends were urging him to write a novel: "For my part, I consider a story merely as a frame on which to stretch my materials. It is the play of thought and sentiment, and language; the weaving in of characters, lightly, yet expressively delineated ; the familiar and faithful ejdiibition of scenes in common life; and the half-concealed vein of humor that is often playing through the whole — these are among what I aim at, and upon which I felicitate myself in proportion as I think I suc- ceed. * I have preferred adopting the mode of sketches and short tales rather than long .works, because I choose to take a line of writing peculiar to myself, rather than fall into the manner and school of any other writer." We may dismiss the second class with but a brief men- tion of titles: A Tour of the Prairies (1835), Astoria (1836), and The Adventures of Captain Bonneville (1837). These, though American in setting and coloring, being the results of Irving 's tour in what was then the wild western frontier, just across the Mississippi, are the least valuable of all Irving's works. They are mere ephemeral "pot-boilers," and their chief interest now lies in their historic record of the frontier life. The third class of- Irving's writings really begins with his second .distinct literary impulse — namely, that received from his sojourn in Spain. Here we find the ambitious biographies and historical narratives taking shape. In 1826 Irving was invited to Spain to undertake a translation of a new work. The Voyage of Columbus. When he reached Madrid, he found that this new book was not suited for translation ; but nothing daunted he began with prodigious energy to collect material for an original Life of Columbus. He found a great mass of documents ready to his hand, and in 1828 Murray published the three-volume Life of Columbus. This was the first of Irving's Spanish studies, and also his first effort in biographical narrative. Then followed a number of other books dealing with Spanish history, among them being The Conquest of Granada (1829), Lege'nd of the Conquest of Spain (1835), and Mahomet and His Successors (1850). The Alhambra has already been mentioned in the discussion of Irving's shorter sketches. It was while he was in Spain also that Irving conceived the plan of writing his biographical masterpiece, The Life 6 American Literary Readings of Washington (1859), but it was not until after his second residence in Spain and his final return to America that he carried out this design. The one other biographical work which must not be omitted is The Life of Oliver Goldsmith (1849), published also after his final return to America. This -is the most popular of all his biographies because it is briefer and probably more sympathetic in its treatment than either of the other two more extended studies. In fact, Goldsmith and Irving are similar in many respects. Each was 'good-natured and genial, each was more or less improvident and impecunious, — though Irving succeeded in accumulating a competence toward the end of his life, — each remained unmarried through life, and each possessed a peculiarly harmonious and charming prose style. More- over, the subject-matter of a good deal of their work is similar, and, finally, each of them has been called the best- beloved author in his country. However, as Professor William P. Trent points out, Irving is not an imitator merely, but an original writer. "He is hot an American Goldsmith; he is an Anglo-Saxon Irving." Upon Irving's return to America in 183 1 he thought he would settle down for a quiet and peaceful literary life. He bought an estate on the Hudson and named it "Sunnyside," and here he made himself comfortable.- His American pub- lishers brought out a complete edition of his works, a ven- ture which was undertaken with some hesitation, but which proved eminently successful, Irving himself receiving $88,000 in royalties before his death. In 1842 he was appointed minister to Spain, an honor which he had abundantly earned, but one which he accepted almost as a burden because it took him away from his home. He gladly relinquished his post in 1846 and came back to America to complete his last literary work. The Life of Washington. He was f6ted and sought after and honored in many ways by his admirers. But he was growing tired of it all, and his only hope now was that he might "gQ down with all sail set." He died at "Sunnyside," Novem- ber 28, 1859, full of years and rich in love and honors. His tomb overlooks Sleepy Hollow and the majestic river which he loved and over which he has thrown the glamour of romance and literary legend. (The standard life of Irving is that by Pierre Irving in three volumes. The biographies by Charles Dudley Warner and H. W. Boynton in the American Men of Letters and the Riverside Biographical Series respectively are excellent shorter studies.) RIP VAN WINKLE A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER By Woden, God of Saxons, From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday. Truth is a thing that ever I will keep Unto thylke day in which I creep into My sepulchre Cartwright The following Tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the maimers of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie so much among books as among men; for the former are lamentably 5 scanty on his favorite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich in that legendary lore, so invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, 10 and studied it with the zeal of a book-worm. The result of all these researches was a history of the province during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he pubUshed some years since. There have been various opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. 15 Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little questioned, on its first appearance, but has since been completely estab- lished; and it is now adinitted into all historical collections, as a book of unquestionable authority. The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work, and 20 now that he is dead and gone, it caimot do much harm to his memory to say, that his time might have been much better employed in weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way; and though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the 25 truest deference and affection; yet his errors and follies are remem- bered "more in sorrow than in anger," and it begins to be suspected, that he never intended to injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is stiU held dear by many folk, whose good opinion is well worth having; particularly by certain Isiscuit- 30 bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their new-year cakes; and have thus given him a chance for immortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal, or a Queen Anne's Farthing. Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remem- ber the Kaatskill Mountains. They are a dismembered 35 branch of the great Appalachian famUy, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and [7I 8 American Literary Readings lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed every hour of the 40 day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; 45 but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory. At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may 50 have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village, of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the 55 early times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant, (may he rest in peace!) and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and 60 gable fronts, surmounted with weather-cocks. In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple good^ 65 natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little, of the martial character of his ancestors. I have 70 observed that he was a simple good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient hen-pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such: Rip Van Winkle g universal popularity; for those men are most apt to be obse- quious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline 75 of shrews at home. -Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribula- tion, and a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be con- so sidered a tolerable blessing; and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles; and never failed, ss whenever they talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their play- things, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told 90 them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. When- ever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his' back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with imptmity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighbor- 95 hood. The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's 100 lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would 105 never refuse to .assist a neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian com, or building stone-fences; the women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to 10 American Literary Readings 110 do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for them. In a word Rip was ready to attend to any body's business but his own; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible. In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; 115 it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country; every thing about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray, or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than 120 any where else ; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some out-door work to do; so that though his patri- monial estate had dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere patch of Indian com and potatoes, yet it was the worst 125 conditioned farm in the neighborhood. His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen trooping 130 like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mor- 135 tals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept 140 continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his care- lessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morn- ing, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to 146 all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had Rip Van Winkle ii grown into a habit. He shrugged his shovildeis, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife; so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house — the only side which; in truth, belongs to ahen-pecked uo husband. Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much hen-pecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master's going iss so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods — but what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the' house his crest fell, his tail leo drooped to the ground or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation. Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years us of matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long while he used to con- sole himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle 170 personages of the village; which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade through a long lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about 175 nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound discussions that some- times took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick iso Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper learned little man, 12 American Literary Readings who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months after they had taken place. 185 The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving sviificiently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the neighbors could tell 190 the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When any thing that was read or 195 related displeased him, he .was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent and angry puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds; and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the 200 fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect approbation. From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage and call the mem- 205 bers all to naught; nor was that august personage, Nicholas /Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her hus- band in habits of idleness. Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his 210 only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufEerer in 215 persecution. "Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!" Rip Van Winkle 13 Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. 220 In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip. had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill, Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, 225 he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered Awith mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich wood- land. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below 230 him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the reflec- tion of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands. On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain 235 glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with frag- ments from tl?e impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the 240 valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a dis- tance, hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" 245 He looked round, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air; "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" — at the same time 250 Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to hig master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked 14 American Literary Readings anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange fig- 255 ure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised to .see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 260 On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion — a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist — several pair of breeches, 255 the outer one of ample volimie, decorated with rows of but- tons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to- approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, 270 Rip complied with his usual alacrity; and mutually relieving each other, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended. Rip every now and then heard long rolling peafs, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather 275 cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a. hollow, like a 280 small amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time Rip and his companion had labored on in silence; for though the former 285 marvelled greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was some- thing strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspired awe and checked familiarity. On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder Rip Van Winkle .15 presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a 290 company of odd-looking personages playing at nine-pins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion; some .wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were 295 peculiar: one had a large head, broad face, and small piggish eyes : the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be 300 the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish 305 painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, and which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement. What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they 310 maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals 315 of thunder. As Rip and his companion approached them, they sud- denly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart ttimed within him, and his 320 knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then retiUTied to their game. 325 i6. American Literary Readings By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excel- lent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was. 330 soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. 335 On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes — it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. 340 "Surely," thought Rip, "I have not slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor — the mountain ravine — the wild retreat among the rocks: — the wobegone party at nine-pins^ — -the flagon — -"Oh! that flagon! that wicked 345 flagon!" thought Rip — "what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle!" He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling ofi, and 350 the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysters of the moimtain had put a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him and 355 shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. He determined, to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff 380 in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. "These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, "and Rip Van Winkle t-1 if this frolic shotdd lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into the glen: he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the ass preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toUsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, 370 and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grape- vines that twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his path. At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but no traces of such 375 opening remained. The rocks presented a high impene- trable wall, over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and 330 whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be done? the morning was sss passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his break- fast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty fire- lock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned 390 his steps homeward. As he approached the village he met a number of people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion 395 from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast 2 1 8 American Literary Readings their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involun- 400 tarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long! He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which 406 he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered; it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors 410 — strange faces at the windows — every thing was strange. His mind now misgave him; he began to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day before. There stood the Kaatskill Mountains — there 415 ran the silver Hudson at a distance— there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been — Rip was sorely per- plexed — "That flagon last night," thought he, "has addled my poor head sadly!" It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his 420 own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half- starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. 425 Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed — "My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten me!" He entered the house, which, to tell the truth. Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, 130 forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolateness over- came all his connubial fears — he called loudly for his wife and children — the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence. Rip Van Winkle 19 He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety 4>s wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping win- dows, some of them broken and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, "The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, 440 there now was reared a tall naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular, assemblage of stars and stripes — all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King 445 George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large 450 characters, General Washington. There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy 45s tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a 46o lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of hand- bills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens — elections — members of congress — liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes of seventy-six — and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. 465 The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eying 20 American Literary- Readings 470 him from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired "on which side he voted? " Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, "Whether he was 475 Federal or Democrat?" Rip was equally at a loss to com- prehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with 480 one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone, "what brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village ? " — ' 'Alas ! 485 gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him!" Here a general shout burst from the by-standers— "A tory ! a tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away with him!" It 490 was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking? The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but 495 merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. "Well— who are they? — name them." Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder? " 500 There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the church-yard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." 505 "Where's Brom Butcher?" Rip Van Winkle 21 "Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point — others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know — he never came back again." "Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" sio "He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and is now in Congress." Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treating of such 515 enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand: war — congress — Stony Point; — he had no cour- age to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, "Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?" "Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three, "Oh, to 620 be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree." Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up the mountain: apparently as lazy, and cer- tainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely 625 confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewil- derment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name ? "God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm not 530 myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — that's somebody else got into my shoes — I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and every thing's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am!" 535 The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their fore- heads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the 540 cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical 22 American Literary Readings moment a fresh comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her amis, which, frightened at his looks, began 546 to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool; the old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. "What is your name, my good woman?" asked he. 550 "Judith Gardenier." "And your father's name?" "Ah, poor man. Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since — his dog came home 565 without him; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he put it with a faltering voice: 560 "Where's your mother?" "Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England pedler." There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He 665 caught his daughter and her child in his arms. "I am your father!" cried he — "Young Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Van Winkle now! — Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?" All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from 670 among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, "Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself! Welcome home again, old neighbor — Why, where have you been these twenty long years?" 576 Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it; some were seen to wink at each other, and Rip Van Winkle 23 put their tongues in their cheeks: and the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had re- turned to the field, screwed down the comers of his mouth, sso and shook his head — upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. * It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, sss who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, and corrob- orated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He 590 assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, tTiat the Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first dis- coverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there 595 every twenty years, with his crew of the Half -moon: being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river, and the great city called by his name. That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at nine-pins in a hollow eoo of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder. To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more important concerns of the election, eos Rip's daughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, eio he was employed to work on the farm; but evinced an hered- itary disposition to attend to any thing else but his business. Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found 24 American Literary Readings many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for 816 the wear and tear of time; and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor. Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took 620 his place once more on the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times "before the war." It was some time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events that 025 had taken place during his torpor. How that there had beena revolutionary war — that the country had thrown off the yoke of old England— and that, instead of being a sub- ject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United States. '^ Rip, in fact, was no politician; 030 the changes of states and empires made but little impression on him; but there was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was^ — -petticoat government. Happily that was at an end; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he 635 pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance. 640 He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on soipe points every time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, 045 woman, or child in the neighborhood, but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one point on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it Rip Van Winkle 25 full credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunder- eso storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine-pins; and it is a common wish of all hen-pecked hus- bands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip ess Van Winkle's flagon. » NOTE The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor Frederick der Rotkbart, and the Kypphauser mountain: the subjoined note, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an eeo absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity: "The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvelous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than ess this, in the villages along the Hudson; all of which were too well authen- ticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain; nay, S70 I have seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country justice, and signed with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt. D. K." POSTSCRIPT The following are traveling notes from a memorandum-book of ezs Mr. Knickerbocker: The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a region full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, who influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape, and sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old eso squaw spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge of the doors of day and night to open and shut them at the proper hour. She hung up the new moons in the skies, and cut up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, if properly propitiated, she would spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs and ^'^ morning dew, and send them off from the crest of the mountain, flake after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air: until, dis- solved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, causing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an inch an hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black as ink, 690 sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web; and when these clouds broke, wo betide the valleys! In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Manitou or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill Mountains, 26 American Literary Readings 695and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils and vexations upon the red men. Sometimes he would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forests and among ragged rocks; and then spring off with a loud ho! ho! leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling preci- 70opice or raging torrent. The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the flower- ing vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers which abound in its neighborhood, is known by the name of the Garden Rock. Near 705the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the solitary bittern, with water-snakes basking in the sun on the leaves of the ppnd-lilies, which lie on the surface. This place was held in great awe by the Indians, insomuch that the boldest hunter would not pursue his game within its precincts. Once upon a time, however, a hunter who had lost his 7 10 way, penetrated to the garden rock, where he beheld a number of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. One of these he seized and made off with it, but in the hurry of his retreat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great stream gushed forth, which washed him away and swept him down precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and the stream 7i5made its way to the Hudson, and continues to flow to the present day; being the identical stream known by the name of the Kaaters-kill. WESTMINSTER ABBEY When I behold, with deep astonishment, To famous Westminster how there resorte Living in brasse or stoney monument. The princes and the worthies of all sorte; Doe not I see reformde nobilitie, Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation. And looke upon offenselesse majesty, Naked of pomp or earthly domination? And how a play-game of a painted stone Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, Whome all the world which late they stood upon Could not content nor quench their appetites. Life is a frost of cold felicitie. And death the thaw of all our vanitie. Christolero's Epigrams, by T. B. 1598. On one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in the latter part of Autumn, when the shadows of morning and evening almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I passed several hours in rambling about . Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial to the season in the mournful magnificence of the old pile; and, as I Westminster Abbey 27 passed its threshold, seemed Uke stepping back into the re- gions of antiquity, and losing myself among the shades of former ages. I entered from the inner court of Westminster School, 10 through a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost subterranean look, being dimly lighted in one part by circular perforations in the massive walls. Through this dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters, with the figure of an old verger, in his black gown, moving along their is shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre from one of the neighboring tombs. The approach to the abbey through these gloomy monastic remains prepares the mind for its solemn contemplation. The cloisters still retain something of the quiet and seclusion 20 of former days. The gray walls are discolored by danips, and crumbling with age; a coat of hoary moss has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural monuments, and obscured the death's heads, and other funereal emblems. The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich tracery of the 25 arches; the roses which adorned the key-stones have lost their leafy beauty; every thing bears marks of the gradual dilapi- dations of time, which yet has something touching and pleasing in its very decay. The sun was pouring down a yellow auttminal ray into the 30 square of the cloisters; beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in the centre, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with a kind of dusky splendor. From between the arcades, the eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a passing cloud; and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles of the abbey towering into the 35 azure heaven. As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeav- oring to decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones, which formed the pavement beneath my feet, my eye was attracted 40 to three figures, rudely carved in relief, but nearly worn away by the footsteps of many generations. They were the effigies 28 American Literary Readings of three of the early abbots; the epitaphs were entirely effaced; the names alone remained, having no doubt been 45 renewed in later times. (Vitalis. Abbas. 1082, and Gisle- bertus Crispinus. Abbas. 11 14, and Laurentius. Abbas. 1 1 76.) I remained some little while, musing over these casual relics of antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon this dis- tant shore of time, telling no tale but that such beings had 50 been and had perished; teaching no moral but the futility of that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes, and to live in an inscription. A little longer, and even these faint records will be obliterated, and the monument will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon 55 these gravestones, I was roused by the sound of the abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a biUow, has rolled 60 us onward towards the grave. I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the interior of the abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults of the cloisters. The eyes gaze with wonder at 65 clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, with archer spring- ing from them to such an amazing height; and man wan- dering about their bases, shrunk into insignificance in comparison with his own handiwork. The spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound and mys- 70 terious awe. We step cautiously and softly about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb; while every footfall whispers along the walls, and chatters among the sepulchres, making us more sensible of the quiet we have interrupted. 75 It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence. We feel that we are surrounded by the congre- gated bones of the great men of past times, who have filled Westminster Abbey 29 history with their deeds, and the earth with their renown. And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human so ambition, to see how they are crowded together and jostled in the dust ; what parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy comer, a little portion of earth, to those, whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy; and how many shapes, and forms, and artifices, are devised to catch ss the casual notice of the passenger, and save from forgetful- ness, for a few short years, a name which once aspired to occupy ages of the world's thought and admiration. I passed some time in Poet's Comer, which occupies an end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The 90 monuments are generally simple; for the lives of literary men afford no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakspeare and Addison have statues erected to their memories; but the greater part have busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwithstanding the simplicity of these 95 memorials, I have always observed that the visitors to the abbey remained longest about them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of that cold curiosity or vague admiration with which they gaze on the splendid monuments of the great and the heroic. They linger about these as about the 100 tombs of friends and companions ; for indeed there is some- thing of companionship between the author and the reader. Other men are known to posterity only through the mediimi of history, which is continually growing faint and obscure: but the intercourse between the author and his fellow-men 105 is ever new, active, and immediate. He has lived for them more than for himself; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoy- ments, and shut himself up from the delights of social life, that he might the more intimately commune with distant minds and distant ages. Well may the world cherish his no renown; for it has been purchased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but by the diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may posterity be grateful to his memory; for he has left it an inheritance, not of empty names and sounding 30 American Literary Readings 116 actions, but whole treasures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins of language. From Poet's Comer I continued my stroll towards that part of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the kings. I wandered among what once were chapels, but 120 which are now occupied by the tombs and monimients of the great. At every turn, I met with some illustrious name; or the cognizance of some powerful house renowned in his- tory. As the eye darts into these dusky chambers of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effigies; some kneeling in 125 niches, as if in devotion; others stretched upon the tombs, with hands piously pressed together: warriors in armor, as if reposing after battle; prelates with crosiers and mitres; and nobles in robes and coronets, lying as it were in state. In glancing over this scene, so strangely populous, yet nowhere every form is so still and silent, it seems almost as if we were treading a mansion of that fabled city, where every being had been suddenly transmuted into stone. I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy of a knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on one 135 arm; the hands were pressed together in supplication upon the breast: the face was almost covered by the morion; the legs were crossed, in token of the warrior's having been engaged in the holy war. It was the tomb of a crusader; of one of those military enthusiasts, who so strangely mingled 140 religion and romance, and whose exploits form the connecting link between fact and fiction; between the history and the fairy tale. There is something extremely picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers, decorated as they are with rude armorial bearings and Gothic sculpture. They comport U5 with the antiquated chapels in which they are generally found; and in considering them, the imagination is apt to kindle with the legendary associations, the romantic fiction, the chivalrous pomp and pageantry, which poetry has spread over the wars for the sepulchre of Christ. They are the 150 relics of times utterly gone by; of beings passed from Westminster Abbey 31 recollection; of customs and manners with which ours have no affinity. They are like objects from some strange and distant land, of which we have no certain knowledge, and about which all our conceptions are vague and visionary. There is something extremely solemn and awful in those 155 effigies on Gothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep of death, or in the supplication of the dying hour. They have an effect infinitely more impressive on my feelings than the fanciful attitudes, the over- wrought conceits, and allegorical groups, which abound on modem monuments. I have been struck, iso also, with the superiority of many of the old sepulchral inscriptions. There was a noble way, in former times, of saying things simply, and yet saying them proudly; and I do not know an epitaph that breathes a loftier consciousness of family worth and honorable lineage, than one which les affirms, of a noble house, that "all the brothers were brave, and all the sisters virtuous." In the opposite transept to Poet's Comer stands a monu- ment which is among the most renowned achievements of modem art; but which to me appears horrible rather than no sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. The bottom of the monument is represented as throwing open its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falling from his fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his victim. She is sinking into her affrighted 175 husband's arms, who strives, with vain and frantic effort, to avert the blow. The whole is executed with terrible truth and spirit; we almost fancy we hear the gibbering yell of triumph bursting from the distended jaws of the spectre.^ — But why should we thus seek to clothe death with unneces- iso sary terrors, and to spread horrors round the tomb of those we love? The grave should be surrbunded by every thing that might inspire tenderness and veneration for the dead; or that might win the living to virtue. It is the place, not of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation, iss While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent 32 American Literary Readings aisles, studying the recprds of the dead, the sound of busy existence from without occasionally reaches the ear; — the rumbling of the passing equipage; the murmur of the multi- 190 tude; or perhaps the light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is striking with the deathlike repose around: and it has a strange effect upon the feelings, thus to hear the surges of active life hurrying along, and beating against the very walls of the sepulchre. 195 I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away; the distant, tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and less frequent; the sweet-tongued bell was stmi- moning to evening prayers; and I saw at a distance the 200 choristers, in their white surplices, crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the entrance to Henry the Seventh's chapel. A flight of steps lead up to it, through a deep and gloomy, but magnificent arch. Great gates of brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon their 205 hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepulchres. On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of architec- ture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very walls are wrought into universal ornament, incrusted with 210 tracery, and scooped into niches, crowded with the statues of saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb. 215 Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though with the grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pin- nacles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, with their scarfs and swords; and above them are 220 suspended their banners, emblazoned with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendor of gold and purple and crimson, with the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In the midst of this Westminster Abbey 33 grand mausoleum stands the sepulchre of its founder, — his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, and the whole surrounded by a superbly-wrought brazen 225 railing. There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence; this strange mixture of tombs and trophies; these emblems of living and aspiring ambition, close beside mementos which show the dust and oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. 230 Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneli- ness, than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant. On looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights and their esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous banners that were once borne before them, my 235 imagination conjured up the scene when this hall was bright with the valor and beauty of the land; glittering with the splendor of jeweled rank and military array; alive with the tread of many feet and the hum of an admiring multitude. All had passed away; the silence of death had settled again 240 upon the place, interrupted only by the casual chirping of birds, which had found their way into the chapel, and built their nests among its friezes and pendants — sure signs of solitariness and desertion. When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they 215 were those of men scattered far and wide about the world; some tossing upon distant seas; some under arms in distant lands; some mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets; all seeking to deserve one more distinction in this mansion of shadowy honors: the melancholy reward of a 250 monument. Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touching instance of the equality of the grave; which brings down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and mingles the dust of the bitterest enemies together. In one is the 255 sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth ; in the other is that of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the day but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over the fate 34 American Literary Readings of the latter, mingled with indignation at her oppressor. 260 The walls of Elizabeth's sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival. A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary lies buried. The light struggles dimly through windows darkened by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep 265 shadow, and the walls are stained and tinted by time and weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb, round which is an iron railing, much corroded, bearing her national emblem — the thistle. I was weary with wander- ing, and sat down to rest myself by the monument, revolving 270 in my mind the chequered and disastrous story of poor Mary. The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. I could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest repeating the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir; these paused for a time, and all was hushed. 275 The stillness, the desertion and obscurity that were gradually prevailing around, gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the place: For in the silent grave no conversation, No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 280 No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard, For nothing is, but all oblivion, Dust, and an ■endless darkness. Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and 285 rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do their voltime and grandeur accord with this mighty building! With what pomp do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their .awful harmony through these caves of death, and make the silent sepulchre vocal! — And now they rise in 290 triumphant acclamation, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on sound. — And now they pause, and the soft voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes of melody; they soar aloft, and warble along the roof, and seem to play about these lofty vaults like the 295 pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its Westminster Abbey 35 thrilling thunders, compressing air into music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences ! What solemn sweeping concords! It grows more and more dense and powerful — it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls — the ear is stunned — the senses are overwhelmed. 300 And now it is winding up in full jubilee — it is rising from the earth to heaven — the very soul seems rapt away and floated upwards on this swelling tide of harmony! I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire; the shadows of 305 evening were gradually thickening round me; the monu- ments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom; and the distant clock again gave token of the slowly waning day. I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended the flight of steps which lead into the body of the building, 310 my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, and I ascended the small staircase that conducts to it, to take from thence a general survey of this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a kind of platform, and close around it are the sepulchres of various kings and queens. 315 From this eminence the eye looks down between pillars and funeral trophies to the chapels and chambers below, crowded with tombs; where warriors, prelates, courtiers, and states- men, lie mouldering in their "beds of darkness." Close by me stood the great chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak, 320 in the barbarous taste of a remote and Gothic age. The scene seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical artifice, to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of the beginning and the end of human pomp and power; here it was literally but a step from the throne to the sepulchre. 325 Would not one think that these incongruous mementos had been gathered together as a lesson to living greatness? — to show it, even in the moment of its proudest exaltation, the neglect and dishonor to which it must soon arrive; how soon that crown which encircles its brow must pass away, and it 330 must lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be 36 American Literary Readings trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the multitude. For, strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer a sanctu- ary. There is a shocking levity in some natures, which leads 335 them to sport with awful and hallowed things; and there are base minds, which delight to revenge on the illustrious dead the abject homage and groveling servility which they pay to the living. The coffin of Edward the Confessor has been broken open, and his remains despoiled of their funereal 340 ornaments; the sceptre has been stolen from the hand of the imperious Elizabeth, and the effigy of Henry the Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument but bears some proof how false and fugitive is the homage of mankind. Some are plundered; some mutilated; some covered with ribaldry and 845 insult — all more or less outraged and dishonored! The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through the painted windows in the high vaults above me; the lower parts of the abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. 350 The effigies of the kings faded into shadows; the marble figures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in the uncertain light; the evening breeze crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the grave; and even the distant footfall of a verger, traversing the Poet's Comer, had something 355 strange and dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with a jarring noise behind me, filled the whole building with echoes. I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of 360 the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already fallen into indistihctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become confounded in my recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot from off the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage 365 of sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of renown, and the certainty of oblivion! It is, indeed, the empire of death; Westminster Abbey 37 his great shadowy palace, where he sits in state, mocking at the rehcs of human glory, and spreading dust and forget- fulness on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast, 370 after all, is the immortality of a name! Time is ever silently turning over his pages; we are too much engrossed by the story of the present, to think of the characters and anecdotes that gave interest to the past; and each age is a volume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol 375 of to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollection; and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor of to-morrow. "Our fathers," says Sir Thomas Brown, "find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors." History fades into fable; fact sso becomes clouded with doubt and controversy ; the inscription moulders from the tablet; the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand; and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust ? What is the security of a tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalm- ass ment? The remains of Alexander the Great have been scat- tered to the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum. "The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth; Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams." 390 What then is to insure this pile which now towers above me from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleuiris? The time must come when its gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet ; when, instead of the sound of melody and praise, the wind shall whistle 395 through the broken arches, and the owl hoot from the shattered tower — when the garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy mansions of death, and the ivy twine round the fallen column ; and the fox-glove hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the dead. Thus man 4oo passes away; his name perishes from record and recollection; his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin. JAMES FENIMORE COOPER 1789-1851 Almost since his very first appearance as an author James Fenimore Cooper has been called "The American Scott," but as Lowell long ago intimated, the comparison is much to the American author's disadvantage. It is true that Scott was the inspiration of some of the best of Cooper's creative work, and it is also true that there is a certain similarity between these authors in their love of outdoor life, adventure, and exciting action; in largeness and sweep rather than delicacy and finish of style; and in the final effects of their romances on the imagination of their readers. But in his power of reproducing past ages of history, in his wonderful array of original character creations, and in the architectural completeness and final artistic charm of his romances, Scott far and away surpasses his American follower. Cooper is undoubtedly the most 'uneven of our greater writers. He has done some things wonderfully well, but he has also produced some books of exceedingly little worth. Along with his excellences he displays so many conspicuous faults as a stylist that there are some modem critics who feel inclined even to deny him a place among the major writers of America. It is true that his grammar is not always correct, that his diction is sometimes turgid and bombastic, and that there are many evidences of weakness in the architectonics, or structural elements, in his stories, It is also true that there is a lack of consistency, probability, and realism in his plots, and no one will deny that the majority of his characters, particularly his faultless "fe- males," are more wooden and artificial than real flesh-and- blood men and women. Still, when we consider the richness of Cooper's invention, the beauty, sweep, and power of his natural backgrounds, the energy displayed in his few great character creations, the originality and intense Ameri- canism of his major conceptions, and the interest-gripping power of his most successful tales, we must inevitably accept [38] JAMES FENIMORE COOPER James Fenimore Cooper 39 him not only as one of our pioneer writers but as one of our largest creative geniuses. The eleventh of the twelve children of William Cooper and Elizabeth Fenimore was born at Burlington, New Jersey, September 15, 1789, and christened James. After he had reached maturity, by an act of the New York legislature he assumed his mother's maiden name and has ever since been known as James Fenimore Cooper. Judge William Cooper owned a large estate on the shores of Otsego Lake in central New York, and when James was about a year old, he moved into a large manor which he had built in the dense forests of his estate and named it "The Hall." Here at what has since become Cooperstown the boy grew up and became familiarly acquainted with those wild, free scenes of the primeval wilderness which he was later to people with its aboriginal denizens, the creations of his own imagination it is true, but based on actual observation of Indian and pioneer life as it was impressed on his childhood's memory. There was but little opportunity for formal education in this undeveloped territory, and so Judge Cooper sent his children to the more thickly populated settlements for their schooling. James was sent to Albany for a year to be tutored for college. With a very inadequate preparation he entered Yale at the early age of thirteen. He apparently paid little attention to his academic duties, and in his third year he was dismissed from the college. It is unfortunate that Cooper did not complete his education, for his style might have been greatly chastened and refined if he had submitted to the discipline of a careful literary training in his youth. Even after he left college he might have improved his style by practice and self-criticism if he had begun early enough; but he was past thirty when he began to write, and so he was never able to overcome fully the handicap of his youthful neglect of educa- tional opportunities. Judge Cooper, now a congressman, looked upon the navy as offering a promising career and certainly a good disciplin- ary training for his independent, self-willed, and adventurous son. Accordingly, at the time of the boy's dismissal from Yale he secured a post for him on a merchantman and sent him to sea. This was the method of preliminary training for officers of the navy in the days before the founding of the naval academy at Annapolis. For nearly a year the young sailor stood the tests before the mast, traveling through the 40 American Literary Readings Straits of Gibraltar to Spain, returning by way of London, and crossing the Atlantic with all the experiences of storms, hardships, and excitements of those early days of pirates and freebooters. He then became a midshipman in the United States Navy, and for three years passed his life on board various ships, mostly on the Great Lakes, but also crossing the Atlantic in a visit to foreign ports. Of these early sea experiences we learn more from Cooper's sea tales than from any authentic records of his life during" this period. In 1810 Cooper secured a year's leave of absence from the navy with the privilege of retiring permanently if he so de- sired. In 181 i, having in the meantime married Miss Susan De Lancey, he resigned his commission and for the next ten years lived the life of a farmer, or country gentleman, on his father's and his father-in-law's estates. It was about 1820 that the interesting episode occurred which turned Cooper's life into literary channels. While reading a novel of English society life to his wife, he suddenly threw down the book in disgust, exclaiming that he could write a better novel him- self. His wife challenged him to make good his boast, and under her encouragement Cooper produced within a short time a two-volume novel. Precaution, a book which was a failure in everything except that it showed Cooper he really had a gift for writing. He knew little or nothing of English society, and so, as might have been foreseen, he did not succeed in portraying it. But when his friends encouraged him to try again, he turned in his next venture to an Ameri- can subject and American scenery, and produced The Spy, the first widely successful American novel. Cooper's stories may be conveniently treated in three classes: (i) his historical tales, best represented by The Spy; (2) his sea tales, best represented by The Pilot; and (3) the stories of Indian and pioneer life in the colonial days, best represented by the Leatherstocking Tales. It was in 182 1 that, with some hesitancy and at his own financial risk, Cooper published his first important novel, The Spy. It is a tale of the Revolution, based upon the romantic exploits of the spy, Harvey Birch, a secret agent in the confidence of Washington, but a man thoroughly hated and distrusted by the American patriots. His mar- velous adventures in the war, his intrepid and sometimes reckless unconcern for his own safety, his astuteness and agility in extricating himself from perilous situations • and James Fenimore Cooper 41 all kinds of difficulties, his mysterious mission, his charmed life, and his unswerving patriotism and loyalty to the American cause make Harvey Birch one of the prime favor- ites in the gallery of American fictitious characters. So realistically are his adventures described that several persons have claimed to be the original from which the character was drawn, and not a few readers, even to this day, are con- vinced that Harvey Birch is a historical character. The Spy was not only widely read in America and England, but it was almost immediately translated into every important foreign language and read with delight by practically every court and capital of the world. Just as Lord Byron by his poetical romances is said to have Carried English literature on a pilgrimage through Europe, so James Feniihore Cooper may be said to be the first American writer of fiction to have gained a cosmopolitan hearing. Irving's Sketch Book had blazed the way, particularly to English favor, but Cooper extended the path to every civilized country of Europe. Had Cooper written nothing else. The Spy alone is enough to give him a place in the roll of American novelists. Its popularity has never waned and it is perhaps true that this thrilling romance has as many readers to-day as it had during its first years of popular favor. The other historical tales by Cooper are so far inferior to this one that they hardly deserve to be mentioned. The next book which Cooper published was The Pioneers (1823), the first of the famous Leatherstocking Tales. But before taking up these, we shall consider another group of stories introduced by The Pilot, written in this same year but not published until so late in December that it is usually dated 1824. This was not only the first significant Ameri- can sea tale, but in reality the first distinctively successful sea story in English literature. Smollett had first shown the possibilities of the sea as a new realm for romancers to conquer, but he had attracted few or no adventurers to follow him. Sir Walter Scott had just published The Pirate, a tale in which the sea naturally becomes prominent. On reading Scott's novel, which had been published anony- mously, Cooper insisted that it was written by a landsman who knew very little about the sea from actual experience. His own experience in early life gave him peculiar advantages for the task which he now set for himself — namely, the writing of a book which should deal entirely with the ocean 42 American Literary Readings and present real sailors and realistic events of a romantic character, so as to make the story a convincing presentation of life on the sea. The Pilot is based on the cruise of John Paul Jones, though nowhere in the story is the great Revolu- tionary sailor's name mentioned. It was a notable thing to introduce into a sea-tale such historical material, but still more notable was the creation of Long Tom Coffin, the rough, uncouth, superstitious, but faithful, honest, and loyal old tar. He stands with Harvey Birch, Natty Bumppo, and Chingachgook as one of the four greatest characters produced by Cooper's imagination. Cooper followed this first success in the romance of the sea by nine other sea tales, but it is hardly worth while recording the names of any of these except The Red Rover (1828) and The Two Admirals (1842). The publication of the three great novels The Spy, The Pioneers, and The Pilot between 182 1 and 1824 had given Cooper's name to the world, but it was in 1826 that he reached the very acme of his fame by the publication of the second and the best of the Leatherstocking Tales, The Last of the Mohicans. It has been confidently asserted that no American before or since has reached the world-wide popu- larity which he enjoyed at this time. Since 1822 he had been living in New York City to obtain educational advan- tages for his daughters and to be at the literary center of the country. He founded a club and was its acknowledged leader for several years. In fact, he was now something of a literary lion, and he felt distinctly the importance of his position as the most popular writer of his day. The poet Bryant in reporting a dinner to his wife wrote that Cooper "engrossed the whole conversation, and seems a little giddy with the great success his works have met with." The scene of The Last of the Mohicans is the well-known wilderness of central New York where Cooper had spent his childhood. The conflict between the French and the English for the supremacy in America forms the historical background, and the vast forests and rivers and lakes the natural setting of the series of thrilling episodes which constitute the plot. Natty Bumppo, the famous scout, previously introduced as Leatherstocking in The Pioneers, is here presented in the prime of life and called Hawk-eye after the Indians' manner of designation. His friend Chingachgook, the stolid old Mohican chieftain, and the James Fenimore Cooper 43 lithe and athletic Uncas, sorrowfully called by Chingach- gook "The Last of the Mohicans," and Magua, the treacher- ous Indian runner, a member of the Mohawk tribe and an enemy of thie Mohicans, are among the chief character creations worthy of remembrance in this stirring romance of pioneer days in the American colonies. The best sequence in which to read the five Leatherstock- ing Tales now is not in the order in which they were written but that in which the life of Natty Btmippo is presented chronologically in a sort of "drama in five acts." The Deerslayer (1841) shows the scout just merging into man- hood; The Last of the Mohicans (1826) and The Pathfinder (1840) show him in the full vigor of middle life; The Pioneers (1823) presents him as already an old man, and in The Prairie ( 1 82 7) his career terminates when he answers ' ' Here ! ' ' to the last summons. Thus this heroic figure, the one great epic character in our literature, is fully drawn in these five romances. By common consent the series is now looked upon as America's greatest prose epic. Natty Bumppo, no matter by which of his four or five pseudonyms you call him, is undoubtedly one of the world's chief Active charac- ters. It is perhaps not so much as a personality as the repre- sentative of a vanished era in American history that he is revered. No matter how idealized the characters in these books may be, no matter how improbable the romantic adventures described, no matter how inaccurate and incon- sistent in minor details of plot and style, the Leather- stocking Tales make up the truest epic of our early colonial life that the world possesses, and this great imaginative crea- tion will undoubtedly hold its place in the public regard long after all else that Cooper wrote shall have been forgotten. In .1826 Cooper, in the full flush of his popularity, went abroad with his family and remained for seven years in several of the European countries. During these years he began to write himself down almost as speedily as he had written himself up in the public regard. It is true that some of his great books were yet to be given to the world, but in the assumed role of defender of democratic institutions at all hazards, he soon won a number of enemies in aristo- cratic Europe; and on his return to America, having now been abroad long enough to recognize the shortcomings of his countrjrmen, he undertook the thankless task of reform- ing the nation by openly quarreling with it and castigating 44 American Literary Readings its follies. The result was that he became as severely hated as he had been previously extravagantly praised. There is no doubt now, after the lapse of many years, that Cooper was at heart a loyal and devoted patriot, kind and tender in .his family and personal relations,^ unswerving in his honesty, but unrelenting in his prosecution of what appeared to him as ignorance and injustice. He was lacking in tact and grace and diplomacy in dealing with individuals and the public, and hence he was an adept in what has been called "the gentle art of making enemies." The result was that he was mercilessly attacked in the press, and he promptly retorted by suing for libel every paper in which he had been lampooned. He had a dozen or more of these suits during this period, and almost invari- ably he conducted his own cases and won favorable verdicts. This soon brought his detractors to their senses, and he was thereafter less violently assailed in the public prints, but no less violently condemned in private. Naturally these contests embittered Cooper's later years and prevented him from advancing steadily in his creative work. He wrote some books that are still valued both as literary productions and as historical documents. His History of the United States Navy (1839), for example, was condemned as a partisan docuirient at the time, but it is now recognized as one of the important contributions to the history of our navy. For the most part, however, Cooper gave over his talents to the writing of severe criticisms and purpose novels, first espousing one cause and then another. His reputation brought him many readers for each new book, but the public soon learned to discredit these later produc- tions, and to-day everybody realizes that it would have been much better for Cooper's fame if he had left unwritten at least two thirds of the thirty-two separate riovels which he published. Cooper finally retired from New York City, and made his permanent home at "The Hall" on Otsego Lake, near Cooperstown. Here he died, September 14, 1851, having rounded out to the day his sixty-second year. He was a brave, bold fighter and in many ways a good and worthy man; but he would have been much happier if he had won the love and respect rather than the distrust and ermiity of his contemporaries. At his death a few of his friends in New York City, realizing his great service to American James Fenimore Cooper 45 letters, held a memorial service at which Daniel Webster and William Cullen Bryant delivered orations. There has never been a time since his death that Cooper's best stories have not had thousands of readers annually. Novels that have already lasted practically a century are more than likely destined to hold their place indefinitely. (The standard life of Cooper is that by T. R. Lounsbury in the American Men of Letters Series.) THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS -CHAPTER III, HAWK-EYE, CHINGACHGOOK, AND UNCAS Before these fields were shorn and till'd, Full to the brim our rivers flow'd; The melody of waters fill'd The fresh and boundless wood; And torrents dash'd, and rivulets play'd. And fountains spouted in the shade. Bryant Leaving the unsuspecting Heyward and his confiding companions to penetrate still deeper into a forest that contained such treacherous inmates, we must use an author's privilege, and shift the scene a few miles to the westward 6 of the place where we have last seen them. * On that day, two men were lingering on the banks of a small but rapid stream, within an hour's journey of the encampment of Webb, .like those who awaited the appear- ance of an absent person, or the approach of some expected 10 event. The vast canopy of woods spread itself to the margin of the river, overhanging the water, and shadowing its dark current with a deeper hue. The rays of the sun were beginning to grow less fierce, and the intense heat of the day was lessened, as the cooler vapors of the springs 15 and fountains rose above their leafy beds, and rested in the atmosphere. Still that breathing silence, which marks the drowsy sultriness of an American landscape in July, pervaded the secluded spot, interrupted only by the low voices of the men, the occasional and lazy tap of a wood- 20 pecker, the discordant cry of some gaudy jay, or a sweUing on the ear, from the dull roar of a distant water fall. These feeble and broken sounds were, however, too familiar to the foresters, to draw their attention from the more interesting matter of their dialogue. While one of these 25 loiterers showed the red skin and wild accoutrements of a [46] The Last of the Mohicans ' 47 native of the woods, the other exhibited, through the mask of his rude and nearly savage equipments, the brighter, though svin-bumt and long-faded complexion of one who might claim descent from a European parentage. The former was seated on the end of a mossy log, in a posture 30 that permitted him to heighten the effect of his earnest language, by the calm but expressive gestures of an Indian engaged in debate. His body, which was nearly naked, presented a terrific emblem of death, drawn in intermingled colors of white and black. His closely shaved head, on 35 which no other hair than the well known and chivalrous scalping tuft was preserved, was without ornament of any kind, with the exception of a solitary eagle's plume, that crossed his crown, and depended over the left shoulder. A tomahawk and scalping-knife, of English manufacture, 4o were in his girdle; while a short military rifle, of that sort with which the policy of the whites armed their savage allies, lay carelessly across his bare and sinewy knee. The expanded chest, full formed limbs, and grave countenance of this warrior would denote that he had reached the vigor 46 of his days, though no symptoms of decay appeared to have yet weakened his manhood. The frame of the white man, judging by such parts as were not concealed by his clothes, was like that of one who had known hardships and exertion from his earliest youth. His so person, though muscular, was rather attenuated than full; but every nerve and muscle appeared strung and indurated by unremitted exposure and toil. He wore a hunting-shirt of forest -green, fringed with faded yellow, and a simuner cap of skins which had been shorn of their fur. . He also 55 bore a knife in a girdle of wampum, like that which confined the scanty garments of the Indian, but no tomahawk. His moccasins were ornamented after the gay fashion of the natives, while the only part of his under dress which appeared below the hunting frock, was a pair of buckskin leggings that eo laced at the sides, and which were gartered above the knees. 48 American Literary Readings with the sinews of a deer. A pouch and horn completed his personal accoutrements, though a rifle of great length, which the theory of the more ingenious whites had taught 65 them was the most dangerous of all fire-arms, leaned against a neighboring sapling. The eye of the hunter, or scout, whichever he might be, was small, quick, keen, and restless, roving while he spoke, on every side of him, as if in quest of game, or distrusting the sudden approach of some lurking 70 enemy. Notwithstanding these symptoms of habitual sus- picion, his countenance was not only without guile, but, at the moment at which he is introduced, it was charged with an expression of sturdy honesty. "Even your traditions make the case in my favor, Chiri- 75 gachgook," he said, speaking in the tongue which was known to all the natives who formerly inhabited the country be- tween the Hudson and the Potomack, and of which we shall give a free translation for the benefit of the reader ; endeavor- ing, at the same time, to preserve some of the peculiarities 80 both of the individual and of the language. "Your fathers came from the setting sun, crossed the big river, fought the people of the country, and took the land; and mine came from the red sky of the morning, over the salt lake, and did their work much after the fashion that had been set them 85 by yours; then let God judge the matter between us, and friends spare their words!" "My fathers fought with the naked red man!" returned the Indian, sternly, in the same language. "Is there no difference. Hawk-eye, between the stone-headed arrow of 90 the warrior, and the leaden bullet with which you kill?" "There is reason in an Indian, though Nature has made him with a red skin!" said the white man, shaking his head like one on whom such an "appeal to his justice was not thrown away. For a moment he appeared to be conscious 95 of having the worst of the argument, then, rallying again, he answered the objection of his antagonist in the best manner his limited information would allow: "I am no The Last of the Mohicans 49 scholar, and I care not who knows it; but judging from what I have seen, at deer chases and squirrel hunts, of the sparks below, I should think a rifle in the hands of 100 their grandfathers was not so dangerous as a hickory bow and a good flint-head might be, if drawn with Indian judg- ment, and sent by an Indian eye." "You have the story told by your fathers," returned the other, coldly waving his hand. "What say your old men? 105 do they tell the young warriors, that the pale-faces met the red men, painted for war and armed with the stone hatchet and wooden gun?" "I am not a prejudiced man, nor one who vaunts him- self on his natural privileges, though the worst enemy I have no on earth, andhe is an Iroquois, daren'tdeny thatlamgenuine white," the scout replied, surveying, with secret satisfaction, the faded color of his bony and sinewy hand; "and I am willing to own that my people have many ways, of which, as an honest man, I can't approve. It is one of their customs us to write in books what they have done and seen, instead of telling them in their villages, where the lie can be given to the face of a cowardly boaster, and the brave soldier can call on his comrades to witness for the truth of his words. In consequence of this bad fashion, a man who is too consci- 120 entious to misspend his days among the women, in learning the names of black marks, may never hear of the deeds of his fathers, nor feel a pride in striving to outdo them. For my- self, I conclude all the Bumppos could shoot, for I have a natural turn with a rifle, which must have been handed down 125 from generation to generation, as, our holy commandments tell us, all good and evil gifts are bestowed; though I should be loth to answer for other people in such a matter. But every story has its two sides: so I ask you, Chingachgook, what passed, according to the traditions of the red men, 130 when our fathers first met?" A silence of a minute succeeded, during which the Indian sat mute; then, full of the dignity of his office, he commenced 3 50 American Literary Readings his brief tale, with a solemnity that served to heighten its 136 appearance of truth. "Listen, Hawk-eye, and your ear shall drink no lie. 'T is what my fathers have said, and what the Mohicans have done." He hesitated a single instant, and, bending a cautious glance towards his companion, he continued, in 140 a manner that was divided between interrogation and asser- tion — "Does not this stream at our feet nm towards the summer, until its waters grow salt, and the current flows upward?" "It can't be denied that your traditions teU you true in 146 both these matters," said the white man; "for I have been there, and have seen them; though, why water, which is so sweet in the shade, should become bitter in the sun, is an alteration for which I have never been able to account." "And the current!" demanded the Indian, who expected 160 his reply with that sort of interest that a man feels in 'the confirmation of testimony, at which he marvels even while he respects it; "the fathers of Chingachgook have not lied!" "The holy Bible is not more true, and that is the truest thing in Nature. They call this up-stream current the 156 tide, which is a thing soon explained, and clear enough. Six hours the waters run in, and six hours they run out, and the reason is this: when there is higher water in the sea than in the river, they run in until the river gets to be highest, and then it runs out again." 160 "The waters in the woods, and on the great lakes, run downward imtil they lie like my hand," said the Indian, stretching the limb horizontally before him, "and then they run no more." "No honest man will deny it," said the scout, a little 166 nettled at the implied distrust of his explanation of the mystery of the tides: "and I grant that it is true on the small scale, and where the land is level. But everything depends on what scale you look at things. Now, on the small scale, the 'arth is level; but on the large scale it is round. In this The Last of the Mohicans Si manner, pools and ponds, and even the great fresh-water \io lakes, may be stagnant, as you and I both know they are, having seen them; but when you come to spread water over a great tract, Uke the sea, where the earth is round, how in reaison can the water be quiet? You might as well expect the river to lie stiU on the brink of those black rocks a mile ns above us, though your own ears tell you that it is tumbling over them at this very moment!" If unsatisfied by the philosophy of his companion, the Indian was far too dignified to betray his unbelief. He listened like one who was convinced, and resumed his iso narrative in his former solemn manner. "We came from the place where the sun is hid at night, over great plains where the buffaloes live, until we reached the big river. There we fought the AUigewi till the ground was red with their blood. From the banks of the big river iss to the shores of the salt lake, there was none to meet us. The Maquas followed at a distance. We said the country should be ours from the place where the water runs up no longer on this stream to a river twenty suns' journey towards the summer. The land we had taken like warriors 190 we kept like men. We drove the Maquas into the woods with the bears. They only tasted salt at the licks; they drew no fish from the great lake: we threw them the bones." "All this I have heard and believe," said the white man, observing that the Indian paused: "but it was long before 195 the English came into the country." "A pine grew then where this chestnut now stands. The first pale-faces who came among us spoke no English. They came in a large canoe, when my fathers had buried the tomahawk with the red men around them. Then, 200 Hawk-eye," he continued, betraying his deep emotion, only by permitting his voice to fall to those low, guttural tones, which render his language, as spoken at times, so very musical; "then, Hawk-eye, we were one people, and we were happy. The salt lake gave us its fish, the wood its deer, 205 52 American Literary Readings and the air its birds. We took wives who bore us children; we worshipped the Great Spirit; and we kept the Maquas beyond the sotmd of our songs of triumph!" "Know you anything of your own family at that time?" 210 demanded the white. "But you are a just man, for an Indian! and, as I suppose you hold their gifts, your fathers must have been brave warriors, and wise men at the council fire." "My tribe is the grandfather of nations, but I am an 216 unmixed man. The blood of chiefs is in my veins, where it must stay for ever. The Dutch landed, and gave my people the fire-water; they drank until the heavens and the earth seemed to meet, and they foolishly thought they had found the Great Spirit. Then they parted with their land. 220 Foot by foot, they were driven back from the shores, until I, that am a chief and a Sagamore, have never seen the sun shine but through the trees, and have never visited the graves of my fathers ! ' ' "Graves bring solemn feelings over the mind," returned 225 the scout, a good deal touched at the cahn suffering of his com- panion; "and they often aid a man in his good intentions; though, for myself, I expect to leave my own bones unburied to bleach in the woods or to be torn asunder by the wolves. But where are to be found those of your race who came to 230 their kin in the Delaware country, so many summers since? " "Where are the blossoms of those summers!- — fallen, one by one: so all of my family departed, each in his turn, to the land of spirits. I am on the hill-top, and must go down into the valley; and when Uncas follows in my footsteps, there 236 will no longer be any of the blood of the Sagamores, for my boy is the last of the Mohicans." "Uncas is here!" said another voice, in the same soft, guttural tones, near his elbow; "who speaks to Uncas?" The white man loosened his knife in his leathern sheath, 240 and made an involuntary movement of the hand towards his rifle, at this sudden interruption; but the Indian sat The Last of the Mohicans 53 composed, and" without ttiming his head at the imex- pected sounds. At the next instant, a youthful warrior passed between them, with a noiseless step, and seated himself on the bank 245 of the rapid stream. No exclamation of surprise escaped the father, nor was any question asked, or reply given, for several minutes; each appearing to await the moment when he might speak, without betraying womanish curiosity or childish impatience. The white man seemed to take cotinsel 250 from their customs, and, relinquishing his grasp of the rifle, he also remained silent and reserved. At length Chingach- gook turned his eyes slowly towards his son and demanded — "Do the Maquas dare to leave the print of their moccasins in these woods?" ' 255 "I have been on their trail," replied the young Indian, "and know that they ntimber as many as the fingers of my two hands; but they lie hid like cowards." "The thieves are out-lying for scalps and pltmder!" said the white man, whom we shall call Hawk-eye, after the 260 manner of his companions. "That busy Frenchman, Montcalm, wiU send his spies into our very camp, but he will know what road we travel!" " 'Tis enough!" rettimed the father, glancing his eye towards the setting sun; "they shall be driven like deer from 265 their bushes. Hawk-eye, let us eat to-night, and show the Maquas that we are men to-morrow." "I am as ready to do the one as the other : but to fight the Iroquois 'tis necessary to find the skulkers; and to eat, 'tis necessary to get the game — talk of the devil and he will come; 270 there is a pair of the biggest antlers I have seen this season moving the bushes below the hill! Now, Uncas," he con- tinued in a half whisper, and laughing with a kind of inward sound, like one who had learnt to be watchful, "I will bet my charger three times full of powder, against a foot of 275 wampum, that I take him atwist the eyes, and nearer to the right than to the left." 54 American Literary Readings "It cannot be!" said the young Indian, springing to his feet with youthftd eagerness; "all but the tips of his horns 280 are hid!" " He 's a boy ! " said the white man, shaking his head while he spoke, and addressing the father. "Does he think when a hunter sees a part of the creatur' he can't tell where the rest of him should be!" 286 Adjusting his rifle, he was about to make an exhibition of that skill, on which he so much valued himself, when the warrior struck up the piece with his hand, saying, "Hawk-eye! will you fight the Maquas?" "These Indians know the nature of the woods, as it 290 might be by instinct!" returned the scout, dropping his rifle, and turning away like a man who was convinced of his error. " I must leave the buck to your arrow, Uncas, or we may kill a deer for them thieves, the Iroquois, to eat." The instant the father seconded this intimation by an 295 expressive gestiure of the head, Uncas threw himself on the ground and approached the animal with wary movements. When within a few yards of the cover, he fitted an arrow to his bow with the utmost care, while the antlers moved, as if their owner snuffed an enemy in the tainted air. In 800 another moment the twang of the cord was heard, a white streak was seen glancing into the bushes, and the wounded buck plunged from the cover, to the very feet of his hidden enemy. Avoiding the horns of the infuriated animal, Uncas darted to his side, and passed his knife across the throat 805 when, bounding to the edge of the river, it fell, dyeing the waters with its blood. " 'Twas done with Indian skill," said the scout, laughing inwardly, but with vast satisfaction; "and 'twas a pretty sight to behold! Though an arrow is a near shot, and needs 310 a knife to finish the work." "Hugh!" ejaculated his companion, turning quickly, like a hound who scented game. "By the Lord, here is a drove of them!" exclaimed the The Last of the Mohicans 55 scout, whose eyes began to glisten with the ardor of his usual occupation; "if they corne within range of a buUet su I will drop one, though the whole Six Nations should be lurking within sound! What do you hear, Chingachgook? for to my ears the woods are dumb." "There is but one deer, and he is dead," said the Indian, bending his body till his ear nearly touched the earth. 320 "I hear the sounds of feet!" "Perhaps the wolves have driven the buck to shelter, and are following on his trail." "No. The horses of white men are coming ! ' ' returned the other, raising himself with dignity, and resuming his seat 326 on the log with his former composure. "Hawk-eye, they are your brothers; speak to them." "That will I, and in English that the king needn't be ashamed to answer," returned the hunter, speaking in the language of which he boasted; "but I see nothing, nor do 330 I hear the sounds of man or beast; 'tis strange that an Indian should understand white sounds better than a man who, his very enemies will own, has no cross in his blood, although he may have lived with the red skins long enough" to be suspected! Ha! there goes something like the cracking of a 335 dry stick, too — now I hear the bushes move — yes, yes, there is a trampling that" I mistook for the falls — and — but here they come themselves; God keep them from the Iroquois!" WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 1794-1878 William CuUen Bryant has been called "The American Wordsworth," because he was most profoundly influenced by the teachings of that great English poet in making nature the most prominent object of his reflective musings. He is undoubtedly America's greatest nature poet, just as Wordsworth is England's. He interpreted nature as he saw and knew it as a New England country boy; and while the application of his best poetry is universal, it was the American flowers, birds, and scenery that he painted, and the American point of view is everywhere evident. Bryant has also been called the first distinctively great American poet, the poet who first produced work recognized in England as in any way comparable to that of the nine- teenthrcentury English poets who were his contemporaries. The fact that the greatest of the English critics, Matthew Arnold, said that Bryant was, facile princeps among American poets and expressed his approval of Hartley Coleridge's judg- ment that " To a Waterfowl" was the best short poem in the English language, is proof enough that Bryant was at that early tirhe recognized as a poet along with Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey. We do not mean to say that Bryant is in any sense as great a poet as either of the first two of these, but he certainly ranks above the minor poets, where Southey must be classed. Bryant was bom November 3, 1794, in Cummington, a -town in the Berkshire Hills of western Massachusetts. His father. Dr. Peter Bryant, was a descendant of good Puritan stock from the days of the first settlement at Plymouth; and his mother, Sarah Snell, was likewise de- scended from a famous Puritan family, that of John and Priscilla Alden, whom Longfellow has immortalized in "The Courtship of Miles Standish." Dr. Bryant was a cultured man and an ardent Federalist, and he took pains to educate his children in both literary and political lines after his own ideals. William CuUen was a remarkably precocious child. It is authoritatively stated that he [56] From a photograph WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT vviuiam uuuen nryant 57 learned his alphabet at sixteen months, wrote poetry at nine years, translated Latin verses at ten, composed political satires at thirteen, and wrote the first draft of "Thana- topsis," which has since been recognized as an American if not a world masterpiece, before he was seventeen. It must be remembered in contemplating this last marvelous performance, however, that " Thanatopsis " had frequent revisions before it reached its present final form, and that the finest portions of the poem were added when the poet had reached his twenty-seventh year. When he was five years old, Bryant was sent to live with his grandfather Snell in order that he might attend school. The poet himself tells us that he was "almost an infallible speller," and one of the fleetest runners in school. His precocity made it seem profitable to give him a college education, and so he was sent to his maternal uncle to begin the study of Latin, and then to the Reverend Moses Hallock's preparatory school at Plainfield to begin Greek. He soon mastered both these ancient languages. His conquest of the difficult Greek was wonderfully rapid, for he tells us that within two months from the time he began with the Greek alphabet he had read through the New Testament in the original and was almost as familiar with it as with the English tra:nslation. Usually such precocity indicates early maturity and rapid decline of powers, but when we remember that Bryant retained his powers through a long and active journalistic life, and at the age of eighty was still producing excellent poetry, we are all the more astounded at this recital' of his early development. At sixteen Bryant entered Williams College and remained one year. He was disappointed in the advantages offered here, and with his father's consent, he decided to transfer to Yale College at New Haven, Connecticut, the next year. When the time came for him to leave for Yale, however, his father's straitened finances would not permit of further college training, and Bryant reluctantly gave up his cherished ambition and turned to the study of law. He read law in two private offices, and was admitted to the bar in 1815. For nine years he practiced his profession diligently but not enthusiastically, beginning at Plainfield where he had once attended school, but shortly afterwards removing to Great Barington, a more promising town near by. Here he met and married Miss Frances Fairchild, and she proved to be S8 • American Literary Readings what he called the good angel of his life. During this period he addressed several poems to her, but preserved only one of them in his printed volumes — "The Fairest of the Rural Maids," which Poe called "the truest poem written by- Bryant." Other poems later in life touch upon his beauti- ful attachment for her, such as "The Life That Is," in which he celebrates her recovery from an illness, and "October, 1866," which mourns her death. It was in 1825 that Bryant finally gave up the practice of law, which had always been distasteful to him, and turned to journalism as a career. He was appointed to be editor of a monthly literary periodical called the New York Review. After a short and checkered career this journal was merged with others, and Bryant became assistant editor of the New York Evening Post. Within a short time the editor- in-chief died, and Bryant was promoted to this position. He made the Evening Post the best edited newspaper in New York, and he soon attained a controlling financial interest in this great daily, so that he was from this time on a comparatively wealthy man. In his youth, under the tuition and inspiration of his father, who was a staunch Federalist, Bryant had written and published "The Em- bargo," a severe satire on the Democratic president, Thomas Jefferson. It seems like a stroke of the irony of fate that in later life he should become the chief editorial writer and owner of a great Democratic journal. In his new position he was an influential spokesman for high political and moral ideals, and be became quite distinguished, not as an orator, but as a maker of high-toned and finished addresses on many historic and literary occasions. He traveled much during his later years, making no fewer than seven visits abroad. He contributed travel letters to his paper during these trips, and afterwards collected the best of these in a volume called Letters of a Traveler. While he did not meet with the eclat that greeted some of our later literary men in their visits to Europe, he was ever5rwhere recog- nized as a man of distinction, and he had the unfailing good taste not to parade his own social success nor to betray the hospitality of his entertainers by writing them up in his letters. Bryant's career as a real poet began in 1817 with his father's presentation of " Thanatopsis " and "A Fragment" (later called "Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood") to William Cullen Bryant 59 the editors of the North American Review. The story of the amazement of these men at the character of the verse, no such poetry having hitherto been produced on this side of the Atlantic, has been frequently told. The genesis of "To a Waterfowl," written when he went to Plainfield to practice law in 18 18, is also well known. (Seethe introduc- tory notes to these poems in pp. 510-515.) Bryant never surpassed these early efforts, though some critics hold that he sustained the reputation made in his early years even when he became an octogenarian. In 182 1 he pub- lished his first thin volume of poems, and in 1832 a second and enlarged edition appeared, the most notable of the additional poems being "A Forest Hymn," "To the Fringed Gentian," "Song of Marion's Men," an>d "Death of the Flowers." The last named poem opens with the familiar lines, " The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere." and closes with a beautiful tribute to his beloved sister, who had died in the autumn. Other editions of the poems appeared from time to time, and by 1864 Bryant had garnered a considerable volume of poems, though he was not so prolific as most of our major poets. "The Prairies," a poem full of the breadth and sweep of our western plains ; "The Battlefield," in which occurs the most frequently quoted passage in all his poetry, "Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; Th' eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain. And dies among his worshipers." "Oh Mother of a Mighty Race," a patriotic tribute to America; "Robert of Lincoln," an onomatopoetic bird song entirely different in tone from anything else that -Bryant wrote; "Sella" and "The Little People of the Snow," two longer fairy pieces; and "The Flood of Years," a reversion to the theme and' manner of " Thanatopsis " when the poet was eighty-two, are perhaps the best of these later productions. As a relief from his grief over the death of his wife in 1866, Bryant turned to the translation of the Iliad and the Odyssey. He had previously translated some portions of the fifth book of the Odyssey, but he now set seriously 6o American Literary Readings about converting the whole of the two great Homeric epics into blank verse. This remarkable achievement, begun when he was seventy-two and completed when he was seventy-seven, may be placed with Longfellow's translation of Dante's Divina Commedia and Bayard Taylor's of Goethe's Faustus as one of the three greatest translations produced in America, works which rank high among the best of this kind in all English literature. Bryant died on June 12, 1878, from concussion of the brain due to a fall caused by a sunstroke suffered by him two weeks before his death while he was making an address at the unveiling of a statue to the Italian patriot Mazzini. During the last years of his life he was many times called the first citizen of the republic. His life was pure and noble, and he well deserved the encomiums that were spoken and written of him all over the country. He was undoubtedly a great and good man. Nature, Whom he loved so well and inter- preted so beautifully, had made him one of her own noble- men. He was buried at Roslyn, Long Island, where he owned an estate and where his wife was buried twelve years before. It has been customary since Lowell's criticism (see "A Fable for Critics," p. 364) to speak of Bryant's coldness and lack of passion. It is undoubtedly true that there is a lack of enthusiastic passion or demonstrative sentiment in his poetry, but it would be more accurate to call his style restrained and classic than stiff and frigid. Bryant was a man of deep feeling, but he was naturally reserved in dis- position, and he controlled his feelings with that perfect poise, self-restraint, and repose which is characteristic of the classic poets at their best. He was a devoted son, husband, and father, a loyal friend, and a patriotic citizen. There is certainly a note of tender delicacy, genuine warmth, and deep spirituality in much of his poetry. Among some modem critics, too, there is a tendency to belittle Bryant's poetical genius because of the evident didacticism, the serious ethical purpose, and the inelancholy note in much of his verse. It is very true that these elements exist in his poetry, and perhaps to the modem artistic temperament there is a too patent moral and a too constantly somber or sober tone in his best poems. But this was the natural tendency of his genius; and even if the range of his muse was not wide, he has certainly expressed himself well in his chosen William Cullen Bryant 6i domain. None of our poets has better expressed the funda- mental seriousness and the sober delight in noble ethical ideals of the Anglo-Saxon race, and we may safely predict that the best of Bryant's poetry, as represented in "Thana- topsis" and "To a Waterfowl," will be read long after much that is now held in high esteem by his detractors shall have passed into oblivion. (The standard life of Bryant is that by his son-in-law, Parke Godwin, in two volumes. Two more recent briefer studies are those by John Bigelow in the American Men of Letters Series and W. A. Bradley in the English Men of Letters Series.) THANATOPSIS To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she gHdes Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stem agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart; — Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around — Earth and her waters, and the depths of air, — Comes a stUl voice — Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his cotirse ; nor yet in the cold ground. Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix for ever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. [62] Thanatopsis 63 Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt Ue down With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepvdchre. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,— the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between ; The venerable woods — rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows ^een; and, poured round all, ~ Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, < The planets, all the infinite host of heaven. Are shining on the sad abodes of death. Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slimiber in its bosom. — Take the wings s Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands. Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings — yet — the dead are there: And miUions in those solitudes, since first i The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe e Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come e And make their bed with thee. As the long train 64 American Literary Readings Of ages glide away, the sons of men, The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid. And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man, — Shall one by one be gathered to thy side. By those, who in their turn shall foUow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves i To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent haUs of death. Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night. Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, I Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and Ues down to pleasant dreams. -. TO A WATERFOWL Whither, midst falUng dew. While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Par, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong. As, darkly limned upon the crimson sky. Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide. Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side? There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — The Death of the Flowers 6$ The desert and illimitable air, — Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land. Though the dark night is near. And soon that toU shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest. And scream among thy fellows; reeds shaU bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shaU not soon depart. He who, from zone to zone. Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight. In the long way that I must tread alone. Will lead my steps aright. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year. Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddjdng gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the 5 jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. 66 American Literary Readings Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang .and stood In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers 10 Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they he, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the sttmmer glow 15 But on the hiU the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood. Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days wiU come, 20 To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are stiU, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill. The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore. And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. 25 And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died. The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf. And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, 30 So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. Kooen 0] uincoln 67 ROBERT OF LINCOLN Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincohi is telling his name : Bob-o'-Unk, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, 1 Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; 1 Look, what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, 2 Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings: Bob-o'-Unk, bob-o'-Hnk, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creattire; you need not fear a Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee. Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note. Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, . 3 Pouring boasts from his Uttle throat: 68 American Literary. Readings Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man; i Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can! Chee, chee, chee. Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! There as the mother sits all day, I Robert is singing with all his might: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nice good wife, that never goes out. Keeping house while I frolic about. 1 Chee, chee, chee. Soon as the little ones chip the shell. Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. I Bob-o'-Hnk, bob-o'-Uhk, Spink, spank, spink; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care; Off is his holiday garment laid. Half forgotten that merry air: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nobody knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln 69 Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frohc no more he knows; 1 Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: Bob-o'-lihk, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee. WALT WHITMAN 1819-1892 Walt Whitman, "The Good Gray Poet," was during his lifetime a literary storm center, and even yet his name cannot be mentioned in any circle of readers without bring- ing forth both a paean of praise and a chorus of condemna- tion. Some one has called him the best loved and the best hated of all our writers. He had a desperately hard struggle to gain a hearing, but he persisted with a supreme and undisturbed patience and self-confidence, and triumphed in the end. As time goes on, his figure looms larger and larger on the literary horizon, so that there are many who now recognize in this so-called sensual, self-vaunting, un- lettered hoodlum of Manhattan, the one universally great literary genius produced by American democracy. Whitman was bom May 31, 1819, at the old family home- stead, West HiUs, near Huntington, Long Island. His father came from a line of English yeomen who had long been established in America, and his mother was descended from the Holland-Dutch family of Van Velsor, which had a similarly long residence in this country. They were of the simple, unlettered farming and seafaring classes, and made little pretension to material prosperity or social standing. Whitman was always unfeignedly proud of his humble origin, for he knew that he came from a plain, strong, virile, healthy, American stock, and thus as a true son of the soil he might claim to be the appointed poet of democracy. "Starting from fish-shape Paumanok where I was born. Well-begotten, and raised by a perfect mother," he says; and again, "My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here, from parents the same, and their parents the same." In this old home on Long Island, or Pauijianok, as he loved to call it, the child lived until he was four years old, absorbing even at this age the rural sights and sounds, the vigor and freshness of the salt sea air, and the power and constancy [70] ^^ -^ ^ ^j^^^^^^^^^^^^H 1 R^^^H M :J-k^ ffw^H ..y.,ji{^| "^"'iBBl P ^ ^^df T^^^^^^^^^S^H^^^^^^^^^H ,:-T-: ' J^JK^'.^hJ^T i^yl m^ m ^:£. ^[^» w Pk w V w .m^^^^^'f "] ' '.■■^■. j \ ■ ■■■■ J WALT WHITMAN nan wmtman 71 of the ocean. Truly the sea was "the cradle endlessly rocking" for this child of Nature. During the child's fifth year, his father removed to BrooldjTi to engage in the builder's trade, but the boy still had free access to the ancestral home and to the wild and unfrequented parts of the island. There are himdreds of allusions that prove Walt was a great deal more of a country-bred than a city- bred boy. His education in the public schools of Brooklyn closed when he was thirteen. He began now to help earn his own bread by working in a lawyer's ofiBce as an errand boy. He soon entered upon an apprenticeship to the printer's trade, however, and until his seventeenth year found employ- ment in various capacities in printing establishments. Then for two or three years he taught country schools on Long Island, boarding around, as was the custom, and familiarizing himself with the life of the common people. He was a prime favorite with old and young, playing ball with the boys and engaging in his favorite sport of fishing as opportunity afforded. It is said that he succeeded admir- ably as a teacher, using a sort of oral method of his own invention, and commanding always the respect and affection of his pupils and patrons. Then he opened a printing ofiBce at Huntington and founded a weekly paper. The Long Islander. His success in this venture was not pronounced, and the paper soon changed hands, but this was the begin- ning of his career as a journalist. He now contributed sentimental sketches and stories to some of the New York papers, and worked in a desultory sort of way at his trade of printing. This was his fallow or loafing period, as he called it. He was studying men and women in real life with all the intensity and constancy of application that many another youth puts on his college course. The city streets and the country lanes, filled with all sorts and conditions of Ufe, were Walt Whitman's university. He was exceed- ingly fond of the theater and opera, too, and he managed to see and hear a great many of the foremost actors and singers of his time. Whitman was progressing slowly in his chosen field of journalism, and in 1848 he became editor of the Brooklyn Eagle, a daily paper of some importance. He had been com- posing a great deal of conventional prose and verse, among other things many tales after the manner of Hawthorne 72 American Literary Readings and one novel — all of little worth. He expressed the wish later in life that these early productions might be allowed to remain in their deserved oblivion. About this time a gentleman from the South offered him an editorial position on a newly founded daily, The Crescent, in New Orleans, and Whitman accepted the position because it would give him an opportunity^ to see something of America. With his younger brother Jeff he made a leisurely trip down the Mississippi, learning much from these new sights and experiences. He did not remain long in the South, and we find him again making a leisurely working tour back to New York and Brooklyn by way of St. Louis, Chicago, Niagara, and Albany. On this journey of eight thousand miles he was formulating some conception of the sweep and grandeur of the land he loved and was to sing so well. He was still taking life easy, still in his fallow period. "I loaf and invite my soul," he wrote later in the "Song of Myself." He worked but little at his regular business, but spent many hours in loitering around the streets, riding on the tops of cabs, talking and consorting with all sorts and types of people, taking long solitary walks in the woods and swims in the Sound, and letting his imagination brood over all. He often carried some old book with him to browse in or to digest at leisure. He enumerates among these the New and Old Testaments, Aeschylus, Sophocles, Homer, Dante, Ossian, Scott, Shakespeare. It was a wonderful experience to read these old masterpieces in the woods or by the sea, and their influence on the development of his own individual genius was undoubtedly profound. Shakespeare and Homer he especially admired, often reciting long passages from them as he raced, naked from one of his swims, up and down the hard sandy beach of the then secluded Coney Island region. Emerson and Carlyle were also powerful stimulants absorbed by Whitman at this time. Whitman now associated himself with his father as a builder and trader of houses. His work prospered, and there was a fair prospect that he might become comfortably well off; but according to his own statement and the universal evidence of others, the making or possession of money had no fascination for him. He suddenly gave up his new busi- ness to devote himself to the strange and hard career which he felt irresistibly called to. Though he. had had an affair of the heart and knew the joys and the tragedy of illicit Walt Whitman 73 love, he had never been legally married and so had none of the responsibiHties of a family resting upon him. His own wants were few and easily supplied. His real ambition to become a poet, ever before him and never once despaired of, was slowly ripening, and with a kind of solitary persist- ence he kept brooding over his mission, and working surely, steadily, unobtrusively into that style which he afterwards flashed upon the world as a new and original type of poetry. In 1855, set up and printed largely by himself in the office of some friends, appeared the first edition of Leaves of Grass, the strangest, most misunderstood, most maligned book that ever came from the American press. It was like Carlyle's Sartor Resartus in England, a work of genius, but hooted and hissed and misinterpreted until some knowing ones expounded the riddle. Leaves of Grass was written in a kind of unrimed free verse, with lines of from four or five to sixty-five or seventy syllables arranged in a sort of phrasal rhythm to suit the ear or the caprice of the author. Whether it is verse or rhythmical prose is still a debated point. It is certain that there is no other verse like it, and it is also certain that the long prose preface is almost as rhythmical as any other part of the book. Whitman him- self said much later, when some of the earlier excrescences had been removed, that he consciously threw out all the con- ventional machinery of verse, "the entire stock in trade of rhyme-talking heroes and heroines and all the love-sick plots of customary poetry, and constructs his verse in a loose and free metre of his own, of an irregular length of lines, appar- ently lawless at first perusal, although on a closer examina- tion a certain regularity appears, like the recurrence of lesser and larger waves on the sea-shore, rolling in without inter- mission, and fitfully rising and falling." Readers have almost universally testified that Whitman's verse seems most like real poetry when read aloud out-of-doors, and particularly under the waving trees or by the throbbing sea, with the drift of clouds and the swoop of sea-birds over- head. His whole aim was to be himself and no other, to be original and no imitator, to be the spokesman of his own soul and of democratic America, and not an echo of the dead muses of other times and other nations. Whitman succeeded in his aim — succeeded so well in writing an entirely new book that when it appeared it was called "the work of some escaped lunatic," and the 74 American Literary Readings author was belabored as one whose soul was the reincarna- tion of "a donkey who died of disappointed love." Lowell could never overcome his disgust for the author of Leaves of Grass, Whittier threw the book in the fire when he read it, and many critics accepted literally what Whitman said about his barbaric yawp, his grossness and sensuality, and even animality, and his identification of himself with uni- versal matters of sex and the whole physical and psychiqal life of man. Emerson, however, saw in this book, as he had seen in Carlyle's Sartor Resartus, distinct evidences of genius. He wrote the author a letter which has been fre- quently reprinted but which loses nothing by repetition, for it was the first note of authoritative recognition which Whitman received and the impetus from which his fame has grown. Emerson said in part: "I find it [Leaves of Grass] the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed. . I give you joy of your free and brave thought. I have great joy in it. I find incom- parable things said incomparably well, as they must be. I find the courage of treatment which so delights us, and which large perception only can inspire. I greet you at the beginning of a great career, which yet must have had a long foreground somewhere for such a start .... It has the best merits, namely of fortifying and encouraging." The next year the second and greatly enlarged edition of Leaves of Grass appeared with appendied additional matter containing Emerson's letter and Whitman's long reply in which he constantly addressed Emerson as master. Emerson's name under- the sentence "I greet you at the beginning of a great career" was. actually printed on the back of the book, an act of bad taste which only a sublimely egotistical or an uncultured man could have been guilty of. In spite of Emerson's generous recognition of a new light, the book did not sell. In England the recognition was more spontaneous, though not enough interest was mani- fested greatly to encourage the new poet. But Whitman needed no encouragement — ^at least he was not to be daunted by discoittagement. He had determined to have his own way, and neither praise nor blame, encouragement nor dis- couragement seemed to deflect him in the least from his purpose. Years later he wrote, "The best comfort of the whole business ... is that unstopp'd and unwarp'd by any influence outside the soul within me, I have had my say Walt Whitman 75 entirely in my own way and put it unerringly on record — the value thereof to be decided by time." He did not bid for "soft eulogies, big money returns, nor the approbation of existing schools and conventions"; and so he moved on his way unruffled and undisturbed.' The third edition of his book appeared in i860 with many changes and addi- tions, as was his custom. The Civil War was the culminating experience in Walt Whitman's education as the poet of democracy. He did not volunteer for active service, but his brother George did, and when Walt heard that George was wounded and in a hospital in Virginia he went to the front. Finding his brother already recovered, but thousands of others in the hospitals needing comfort and aid, he became a volunteer nurse in and around Washington. It is said that he literally came into touch with thousands of soldiers while on his rounds, and served them all alike, whether northern or southern, high or low, deserving or undeserving, with an unswerving and all- encompassing devotion. He was a strong, clean, healthy, magnetic specimen of manhood; his very presence seemed a benediction and a curative power to the sick and wounded soldiers. He carried in his haversack all sorts of articles that would meet the needs of the patients or cheer them in their confinement. For one he would write a letter, from another take a dying message for loved ones, to another give a comrade's manly farewell kiss. He said in one of his letters of this period that no greater love ever existed than that between him and these poor sick, dying soldier boys. No more inspiring story of the war has come down to us than this of the unselfish and large charity of Walt Whitman in the hospitals. He literally gave himself for others, for his health broke down under the strain, his system becoming inoculated with malaria and his body infected with blood poison from dressing a wound. After the war, when he had recovered from his illness, he was given a clerkship in the Department of the Interior; but when Secretary Harlan discovered that Whitman was the author of what he called an indecent and immoral book, he peremptorily dismissed him from the service. Some of Whitman's friends interceded but could not move the secretary from his decision. Then another position of equal pay was found for Whitman in the Attorney-General's department, the offending poet was quietly transferred, and 76 American Literary Readings the incident was thought to be closed. It was closed so far as any further official action was concerned, but William D. O'Connor, a passionate journalist of Irish extraction, pub- lished "The Good Gray Poet," a pamphlet containing a gallant but injudicious defense of Whitman and a terrific arraignment of Secretary Harlan. This opened up the old discussion of Whitman's frankness and so-called indecency in treating matters of sex, and probably did more harm than good so far as the poet's reputation was concerned. But the title, "The Good Gray Poet," and the description fixed the name and appearance of the prematurely gray- haired hero forever in the public mind, and from this time onward Whitman had defenders and detractors enough. He had now surely arrived, as he had perhaps prematurely announced in the first edition of Leaves of Grass. Whitman's appearance at this time (1865) should be described, and no one has more fully or enthusiastically sketched him than his champion, William O'Connor. "For years past, thousands of people in New York, in Brooklyn, in Boston, in New Orleans, and latterly in Washington, have seen, even as I saw two hours ago, tallying, one might say, the streets of our American cities, and fit to have for his background and accessories their streaming populations and ample and rich fagades, a man of striking masculine beauty — a poet — powerful and venerable in appearance; large, calm, superbly formed; oftenest clad in the careless, rough, and always picturesque costume of the common people; resembling, and generally taken by strangers for, some great mechanic or stevedore, or seaman, or grand laborer of one kind or another; and passing slowly in this guise, with nonchalant and haughty step along the pave- ment, with the sunlight and shadows falling around him. The dark sombrero he usually wears was, when I saw him just now, the day being warm, held for the moment in his hand; rich light an artist would have chosen lay upon his uncovered head, majestic, large, Homeric, and set upon his strong shoulders with the grandeur of ancient sculpture. I marked the countenance, serene, proud, cheerful, florid, grave; the brow seamed with noble wrinkles; the features massive and handsome, with firm blue eyes; the eyebrows and eyelids especially showing that fullness of arch seldom seen save in the antique busts; the flowing hair and fleecy beard, both very gray, and tempering with a look of age Walt Whitman 77 the youthful aspect of one who is but forty-five; the sim- pUcity and purity of his dress, cheap and plain, but spotless, from snowy falling collar to burnished boot, exhaling faint fragrance; the whole form surrounded with manliness as with a nimbus, and breathing, in its perfect health and vigor, the august charm of the strong." Just after the close of the Civil War, Whitman published a new volume of poems called Drum-Taps, and when the volume was going through the press he composed four poems which he called "Memorials for President Lincoln," and added them as a supplement. This volume contains some of Whitman's very finest work, notably the threnody "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" and the lyric lament "O Captain! My Captain!" From time to time other poems and prose pieces came out, and new and enlarged editions of Leaves of Grass appeared up until 1891, when the tenth and final form of this remarkable poetic evolution was prepared by the poet, some of it passing through his hands even after he had taken to his bed for the last time. It was in 1873 that he suffered a paraljrtic stroke and had to give up his position in Washington. He went to Camden, New Jersey, and lived with his brother for a few years until he partially recovered his health. Diuing the remainder of his life he lectured occasionally on Lincoln, made journeys to the Far West and to Canada, and was the recipient of many visits from friends and admirers. His books were now more remunerative, and he was enabled to buy a modest little home at Camden. Here, even though broken in health, he enjoyed life up to the last. He had what he most craved, the comradeship and good-fellowship of those who understood and loved him. In 1888 he suffered the second stroke of paralysis, and from this time until his death, March 26, 1892, he was practically a helpless invalid. But up to the very last he retained his buoyancy of spirit and alertness of mind. In 1882 Whitman published a delightful prose volume, being notes taken from his own commonplace books, observa- tions and comments on nature, men, and events, and called it Specimen Days. This and Democratic Vistas, Memoranda of the War, and his letters and prefaces, make up the bulk of his prose remains. There are some excellent things excellently said, but the interest in Whitman's prose is due more perhaps to the veneration of his own personality and 78 American Literary Readings the revelation of this personality in these works than to any absolute artistic value which may attach to the volumes themselves. As to Whitman's message in his poetry, his great themes were selfhood, comradeship, love, joy, nature, God, immor- tality, death, and above all democracy as exemplified in the American, states. Edward Holmes analyzes Whitman as being intensely emotional, intensely self-conscious, intensely optimistic, and intensely American. We might add to this the one all-inclusive characteristic, and say he was intensely human. No one ever lived who was more normally and unmistakably a man. Lincoln's estimate squares true with every atom of his being, "Well, he looks, like a man!" The only serious vyeakness to be observed in his poetical output is that it is not always inspired. Wordsworth defined poetry as "the spontaneous overflow of powerful emotion recollected in tranquillity." Whitman's poetry seems spontaneous enough, but it does not always express powerful emotion. Like Wordsworth, he was rather self- conscious and imagined that everything he felt and saw and thought or dreamed was worthy of preservation. And so, like Wordsworth again, he sometimes reaches banality in- stead of inspiration. The logical evolution of some of his poems is very vague or even totally indistinguishable. He injects topics that seem utterly foreign to his purpose, and he gives long catalogues of names and facts that can be logically designated only by the term "balderdash." And yet when we look back on Whitman now that a quarter of a century has passed since his death, we can begin to place him in his true historic perspective. There is no doubt but that he was one of the largest-brained, biggest-hearted men of his century. He had little or no formal education; and yet, without model or foreign influ- ence, when he felt the stirrings of genius within him he made his own instrument of expression, merely by the rule of doing it. He said himself finally that he considered Leaves of Grass experimental as a literary form, just as he con- sidered the American government itself an experiment in democracy. The gradual revisions of the Leaves practically always tend toward a more restrained and artistic form of expression, and some of the later poetical works are almost above reproach in their artistic design, unity, and totality of effect, and poetic evolution. We may say that Walt Walt Whitman 79 Whitman was a bom poetical genius who found his own formless vehicle of expression at thirty-five, and tried to perfect himself in it by inflicting it on an unprepared public for the next thirty-five years. Whitman is not a broadly popular poet and perhaps never will be, for his work as a whole offers too strong a meat and is too elemental and cos- mic for the general public. But there is no longer any question as to his genius or as to the fundamental purity and goodness of his nature. His readers are steadily increasing as the world comes more and more to understand the man and his message, and it does not seem too rash now to predict that within the present century his name will be placed at the top in the Ust of the creative poets of America. (Among the many lives of Whitman, perhaps the best for general use are those by Bliss Perry in the American Men of Letters Series and by George R. Carpenter in the English Men of Letters Series. Two other sympathetic books should be consulted, the studies by John Addington Symons [English] and John Burroughs [American].) OUT OF THE CRADLE ENDLESSLY ROCKING Out of the cradle endlessly rocking, Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle, Out of the Ninth-month midnight, Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, where the child leaving his bed wander'd alone, bareheaded, barefoot, 6 Down from the shower'd halo. Up from the mystic play of shadows twining and twisting as if they were alive, Out from the patches of briers and blackberries. From the memories of the bird that chanted to me. From your memories sad brother, from the fitful risings and fallings I heard, 10 From under that yellow half -moon late-risen and swollen as if with tears. From those beginning notes of yearning and love there in the mist. From the thousand responses of my heart never to cease. From the myriad thence-arous'd words, From the word stronger and more delicious than any, 15 From such as now they start the scene revisiting. As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing. Borne hither, ere all eludes me, htirriedly, A man, yet by these tears a little boy again. Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves, 20 1, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter, Taking all hints to use them, but swiftly leaping beyond them, A reminiscence sing. Once Paumanok, When the Ulac-scent was in the air and Fifth-month grass was growing, [80] Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking 8i Up this seashore in some briers, as Two feather'd guests from Alabama, two together, And their nest, and four light-green eggs spotted with brown, And every day the he-bird to and fro near at hand. And every day the she-bird crouch'd on her nest, silent, with bright eyes. And every day I, a ctmous boy, never too close, never dis- 30 turbing them, Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating. Shine! shine! shine! Pour down your warmth, great sun! While we basle, we two together. Two together! 35 Winds blow south or winds blow north, ■ Day come white, or night come black, Home, or rivers and mountains from home, Singing all time, minding no time. While we two keep together. 40 Till of a sudden, May-be kill'd, unknown to her mate. One forenoon the she-bird crouch'd not on the nest, Nor retiam'd that afternoon, nor the next. Nor ever appear'd again. 45 And thenceforward all summer in the sound of the sea, And at night under the full of the moon in calmer weather, Over the hoarse surging of the sea, Or flitting from brier to brier by day, I saw, I heard at intervals the remaining one, the he-bird, so The solitary guest from Alabama. Blow! blow! blow! Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok's shore; I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me. 82 American Literary Readings 65 Yes, when the stars glisten'd, All night long on the prong of a moss-scallop 'd stake, Down almost amid the slapping waves, Sat the lone singer wonderful causing tears. He call'd'on his mate, 60 He pour'd forth the meanings which I of all men know. Yes, my brother I know. The rest might not, but I have treasur'd every note, For more than once dimly down to the beach gliding. Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows, 65 Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights after their sorts. The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing, I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair, Listen'd long and long; Listen'd to keep, to sing, now translating the notes, 70 Following you my brother. Soothe! soothe! soothe! Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, And again another behind embracing and iapping, every one close, But my love soothes not me, not me. 75 Low hangs the moon, it rose late, It is lagging — I think it is heavy with love, with love. O madly the sea pushes upon the land. With love, with love. night! do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers f 80 What is that little black thing I see there in the white f Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking 83 Lxmd! loud! loud! Loud I call to you, my love! High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves, Surely you must Isnovu who is here, is here, You must know who I am, my love. 1 Low-hanging moon! What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow f it is the shape, the shape of my mate! moon do not keep her from me any longer. Land! land! land! Whichever way I turn, I think you could give me my mate back again if you only would. For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look. rising stars! Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you. throat! trembling throat! i Sound clearer through the atmosphere! Pierce the woods, the earth. Somewhere listening to catch you must be the one I want. Shake out carols! Solitary here, the night's carols! Carols of lonesome love! death's carols! Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon! under that moon where she droops almost down into the seal reckless despairing carols. But soft! sink low! Soft! let me just murmur. And do you wait a moment you husky-nois'd sea, Fo^ somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me, 84 American Literary Readings So faint, I must be still, be still to listen, 110 But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me. Hither my love! Here I am! here! With this just-sustain' d note I announce myself to you, This gentle call is for you my love, for you. 115 Do not be decoy' d elsewhere. That is the whistle of the wind, it is not my voice. That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray, Those are the shadows of leaves. darkness! in vain! 120 I am very sick and sorrowful. brown halo in the sky near the moon, drooping upon the sea! troubled reflection in the sea! throat! throbbing heart! And I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night. 125 past! happy life! songs of joy! In the air, in the woods, over fields. Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved! But my mate no more, no more with me! We two together no more. 130 The aria sinking, All else continuing, the stars shining, The winds blowing, the notes of the bird continuous echoing, With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning. On the sands of Paumanok's shore gray and rustling, 135 The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face of the sea almost touching. The boy ecstatic, with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the atmosphere dallying, Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking 85 The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumul- tuously bursting. The aria's meaning, the ears, the soul, swiftly depositing. The strange tears down the cheeks coursing. The colloquy there, the trio, each uttering, 140 The undertone, the savage old mother incessantly crying. To the boy's soul's questions sullenly timing, some drown'd secret hissing, To the outsetting bard. Demon or bird ! (said the boy's soul,) Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it really to me? ub For I, that was a child, my tongue's use sleeping, now I have heard you, Now in a moment I know what I am for, I awake, And already a thousand singers, a thousand songs, clearer, louder, and more sorrowful than yours, A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me, never to' die. you singer solitary, singing by yourself, projecting me, iso O solitary me listening, never more shall I cease perpetuating you. Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations, Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me, Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there in the night, By the sea under the yellow and sagging moon, 155 The messenger there arous'd, the fire, the sweet hell within. The tmknown want, the destiny of me. O give me the clew! (it lurks in the night here somewhere,) if I am to have so much, let me have more! A word then, (for I will conquer it,) lao The word final, superior to all, 86 American Literary Readings Subtle, sent up — what is it? — I listen; Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you sea- waves? Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands? 165 Whereto answering, the sea, Delaying not, hurrying not, ■Whisper'd me through the night, and very plainly before daybreak, Lisp'd to me the low and delicious word death And again death, death, death, death, 170 Hissing melodious, neither like the bird nor like my arous'd child's heart. But edging near as privately for me rustling at my feet, Creeping thence steadily up to my ears and laving me softly all over, Death, death, death, death, death. Which I do not forget, 175 But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother. That he sang to me in the moonlight on Paumanok's gray beach. With the thousand responsive songs at random. My own songs awaked from that hour, , And with them the key, the word up from the waves, 180 The word of the sweetest song and all songs, That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet, (Or like some old crone rocking the cradle,^ swathed in sweet garments, bending aside,) The sea whisper'd me. When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd 87 WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOM'D I When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd, And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night, I moum'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring, Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west, 5 And thought of him I love. 2 O powerful western fallen star! shades of night — O moody, tearful night! O great star disappear'd — the black murk that hides the star! O cruel hands that hold me powerless — O helpless soul of me ! 10 O harsh siurovmding cloud that will not free my soul. 3 In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white- wash'd palings. Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green. With many a pointed blossom rising deHcate, with the perfume strong I love. With every leaf a miracle — and from this bush in the door- 15 yard, With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, A sprig with its flower I break. 4 In the swamp in secluded recesses, A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. Solitary the thrush, 20 The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements. Sings by himself a song. 88 American Literary Readings Song of the bleeding throat, Death's outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know, 26 If thou wast not granted to sing thou would'st surely die.) S Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities. Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray debris. Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass. Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen, 30 Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards. Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave. Night and day journeys a coffin. 6 Coffin that passes through lanes and streets. Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land, 35 With the pomp of the inloop'd flags with the cities draped in black, With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veil'd women standing, With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of th night. With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads. With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces, 40 With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn. With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour'd around the coffin, The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs — where amid these you journey, vvnen uiiacs i^ast in the Dobryard Bloom' d 89 With the tolling tolling bells' perpetual clang, Here, coffin that slowly passes, I give you my sprig of lilac. «6 7 (Nor for you, for one alone. Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring. For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you O sane and sacred death. All over bouquets of roses, O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies, so But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first. Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes. With loaded arms I come, poiuing for you, For you and the cofBns all of you death.) 8 western orb sailing the heaven, 55 Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walk'd, As I walk'd in silence the transparent shadowy night. As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after night, As you droop 'd from the sky low down as if to my side, (while the other stars all look'd on,) As we wander'd together the solemn night, (for something I eo know not what kept me from sleep,) As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full you were of woe. As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the cool transparent night. As I watch'd where you pass'd and was lost in the netherward black of the night, As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you sad orb. Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone. u go American Literary Readings 9 Sing on there in the swamp, - ■ O singer bashful and tender, I hear your notes, I hear yotir call, I hear, I come presently, I understand you, But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detain'd me, 70 The star my departing comrade holds and detains me. lO how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved? And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone? And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love? Sea-winds blown from east and west, 75 Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till there on the prairies meeting. These and with these and the breath of my chant, I'll perfume the grave of him I love. II O what shall I hang on the chamber walls? And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls, 80 To adorn the burial-house of him I love? Pictures of growing spring and farms and hoines, With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright. With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, siiiking sun, burning, expanding the air, With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific, 86 In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there, With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows. vvnen Ltiacs i^ast tn the Dooryard Bloom' d 91 And the city at hand with dweUings so dense, and stacks of chimneys, And all the scenes of life and the workshops and the workmen homeward returning. 12 Lo, body and soul — this land. My- own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and go hurrying tides, and the ships. The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light, Ohio's shores and flashing Missouri, And ever the far-spreading prairies cover'd with grass and corn. Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty. The violet and purple mom with just-felt breezes, The gentle soft-bom measureless light, 95 The miracle spreading bathing all, the fulfill'd noon, The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars. Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land. 13 Sing on, sing on you gray-brown bird, Sing from the swamps, the recesses, pour your chant from the 100 bushes. Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines. Sing on, dearest brother, warble your reedy song, Loud htunan song, with voice of uttermost woe. liquid and free and tender! wild and loose to my soul — O wondrous singer! 105 You only I hear — yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart,) Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me. 14 Now while I sat in the day and look'd forth, In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, and the farmers preparing their crops. 92 American Literary Readings 110 In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and forests, In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb'd winds and the storms,) Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women. The many-moving sea-tides, 'and I saw the ships how they sail'd. And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor, 115 And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages. And the streets how their throbbings throbb'd, and the cities pent — lo, then and there. Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the rest, Appear'd the cloud, appear'd the long black trail. And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death. 120 Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me. And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me. And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions, I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not, Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness, 125 To the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still. And the singer so shy to the rest receiv'd me. The gray-brown bird I know receiv'd us comrades three. And he sang the carol of death, and a verse for him I love. From deep secluded recesses, 130 From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still, Came the carol of the bird. When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd 93 And the charm of the carol rapt me, As I held as if by their hands my comrades in the night, And the voice of my spirit taUied the song of the bird. Come lovely and soothing death, us Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, . Sooner or later delicate death. Prais'd be the fathomless universe For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, no And for love, sweet love — but praise! praise! praise! For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death. Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet. Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all, m I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. Approach strong deliveress, When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead, Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee, Laved in the flood of thy bliss death. uo From me to thee glad serenades. Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and f east- ings for thee. And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting. And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night. The night in silence under many a star, ■ us The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know. And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veil'd death. And the body gratefully nestling close to thee. 94 American Literary Readings Over the tree-tops I float thee a song, 160 Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide. Over the dense-pack' d cities all and the teeming wharves and ways, I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee death. IS To the tally of my soul, Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird, 165 With pure deliberate notes spreading, filling the night. Loud in the pines and cedars dim. Clear in the freshness moist and the swamp-perfume, And I with my comrades there in the night; While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed, 170 As to long panoramas of visions. And I saw askant the armies, I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags, Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierc'd with missiles I saw them. And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody, 175 And at last but a few shreds left on the stafEs (and all in silence,) And the staffs all splinter'd and broken. I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them. And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them, I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war, 180 But I saw they were not as was thought, They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer'd not. The living remain'd and suffer'd, the mother suifer'd. And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffer'd. And the armies that remain'd suffer'd. When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd 95 16 Passing the visions, passing the night, iss Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands, Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul, Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet varying ever- altering song. As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night. Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet 100 again bursting with joy. Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven. As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses. Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves, I leave, thee there in the dooryard, blooming, returning with spring. I cease from my song for thee, 195 From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, com- muning with thee, O comrade lustrous with silver face in the night. Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night. The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird, And the tallying chant, the echo arous'd in my soul, 200 With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of woe, With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird. Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for the dead I loved so well. For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands — and this for his dear sake. Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul, 205 There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim. 96 American Literary Readings CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; 6 But O heart ! heart ! heart ! the bleeding drops of red. Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; 10 Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle trills. For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths — for you the shores a-crowding. For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! 15 It is some dream that on the deck. You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still. My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will. The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, 20 From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I with mournful tread. Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. i86s The Mystic Trumpeter 97 THE MYSTIC TRUMPETER I Hark, some wild trumpeter, some strange musician, Hovering unseen in air, vibrates capricious tunes to-night. I hear thee trumpeter, listening alert I catch thy notes, Now pouring, whirling like a tempest round me, Now low, subdued, now in the distance lost. 5 2 Come nearer bodiless one, haply in thee resounds Some dead composer, haply thy pensive life Was fiU'd with aspirations high, unform'd ideals, Waves, oceans musical, chaotically surging. That now ecstatic ghost, close to me bending, thy cornet 10 echoing, pealing. Gives out to no one's ears but mine, but freely gives to mine. That I may thee translate. 3 Blow trumpeter free and clear, I follow thee. While at thy liquid prelude, glad, serene, The fretting world, the streets, the noisy hours of day 15 withdraw, A holy calm descends like dew upon me, I walk in cool refreshing night the walks of paradise, I scent the grass, the moist air and the roses; Thy song expands my ntimb'd imbonded spirit, thou freest, launchest me. Floating and basking upon heaven's lake. 20 4 Blow again trumpeter! and for my sensuous eyes. Bring the old pageants, show the feudal world. What charm thy music works ! thou makest pass before me, Ladies and cavaliers long dead, barons are in their castle halls, the troubadours are singing, 9 8 American Literary Readings 25 Arm'd knights go forth to redress wrongs, some in quest of the holy Graal; I see the toiimament, I see the contestants incased in heavy armor seated on stately champing horses, I hear the shouts, the sounds of blows and smiting steel; I see the Crusaders' tumultuous armies — hark, how the cymbals clang, Lo, where the monks walk in advance, bearing the cross on high. 5 30 Blow again trumpeter! and for thy theme. Take now the enclosing theme of all, the solvent and the setting. Love, that is pulse of all, the sustenance and the pang. The heart of man and woman all for love; No other theme but love — knitting, enclosing, all-diffusing love. 35 how the immortal phantoms crowd around me! I see the vast alembic ever working, I see and know the flames that heat the world. The glow, the blush, the beating hearts of lovers, So blissful happy some, and some so silent, dark, and nigh to death ; Love, that is all the earth to lovers — love, that mocks time and space, 40 Love, that is day and night — love, that is sun and moon and stars, Love, that is crimson, sumptuous, sick with perfume. No other words but word? of love, no other thought but love. 6 Blow again trumpeter — conjure war's alarums. Swift to thy spell a shuddering httm like distant thunder rolls, 45 Lo, where the arm'd men hasten — lo, mid the clouds of dust the glint of bayonets. The Mystic Trumpeter 99 I see the grime-faced cannoneers, I mark the rosy flash amid the smoke, I hear the cracking of the guns ; Nor war alone — thy fearful music-song, wild player, brings every sight of fear, The deeds of ruthless brigands, rapine, murder — I hear the cries for help ! I see ships foundering at sea, I behold on deck and below deck the terrible tableaus. 7 trumpeter, methiriks I am myself the instrument thou 50 playest. Thou melt'st my heart, my brain — thou movest, drawest, changest them at will ; And now thy sullen notes send darkness through me, Thou takest away all cheering light, all hope, 1 see the enslaved, the overthrown, the hurt, the opprest of the whole earth, I feel the measureless shame and humiliation of my race, 55 it becomes all mine, Mine too the revenges of humanity, the wrongs of ages, baffled feuds and hatreds. Utter defeat upon me weighs — all lost — the foe victorious, (Yet mid the ruins Pride colossal stands unshaken to the last. Endurance, resolution to the last.) 8 Now trumpeter for thy close, eo Vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet. Sing to my soul, renew its languishing faith and hope. Rouse up my slow belief, give me some vision of the future, Give me for once its prophecy and joy. glad, exulting, culminating song! es A vigor more than earth's is in thy notes, Marches of victory — man disenthral'd — the conqueror at last, loo American Literary Readings Hymns to the universal God from universal man — all joy! A reborn race appears — a perfect world, all joy! 70 Women and men in wisdom innocence and health — aU joy! Riotous laughing bacchanals fill'd with joy! War, sorrow, suffering gone — therank earth purged — nothing but joy left! The ocean fill'd with joy — the atmosphere all joy! Joy! joy! in freedom, worship, love! joy in the ecstasy of life! 75 Enough to merely be ! enough to breathe ! Joy ! joy ! all over joy ! RALPH WALDO EMERSON - RALPH WALDO EMERSON 1803-1882 Matthew Arnold, in his lecture on Emerson, said that if we should judge him perfectly impartially we would have to admit that Emerson is not a great poet, not a great prose writer, not even a great philosopher, but that he is "pre- eminently the friend and aider of those who would live in the spirit." In ranking Emerson relatively in American lit- erature, however, we do not hesitate to say that he is one of our great poets, even though he is not preeminent in this field; that he is unquestionably our greatest essayist; and that in the moral and spiritual realm he is one of the world's great teachers. No educated American can afford to be unacquainted with the works of Ralph Waldo Emerson. Emerson was bom in Boston, May 25, 1803. He was descended from a long line of New England ministers, his father, Reverend William Emerson, being minister at the First Unitarian Church in Boston at the time of Emerson's birth, and his grandfather of the same name being minister at Concord during the American Revolution. Emerson was graduated from Harvard College at the age of eighteen. It is said that he attracted no particular notice while he was in college, but he made a good record and took some of the honors, notably the election to be class poet and the second prize in the Boylston contest in English composition. Immediately after graduation he engaged in teaching, but in 1823 he returned to the divinity school of Harvard College and began studying definitely for the ministry. He was ordained in 1829, and was at once installed as assistant minister in the Second Unitarian Church of Boston. In this year he married Miss Ellen Tucker. She did not live long, however, and some years later Emerson was married to Miss Lidian Jackson, who bore him several children and made him a happy home at Concord. Emerson became full minister of the Second Church when his colleague resigned in 1829, and for over three years he served the church acceptably. In 1832 he began to have conscientious scruples about his fitness to commemorate the Lord's Supper, [lOl] I02 American Literary Readings and on September g of that year he preached his farewell sermon and courageously resigned his pulpit. Thus thrown on his own resources for a livelihood, Emer- son began to lecture and write. He visited Europe in 1833 and met many famous men of letters, notably Wordsworth, Coleridge, Landor, De Quincey, George Eliot, and Cowper. On his return he settled in Concord (1834) and took up his residence at the famous old house known as the "Old Manse," where his grandfather. Reverend William Emerson, Sr., had lived, and where Hawthorne later lived and wrote Mosses from an Old Manse. The correspondence between Emerson andCarlyle, begun at this period, extended to the death of Carlyle in 188 1, and the series of letters between these two great masters is one of the most notable in all English and American literature. The lecture platform was from this time on Emerson's pulpit. In fact, it was largely through Emerson that lyceum lecturing as a means of public entertainment and instruction was first brought into favor in this country. He had a marvelously sweet and appealing voice, and his fresh, vigorous, tonic messages attracted and inspired his audiences even when they did not fully understand the import of what he was saying. On September 12, 1835, Emerson delivered at Concord a speech called "An Historical Discourse on the Second Centennial Anniversary of the Incorporation of the Town," and when the monument commemorating the battle of Con- cord was dedicated on July 4, 1837, he was called upon to write a hymn for the occasion. The little poem which he produced, and which is included in this volume, has since become one of the national poetical treasures. In 1836 Emerson's first book, called Nature, appeared. It was a small volume of less than one hundred pages, but it was packed full of inspiration, idealism, and profound philosophy. It was written in a tense, poetical, rhapsodic prose style, and naturally it attracted very little attention. Holmes calls it a reflective prose poem. It sets forth ideas on nature similarto those expressed by Wordsworth in his poetry, and it is the seed-field for many of the transcendental ideas later developed by Emerson on the constitution of nature, God, and the soul of man. The public was not ready for such a volume, and not more than five hundred copies of this really epoch-making book were sold within twelve years after its publication. Ralph Waldo Emerson 103 Nevertheless, Emerson was now rapidly becoming a notable figure in the intellectual life of New England. In 1837 he was asked to deliver the oration before the Phi Beta Kappa Society at Cambridge, and he prepared for this occasion that notable address, "The American Scholar." Lowell spoke of the occasion of its delivery as an event "without former parallel in our literary annals," and Holmes said, "This great oration was our intellectual Declaration of Independence." The Essays, First Series, appeared in 1841, and the Second Series in 1844. Most of these essays were first given as lectures. Naturally the lecturer could polish and revise his addresses as he delivered them from time to time, and so when he was ready to give them to the world as essays, he had put his thought in its finished and final form. There is great compression of thought and condensation and preci- sion of style in these compositions. It has been said that he who runs may read, but this sajring cannot be applied to Emerson's essays. One must stop and think, and think deeply, or else one will miss the best of Emerson's thought. No book in our literature is more worthy of one's close study and attention, and none will give the young mind such fine practice in interpretative mental exercise. In fact, Emer- son is one of the most inspiring of all writers; it is said that he has made more thoughtful readers than has any other American writer. He is certainly a stimulating mental tonic, and every ambitious youth should give his very best effort to the mastery of a few of the simpler pieces, and eventually should read all twenty-four of the essays in these two volumes. For this book we have selected "Heroism" and "Compensation" as two of the most stimulating for young readers, but there are many others equally good, not only in the two volumes of essays, but in the remaining prose works of Emerson. Among the other prose books of Emerson are Represintative Men (1850), English Traits (1850), Conduct of Life (i860), Society and Solitude (1870), Letters and Social Aims (1875). These are made up largely of lectures and essays similar in thought and style to the better known Essays. All through the years of his maturity Emerson had the habit of jotting down his thoughts in his Journals, and from this intellectual storehouse he drew material for his addresses and books. This wonderful miscellaneous source book I04 American Literary Readings for the study of Emerson's thought and the development of his mind and character was recently published in ten volumes. Emerson's style is unique. He said what he had to say in brilliant, epigrammatic sentences, often so condensed as to be almost unintelligible to the superficial reader. He had little smoothness or sweetness of style, though he possessed wonderful facility in turning expressive phrases, and occasionally he rose into passages of majestic beauty and sublimity. He may be said to be weak in the archi- tectural or combining and arranging power of style. He throws his brilliant sentences, and paragraphs together in a vague sort of order. There is certainly not that smooth- ness in transition that we now expect and demand of the average good prose stylist. He said himself that he sought no order or harmony of style in his writing. He speaks of his sentences as composed of "infinitely repellent particles," and he also called his method that of the lapidary who builds his house of boulders, piling them up in almost indiscrimi- nate masses. Oliver Wendell Holmes, in his life of Emerson in the American Men of Letters Series, says: "Emerson's style is epigrammatic, incisive, authoritative, sometimes quaint, never obscure, except when he is handling nebulous subjects. His paragraphs are full of brittle sentences that break apart and are independent units, like the fragments of a coral colony. His imagery is frequently daring, leaping from the concrete to the abstract, from the special to the general and universal, and vice versa, with a bound that is like a flight." As a poet Emerson has usually not been ranked high, but there are some who consider him the greatest of American poets. There is no use denying that he was a mediocre poetical craftsman in so far as mere technical excellences are concerned. His rhythm is often harsh and wabbly, and Kis rimes are sometimes untrue and even impossible. There is little or no steady evolution of thought or largeness and finality of treatment in many of his poems, but in others, particularly some of the shorter ones, there are an artistic finish and a completeness and perfection of expression that leave little to be desired. That Emerson was at bottom a real poet is no less evident in his best prose than in his best poetry. He took the office of poet seriously, and he almost always eventually put his finest thoughts into rhythmic Ralph Waldo Emerson 105 form. The poems selected in this volume are sufficient evidence that Emerson was a poet of high merit. Emerson died April 27, 1882, and was buried near Haw- thorne in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. An immense rough boulder of rose quartz, typical of the combination of beauty and strength in Emerson's genius, now marks his grave. HEROISM " Paradise is under the shadow of swords." Mahomet Ruby wine is drunk by knaves, Sugar spends to fatten slaves, Rose and vine-leaf deck buffoons ; Thunderclouds are Jove's festoons, 6 Drooping oft in wreaths of dread Lightning-knotted round his head; The hero is not fed on sweets, Daily his own heart he eats ; Chambers of the great are jails, 10 And head-winds right for royal sails. [i] In the elder English dramatists, and mainly in the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a constant recog- nition of gentility, as if a noble behavior were as easily marked in the society of their age as color is in our Amer- 15 ican population. When any Rodrigo, Pedro or Valerio enters, though he be a stranger, the duke or governor exclaims, 'This is a gentleman,' — and proffers civilities without end; but all the rest are slag and refuse. In harmony with this delight in personal advantages there 20 is in their plays a certain heroic cast of character and dialogue, — as in Bonduca, Sophocles, the Mad Lover, the Double Marriage, — wherein the speaker is so earnest 'and cordial and on such deep grounds of character, that the dialogue, on the slightest additional incident in the plot, 25 rises naturally into poetry. Among many texts take the following. The Roman Martius has conquered Athens, — all but the invincible spirits of Sophocles, the duke of Athens, and Dorigen, his wife. The beauty of the latter inflames Martius, and he seeks to save her husband; but 30 Sophocles will not ask his Hfe, although assured that a word will save him, and the execution of both proceeds: — [io6] Heroism 107 Valerius. Bid thy wife farewell. Soph. No, I will take no leave. My Dorigen, Yonder, above, 'bout Ariadne's crown, My spirit shall hover for thee. Prithee, haste. 35 Dor. Stay, Sophocles, — with this tie up my sight; Let not soft nature so transformed be, And lose her gentler sexed humanity. To make me see my lord bleed. So, 't is well; Never one object underneath the sun 40 Will I behold before my Sophocles: Farewell ; now teach the Romans how to die. Mar. Dost know what 't is to die? Soph. Thou dost not, Martins, And, therefore, not what 't is to live; to die 45 Is to begin to live. It is to end An old, stale, weary work and to commence A newer and a better. 'T is to leave Deceitful knaves for the society Of gods and goodness. Thou thyself must part 50 At last from all thy garlands, pleasures, triumphs. And prove thy fortitude what then 'twill do. Val. But art not grieved nor vexed to leave thy life thus? Soph. Why should I grieve or vex for being sent To them I ever loved best? Now I'll kneel, 55 But with my back toward thee : 't is the last duty This trunk can do the gods. Mar. Strike, strike, Valerius, Or Martius' heart will leap out at his mouth. This is a man, a woman. Kiss thy lord, 60 And live with all the freedom you were wont. O love! thou doubly hast afflicted me With virtue and with beauty. Treacherous heart. My hand shall cast thee quick into my um, Ere thou transgress this knot of piety. 65 Val. What ails my brother? Soph. Martius, O Martius, Thou now hast found a way to conquer me. Dor. O star of Rome ! what gratitude can speak Fit words to follow such a deed as this? 70 Mar. This admirable duke, Valerius, With his disdain of fortune and of death, Captived himself, has captivated me. And though my arm hath ta'en his body here. His soul hath subjugated Martius' soul. 75 By Romulus, he is all soul, I think; •He hath no flesh, and spirit cannot be gyved. Then we have vanquished nothing; he is free. And Martius walks now in captivity." [2] I do not readily remember any poem, play, sermon, so novel or oration that our press vents in the last few years, which goes to the same tune. We have a great many flutes io8 American Literary Readings and flageolets, but not often the sound of any fife. Yet ■ Wordsworth's "Laodamia," and the ode of "Dion," and 86 some sonnets, have a certain noble music; and Scott will sometimes draw a stroke like the portrait of Lord Evandale given by Balfour of Burley. Thomas Carlyle, with his nat- ural taste for what is manly and daring in character, has suffered no heroic trait in his favorites to drop from his bio- 90 graphical and historical pictures. Earlier, Robert Bums has given us a song or two. In the Harleian Miscellanies there is an account of the battle of Lutzen which deserves to be read. And Simon Ockley's History of the Saracens recounts the prodigies of individual valor, with admiration all the more 96 evident on the part of the narrator that he seems to think that his place in Christian Oxford requires of him some proper protestations of abhorrence. But if we explore the literature of Heroism we shall quickly come to Plutarch, who is its Doctor and historian. To him we owe the Brasidas, 100 the Dion, the Epaminondas, the Scipio of old, and I must think we are more deeply indebted to him than to all the ancient writers. Each of his "Lives" is a refutation to the despondency and cowardice of our religious and political theorists. A wild courage, a Stoicism not of the schools but 106 of the blood, shines in every anecdote, and has given that book its immense fame. [3] We need books of this tart cathartic virtue more than books of political science or of private economy. Life is a festival only to the wise. Seen from the nook and no chimney-side of prudence, it wears a ragged and dangerous front. The violations of the laws of nature by our prede- cessors and our contemporaries are punished in us also. The disease and deformity around us certify the infraction of natural, intellectual and moral laws, and often violation on 115 violation to breed such compound misery. A lock-jaw that bends a man's head back to his heels; hydrophobia that makes him bark at his wife and babes; insanity that makes him eat grass; war, plague, cholera, famine, indicate a certain Heroism 109 ferocity in nature, which, as it had its inlet by hirnian crime, must have its outlet by human suffering. Unhappily no 120 man exists who has not in his own person become to some amotmt a stockholder in the sin, and so made himself liable to a share in the expiation. [4] Our culture therefore must not omit the arming of the man. Let him hear in season that he is bom into the 125 state of war, and that the commonwealth and his own well- being require that he should not go dancing in the weeds of peace, but warned, self-collected and neither defying nor dreading the thunder, let him take both reputation and life in his hand, and with perfect urbanity dare the gibbet and uo the mob by the absolute truth of his speech and the rectitude of his behavior. [5] Towards all this external evil the man within the breast assumes a warlike attitude, and affirms his ability to cope single-handed with the infinite army of enemies. To 135 this military attitude of the soul we give the name of Hero- ism. Its rudest form is the contempt for safety and ease, which makes the attractiveness of war. It is a self-trust which slights the restraints of prudence, in the plenitude of its energy and power to repair the harms it may suffer. The no hero is a mind of such balance that no disturbances can shake his will, but pleasantly and as it were merrily he advances to his own music, alike in frightful alarms and in the tipsy mirth of universal dissoluteness. There is somewhat not philosophical in heroism; there is somewhat not holy in it; us it seems not to know that other souls are of one texture with it ; it has pride ; it is the extreme of individual nature. Never- theless we must profoundly revere it. There is somewhat in great actions which does not allow us to go behind them. Heroism feels and never reasons, and therefore is always 150 right; and although a different breeding, different religion and greater intellectual activity would have modified- or even reversed the particular action, yet for the hero that thing he does is the highest deed, and is not open to the lib American Literary Readings 15a censure of philosophers or divines. It is the avowal of the unschooled man that he finds a quality in him that is negligent of expense, of health, of life, of danger, of hatred, of reproach, and knows that his will is higher and more excellent than all actual and all possible antagonists. 160 [6] Heroism works in contradiction to the voice of mankind and in contradiction, for a time, to the voice of the great and good. Heroism is an obedience to a secret impulse of an individual's character. Now to no other man can its wisdom appear as it does to him, for every man must 165 be supposed to see a little farther on his own proper path than any one else. Therefore just and wise men take umbrage at his act, until after some little time be past; then they see it to be in unison with their acts. All prudent men see that the action is clean contrary to a sensual prosperity; for every 170 heroic act measures itself by its contempt of some external good. But it finds its own success at last, and then the prudent also extol. [7] Self-trust is the essence of heroism. It is the state of the soul at war, and its ultimate objects are the last 175 defiance of falsehood and wrong, and the power to bear all that can be inflicted by evil agents. It speaks the .truth and it is just, generous, hospitable, temperate, scornful of petty calculations and scornful of being scorned. It persists; it is of ah undaunted boldness and of a fortitude not to be 180 wearied out. Its jest is the littleness of common life. That false prudence which dotes on health and wealth is the butt and merriment of heroism. Heroism, like Plotinus, is almost ashamed of its body. What shall it say then to the sugar-plums and cats'- cradles, to the toilet, compliments, 186 quarrels, cards and custard, which rack the wit of all society? What joys has kind nature provided for us dear creatiu-es! There seems to be no interval between greatness and mean- ness. When the spirit is not master of the world, then it is its dupe. Yet the little man takes the great hoax so inno- 190 cently, works in it so headlong and- believing, is bom red, and Heroism 1 1 1 dies gray, arranging his toilet, attending on his own health, laying traps for sweet food and strong wine, setting his heart on a horse or a rifle, made happy with a little gossip or a little praise, that the great soul cannot choose but laugh at such earnest nonsense. "Indeed, these humble considera- 195 tions make me out of love with greatness. ' What a disgrace it is to me to take note how many pairs of silk stockings thou hast, namely, these and those that were the peach-colored ones; or to bear the inventory of thy shirts, as one for super- fluity, and one other for use!" 200 [8] Citizens, thinking after the laws of arithmetic, con- sider the inconvenience of receiving strangers at their fire- side, reckon narrowly the loss of time and the unusual display; the soul of a better quality, thrusts back the unseasonable economy into the vaults of life, and says, I will 205 obey the God, and the sacrifice and the fire he will provide. Ibn Haukal, the Arabian geographer, describes a heroic extreme in the hospitality of Sogd, in Bukharia. "When 1 was in Sogd I saw a great building, like a palace, the gates - of which were open and fixed back to the wall with large nails. 210 I asked the reason, and was told that the house had not been shut, night or day, for a hundred years. Strangers may present themselves at any hotir and in whatever nvimb'er; the master has amply provided for the reception of the men and their animals and is never happier than when they 215 tarry for some time. Nothing of the kind have I seen in any other country." The magnanimous know very well that they who give time, or money, or shelter, to the stranger, — so it be done for love and not for ostentation, — do, as it were, put God under obligation to them, so perfect are the com- 220 pensations of the universe. In some way the time they seem to lose is redeemed and the pains they seem to take remuner- ate themselves. These men fan the flame of human love and raise the standard of civil virtue among mankind. But hospitality must be for service aiid not for show, or it pulls 225 down the host. The brave soul rates itself too high to value 112 American Literary Readings itself by the splendor of its table and draperies. It gives what it hath, and all it hath, but its own majesty can lend a better grace to bannocks and fair water than belong to city 230 feasts. [9] The temperance of the hero proceeds from the same wish to do no dishonor to the worthiness he has. But he loves it for its elegancy, not for its austerity. It seems not worth his while to be solemn and denounce with bitterness 235 flesh-eating or wine-drinking, the use of tobacco, or opium, or tea, or silk, or gold. A great man scarcely knows how he dines, how he dresses; but without railing or precision his living is natural and poetic. John Eliot, the Indian Apostle, drank water, and said of wine, — "It is a noble, 240 generous liquor and we should be humbly thankful for it, but, as I remember, water was made before it." Better still is . the temperance of King David, who poured out on the ground unto the Lord the water which three of his warriors had brought him to drink, at the peril of their lives. 245 [10] It is told of Brutus, that when he fell on his sword after the battle of Philippi, he quoted a line of Euripides, — "0 Virtue! I have followed thee through life, and I find thee at last but a shade." I doubt not the hero is slandered by this report. The heroic soul does not sell its justice and its 260 nobleness. It does not ask to dine nicely and to sleep warm. The essence of greatness is the perception that virtue is enough. Poverty is its ornament. It does not need plenty, and can very well abide its loss. [11] But that which takes my fancy most in the heroic 255 class, is the good-humor and hilarity they exhibit. It is a height to which common duty can very well attain, to suffer and to dare with solemnity. But these rare souls set opinion, success, and life at so cheap a rate that they will not soothe their enemies by petitions, or the show of sorrow, but 260 wear their own habitual greatness. Scipio, charged with peculation, refuses to do himself so great a disgrace as to wait for justification, though he had the scroll of his accounts Heroism 113 in his hands, but tears it to pieces before the tribunes. Socrates 's condemnation of himself to be maintained in all honor in the Prytaneum, during his life, and Sir Thomas 265 More's playfulness at the scaffold, are of the same strain. In Beaumont and Fletcher's "Sea Voyage," Juletta tells the stout captain and his company, — Jul. Why, slaves, 't is in our power to hang ye. Master. Very likely, 270 'T is in our powers, then, to be hanged, and scorn ye. These replies are sound and whole. Sport is the bloom and glow of a perfect health. The great will not condescend to take any thing seriously; all must be as gay as the song of a canary, though it were the building of cities or the 275 eradication of old and foolish churches and nations which have cumbered the earth long thousands of years. Simple hearts put all the history and customs of this world behind them, and play their own game in innocent defiance of the Blue-Laws of the world; and such would appear, could we see 280 the human race assembled in vision, like little children frol- icking together, though to the eyes of mankind at large they wear a stately and solemn garb of works and influences. [12] The interest these fine stories have for us, the power of a romance over the boy who grasps the forbidden book 285 under his bench at school, our delight in the hero, is the main fact to our purpose. All these great and transcendent properties are ours. If we dilate in beholding the Greek energy, the Roman pride, it is that we are already domesticat- ing the same sentiment. Let us find room for this great guest 290 in our small houses. The first step of worthiness will be to disabuse us of our superstitious associations with places and times, with number and size. Why should these words, Athenian, Roman, Asia and England, so tingle in the ear? Where the heart is, there the muses, there the gods sojourn, 295 and not in any geography of fame. Massachusetts, Con- necticut River and Boston Bay you think paltry places, and the ear loves names of foreign and classic topography. But 114 American Literary Readings here we are; and, if we will tarry a little, we may come to 300 learn that here is best. See to it only that thyself is here, and art and natiire, hope and fate, friends, angels and the Supreme Being shall not be absent from the chamber where thou sittest. Epaminondas, brave and affectionate, does not seem to us to need Olympus to die upon, nor the Syrian 305 sunshine. He lies very well where he is. The Jerseys were handsome ground enough for Washington to tread, and London streets for the feet of Milton. A great man makes his climate genial in the imagination of men, and its air the beloved element of all delicate spirits. That country is the 3 10 fairest which is inhabited by the noblest minds. The pictures which fill the imagination in reading the actions of Pericles, Xenophon, Columbus, Bayard, Sidney, Hampden, teach us how needlessly mean our life is; that we, by the depth of our living, should deck it with more than regal or 315 national splendor, and act on principles that should interest man and nattire in the length of our days. [13] We have seen or heard of many extraordinary young men who never ripened, or whose performance in actual life was not extraordinary. When we see their air and mien, 320 when we hear them speak of society, of books, of religion, we admire their superiority; they seem to throw contempt on our entire polity and social state; theirs is the tone of a youthful giapt who is sent to work revolutions. But they enter an active profession and the forming Colossus shrinks to the 325 common size of rnan. The magic they used was the ideal tendencies, which always rriake the Actual ridiculous; but the tough world had its revenge the moment they put their horses of the sun to plough in its furrow. They found no example and no companion, and their heart fainted. What 330 then? The lesson they gave in their first aspirations is yet true; and a better valor and a purer truth shall one day organize their belief. Or why should a woman liken herself to any historical woman, and think, because Sappho, or S^vign^, or De Stael, or the cloistered souls who have had Heroism iiS genius and cultivation do not satisfy the imagination and 335 the serene Themis, none can, — certainly not she? Why not? She has a new and unattempted problem to solve, perchance that of the happiest nature that ever bloomed. Let the maiden, with erect soul, walk serenely on her way, accept the hint of each new experience, search in turn all 340 the objects that solicit her eye, that she may learn the power and the charm of her new-bom being, which is the kindling of a new dawn in the recesses of space. The fair girl who repels interference by a decided and proud choice of in- fluences, so careless of pleasing, so wilful and lofty, inspires 345 every beholder with somewhat of her own nobleness. The silent heart encotirages her; friend, never strike sail to a fear! Come into port greatly, or sail with God the seas. Not in vain you live, for every passing eye is cheered and refined by the vision. 350 [14] The characteristic of heroism is its persistency. All men have wandering impulses, fits and starts of gener- osity. But when you have chosen your part, abide by it, and do not weakly try to reconcile- yourself with the world. The heroic cannot be the common, nor the common the 355 heroic. Yet we have the weakness to expect the sympathy of people in those actions whose excellence is that they outrun sjrmpathy and appeal to a tardy justice. If you would serve your brother, because it is fit for you to serve him, do not take back your words when you find that 360 prudent people do not commend you. Adhere to your own act, and congratulate yourself if you have done something strange and extravagant and broken the monotony of a decorous age. It was a high counsel ■ that I once heard given to a young person, — "Always do what you are 366 afraid to do." A simple manly character need never make an apology, but should regard its past action with the calmness of Phocion, when he admitted that the event of the battle was happy, yet did not regret his dissuasion from the battle. 370 ii6 American Literary Readings [15] There is no weakness or exposure for which we cannot find consolation in the thought — this is a part of my constitution, part of my relation and office to my fellow- creature. Has nature covenanted with me that I should 375 never appear to disadvantage, never make a ridiculous figtire? Let us be generous of our dignity as well as of otu: money. Greatness once and for ever has done with opinion. We tell our charities, not because we wish to be praised for them, not because we think they have great merit, but for our 380 justification. It is a capital blunder; as you discover when another man recites his charities. [16] To speak the truth, even with some austerity, to live with some rigor of temperance, or some extremes of generosity, seems to be an asceticism which common good- 385 nature would appoint to those who are at ease and in plenty, in sign that they feel a brotherhood with the great multitude of suffering men. And not only need we breathe and exercise the soul by asstiming the penalties of abstinence, of debt, of solitude, of unpopularity, — but it behooves the 390 wise man to look with a bold eye into those rarer dangers which sometimes invade men, and to familiarize himself with disgusting forms of disease, with sounds of execration, and the vision of violent death. [17] Times of heroism are generally times of terror, 305 but the day never shines in which this element may not work. The circumstances of man, we say, are historically somewhat better in this country and at this hotu- than perhaps ever before. More freedom exists for culture. It will not now run against an axe at the first step out of 400 the beaten track of opinion. But whoso is heroic will always find crises to try his edge. Human virtue demands her champions and martyrs, and the trial of persecution always proceeds. It is but the other day that the brave Lovejoy gave his breast to the bullets of a mob, for the 406 rights of free speech and opinion, and died when it was better not to live. Heroism 117 [18] I see not any road of perfect peace which a man can walk, but after the counsel of his own bosom. Let him quit too much association, let him go home much, and stablish himself in those courses he approves. The unre- 410 mitting retention of simple and high sentiments in obscure duties is hardening the character to that temper which will work with honor, if need be in the tumult, or on the scaffold. Whatever outrages have happened to men may befall a man again; and very easily in a republic, if there appear any signs 415 of a decay of religion. Coarse slander, fire, tar and feathers and the gibbet, the youth may freely bring home to his mind and with what sweetness of temper he can, and inquire how fast he can fix his sense of duty, braving such penalties, whenever it may please the next newspaper and a sufficient 420 number of his neighbors to pronounce his opinions incendiary. [19] It may calm the apprehension of calamity in the most susceptible heart to see how quick a bound Nature has set to the utmost infliction of malice. We rapidly approach a brink over which no enemy can follow us: — 425 "Let them rave: Thou art quiet in thy grave." In the gloom of our ignorance of what shall be, in the hour when we are deaf to the higher voices, who does not envy those who have seen safely to an end their manful endeavor? 430 Who that sees the meanness of ovir politics but inly con- gratulates Washington that he is long already wrapped in his shroud, and for ever safe; that he was laid sweet in his grave, the hope of humanity not yet subjugated in him? Who does not sometimes envy the good and brave who are 435 no more to' suffer from the tumults of the nattiral world, and await with curious complacency the speedy term of his own conversation with finite nature? And yet the love that will be annihilated sooner than treacherous has already made death impossible, and aSirms itself no mortal but a native 440 of the deeps of absolute and inextinguishable being. ii8 American Literary Readings COMPENSATION The wings of Time are black and white, Pied with morning and with night. Mduntain tall and ocean deep Trembling balance duly keep. In changing moon, in tidal wave, Glows the feud of Want and Have. Gauge of more and less through space Electric star and pencil plays. The lonely Earth amid the balls That hurry through the eternal halls, A makeweight flying to the void, Supplemental asteroid, Or compensatory spark. Shoots across the neutral Dark. 15 Man's the elm, and Wealth the vine. Stanch and strong the tendrils twine: Though the frail ringlets thee deceive. None from its stock that vine can reave. Pear not, then, thou child infirm, 20 There 's no god dare wrong a worm. Laurel crowns cleave to deserts And power to him who power exerts; Hast not thy share? On winged feet, Lo! it rushes thee to meet; 26 And all that Nature made thy own. Floating in air or pent in stone. Will rive the hUls and swim the sea And, like thy shadow, follow thee. [i] Ever since I was a. boy I have wished to write a so discourse on Compensation; for it seemed to me when very young that on this subject life was ahead of theology and the people knew more than the preachers taught. The documents too from which the doctrine is to be drawn, charmed my fancy by their endless variety, and lay always 35 before me, even in sleep; for they are the tools in our hands, the bread in our basket, the transactions of the street, the farm and the dwelling-house; greetings, relations, debts and credits, the influence of character, the natiure and endowment of all men. It seemed to me also that in it 40 might be shown men a ray of divinity, the present action of the soul of this world, clean from all vestige of tradition; and so the heart of man might be bathed by an inundation Compensation iig of eternal love, conversing with that which he knows was always and always must be, because it really is now. It appeared moreover that if this doctrine could be stated in 45 terms with any resemblance to those bright intuitions in which this truth is sometimes revealed to us, it would be a star in many dark hours and crooked passages in our journey, that would not suffer us to lose our way. [2] I was lately confirmed in these desires by hearing 50 a sermon at church. The preacher, a man esteemed for his orthodoxy, unfolded in the ordinary manner the doctrine, of the Last Judgment. He assumed that judgment is not executed in this world; that the wicked are successful; that "the good are miserable; and then urged from reason and 55 from Scripture a compensation to be made to both parties in the next life. No offence appeared to be taken by the congregation at this doctrine. As far as I could observe when the meeting broke up they separated without remark on the sermon. eo [3] Yet what was the import of this teaching? What did the preacher mean by saying that the good are miserable in the present life? Was it that houses and lands, offices, wine, horses, dress, luxury, are had by unprincipled men, whilst the saints are poor and despised; and that a compen- u sation is to be made to these last hereafter, by giving them the like gratifications another day, — bank-stock and doubloons, venison and champagne? This must be the compensation intended; for what else? Is it that they are to have leave to pray and praise? to love and serve men? 70 Why, that they can do now. The legitimate inference the disciple would draw was, — 'We are to have such a good time as the sinners have now'; — or, to push it to its extreme import, — 'You sin now, we shall sin by and by; we would sin now, if we could; not being successful we expect our revenge 75 to-morrow.' [4] The fallacy lay in the immense concession that the bad are successful; that justice is not done now. The I20 American Literary Readings blindness of the preacher consisted in deferring to the base 80 estimate of the market of what constitutes a manly success, instead of confronting and convicting the world from the truth; announcing the presence of the soul; the omnipotence of the will; and so establishing the standard of good and ill, of success and falsehood. 85 [s] I find a similar base tone in the popular religious works of the day and the same doctrines assiuned by the literary men when occasionally they treat the related topics. I think that our popular theology has gained in decorum, and not in principle, over the superstitions it has displaced. 90 But men are better than their theology. Their daily life gives it the lie. Every ingenuous and aspiring soul leaves the doctrine behind him in his own experience, and all men feel sometimes the falsehood which they cannot demonstrate. For men are wiser than they know. That which they hear 96 in schools and pulpits without afterthought, if said in con- versation would probably be questioned in silence. If a man dogmatize in a mixed company on Providence and the divine laws, he is answered by a silence which conveys well enough to an observer the dissatisfaction of the hearer, but 100 his incapacity to make his own statement. [6] I shall attempt in this and the following chapter to record some facts that indicate the path of the law of Compensation; happy beyond my expectation if I shall truly draw the smallest arc of this circle. 105 [7] Polarity, or action and reaction, we meet in every part of nature; in darkness and light; in heat and cold; in the ebb and flow of waters; in male and female; in the inspiration and expiration of plants and animals; in the equation of quantity and quaUty in the fluids of the animal no body; in the systole and diastole of the heart; in the undu- lations of fluids and of sound; in the centrifugal and cen- tripetal gravity; in electricity, galvanism, and chemical affinity. Superinduce magnetism, at one end of a needle, Compensation 121 the opposite magnetism takes place at the other end. If the south attracts, the north repels. To empty here, you must 115 condense there. An inevitable dualism bisects nature, so that each thing is a half, and suggests another thing to make it whole; as, spirit, matter; man, woman; odd, even; sub- jective, objective; in, out; upper, under; motion, rest; yea, nay. 120 [8] Whilst the world is thus dual, so is every one of its parts. The entire system of things gets represented in every particle. There is somewhat that resembles the ebb and flow of the sea, day and night, man and woman, in a single needle of the pine, in a kernel of com, in each 125 individual of every animal tribe. The reaction, so grand in the elements, is repeated within these small bovmdaries. For example, in the animal kingdom the physiologist has observed that no creatures are favorites, but a certain compensation balances every gift and every defect. A uo surplusage given to one part is paid out of a reduction from another part of the same creature. If the head and neck are enlarged, the trunk and extremities are cut short. [9] The theory of the mechanic forces is another example. What we gain in power is lost in time, and the 135 converse. The periodic or compensating errors of the planets is another instance. The influences of climate and soil in political history is another. The cold climate invig- orates. The barren soil does not breed fevers, crocodiles, tigers or scorpions. uo [10] The same dualism imderlies the nature and condi- tion of man. Every excess causes a defect; every defect an excess. Every sweet hath its sour; every evil its good. Every faculty which is a receiver of pleasure has an equal penalty put on its abuse. It is to answer for its moderation 145 with its life. For every grain of wit there is a grain of folly. For every thing you have missed, you have gained some- thing else; and for every thing you gain, you lose something. If riches increase, they are increased that use them. If the 122 American Literary Readings 150 gatherer gathers too much, Nattire takes out of the man what she puts into his chest; swells the estate, but kills the owner. Nature hates monopolies and exceptions. The waves of the sea do not more speedily seek a level from their loftiest tossing than the varieties of condition tend to equalize them- 155 selves. There is always some levelling circumstance that puts down the overbearing, the strong, the rich, the fortu- nate, substantially on the same ground with all others. Is a man too strong and fierce for society and by temper and position a bad citizen, — a morose ruffian, with a dash of the 160 pirate in him? — Natvire sends him a troop of pretty sons and daughters who are getting along in the dame's classes at the village school, and love and fear for them smooths his grim scowl to courtesy. Thus she contrives to intenerate the granite and felspar, takes the boar out and puts the lamb 165 in and keeps her balance true. [ii] The farmer imagines power and place are fine things. But the President has paid dear for his White House. It has commonly cost him all his peace, and the best of his manly attributes. To preserve for a short time so 170 conspicuous an appearance before the world, he is content to eat dust before the real masters who stand erect behind the throne. Or do men desire the more substantial and permanent grandeur of genius? Neither has this an immun- ity. He who by force of will or of thought is great and 175 overlooks thousands, has the charges of that eminence. With every influx of light comes new danger. Has he light? he must bear witness to the light, and always outrun that sympathy which gives him such keen satisfaction, by his fidelity to new revelations of the incessant soul. He must 180 hate father and mother, wife and child. Has he all that the world loves and admires and covets? — he must cast behind him their admiration, and afflict them by faithfulness to his truth, and become a byword and a hissing. [12] This law writes the laws of cities and nations. It 186 is in vain to build or plot or combine against it. Things Compensation 123 refuse to be mismanaged long. Res nolunt diu male admin- istrari. Though no checks to a new evil appear, the checks exist, and will appear. If the government is cruel, the governor's life is not safe. If you tax too high, the revenue will yield nothing. If you make the criminal code san- 190 gtiinary, juries will not convict. If the law is too mild, private vengeance comes in. If the government is a terrific democracy, the pressure is resisted by an over-charge of energy in the citizen, and life glows with a fiercer flame. The true life and satisfactions of man seem to elude the utmost 195 rigors or felicities of condition and to establish themselves with great indifferency under all varieties of circumstances. Under all governments the influence of character remains the same, — in Turkey and in New England about alike. Under the primeval despots of Egjrpt, history honestly 200 confesses that man must have been as free as culttire could make him. [13] These appearances indicate the fact that the universe is represented in every one of its particles. Every thing in nature contains all the powers of nature. Every 205 thing is made of one hidden stuff; as the naturalist sees one type under every metamorphosis, and regards a horse as a running man, a fish as a swimming man, a bird as a flying man, a tree as a rooted man. Each new form repeats not only the main character of the type, but part for part all the 210 details, all the aims, furtherances, hindrances, energies and whole system of every other. Every occupation, trade, art, transaction, is a compend of the world and a correlative of every other. Each one is an entire emblem of human life; of its good and ill, its trials, its enemies, its course and 215 its end. And each one must somehow accommodate the whole man and recite all his destiny. [14] The world globes itself in a drop of dew. The microscope cannot find the animalcule which is less perfect for being little. Eyes, ears, taste, smell, motion, resistance, 220 appetite, and organs of reproduction that take hold on 124 American Literary Readings eternity, — all find room to consist in the small creature. So do we put our life into every act. The true doctrine of omnipresence is that God reappears with all his parts in every 225 moss and cobweb. The value of the universe contrives to throw itself into every point. If the good is there, so is the evil; if the affinity, so the repulsion; if the force, so the limitation. [15] Thus is the universe alive. All things are moral. 230 That soul which within us is a sentiment, outside of us is a law. We feel its inspiration; out there in history we can see its fatal strength. "It is in the world, and the world was made by it." Justice is not postponed. A per- fect equity adjusts its balance in all parts of life. Oi 235 Kvfi 01 Jioi aei EvitiTCTov6i, — The dice of God are always loaded. The world looks like a multiplication-table, or a mathematical equation, which, turn it how you will, balances itself. Take what figure you will, its exact value, nor more nor less, still returns to you. Every secret is 240 told, every crime is punished, every virtue rewarded, every wrong redressed, in silence and certainty. What we call retribution is the universal necessity by which the whole appears wherever a part appears. If you see smoke, there must be fire. If you see a hand or a limb, you 246 know that the trunk to which it belongs is there behind. [16] Every act rewards itself, or in other words inte- grates itself, in a twofold manner; first in the thing, or in real nature; and secondly in the circumstance, or in apparent nature. Men call the circumstance the retribution. The 250 causal retribution is in the thing and is seen by the soul. The retribution in the circumstance is seen by the under- standing; it is inseparable from the thing, but is often spread over a long time and so does not become distinct until after many years. The specific stripes may follow late after the 255 offence, but they follow because they accompany it. Crime and punishment grow out of one stem. Punishment is a fruit that unsuspected ripens within the flower of the pleasure Compensation 125 which concealed it. Cause and effect, means and ends, seed and fruit, cannot be severed; for the effect already blooms in the cause, the end preexists in the means, the 260 fruit in the seed. [17] Whilst thus the world will be whole and refuses to be disparted, we seek to act partially, to sunder, to appropriate; for example, — to gratify the senses we sever the pleasure of the senses from the needs of the character. 255 The ingenuity of man has always been dedicated to the solution of one problem, — how to detach the sensual sweet, the sensual strong, the sensual bright, etc., from the moral sweet, the moral deep, the moral fair; that is, again, to contrive to cut clean off this upper surface so thin as to leave 270 it bottomless; to get a one end, without an other end. The soul says, 'Eat'; the body would feast. The soul says, ' The man and woman shall be one flesh and one soul' ; the body would join the flesh only. The soul says, 'Have dominion over aU things to the ends of virtue' ; the body 275 wotdd have the power over things to its own ends. [18] The soul strives amain to live and work through all things. It would be the only fact. All things shall be added tmto it, — power, pleasture, knowledge, beauty. The particular man aims to be somebody; to set up for himself; 280 to truck and higgle for a private good; and, in particulars, to ride that he may ride; to dress that he may be dressed; to eat that he may eat; and to govern, that he may be seen. Men seek to be great; they would have offices, wealth, power, and fame. They think that to be great is to possess one side 255 of nature, — the sweet, without the other side, the bitter. [19] This dividing and detaching is steadily counter- acted. Up to this day it must be owned no projector has had the smallest success. The parted water reunites behind our hand. Pleasure is taken out of pleasant things, 290 profit out of profitable things, power out of strong things, as soon as we seek to separate them from the whole. We can no more halve things and get the sensual good, by itself, 126 American Literary Readings than we can get an inside that shall have no outside, or a 295 light without a shadow. "Drive out Nature with a fork, she comes running back." [20] Life invests itself with inevitable conditions, which the unwise seek to dodge, which one and another brags that he does not know, that they do not touch him; — but the 300 brag is on his lips, the conditions are in his soul. If he escapes them in one part they attack him in another more vital part. If he has escaped them in form and in the appearance, it is because he has resisted his life and fled from himself, and the retribution is so much death. So signal 305 is the failure of all attempts to make this separation of the good from the tax, that the experiment would not be tried, — since to try it is to be mad, — but for the circum- stance that when the disease began in the will, of rebellion and separation, the intellect is at once infected, so that the 310 man ceases to see God whole in each object, but is able to see the sensual allurement of an object and not see the sensual hurt; he sees the mermaid's head but not the dragon's tail, and thinks he can cut off that which he would have from that which he would not have. "How secret art thou who 315 dwellest in the highest heavens in silence, O thou only great God, sprinkling with an unwearied providence certain penal blindnesses upon such as have unbridled desires!" [2 1] The human soul is true to these facts in the paint- ing of fable, of history, of law, of proverbs, of conversation. 320 It finds a tongue in literature unawares. Thus the Greeks called Jupiter, Supreme Mind; but having traditionally ascribed to him many base actions, they involuntarily made amends to reason by tying up the hands of so bad a god. He is made as helpless as a king of England. Prometheus 325 knows one secret which Jove must bargain for; Minerva, another. He cannot get his own thunders; Minerva keeps the key of them: — "Of all the gods, I only know the keys That ope the solid doors within whose vaults 330 His thunders sleep." Compensation 127 A plain confession of the in-working of the All and of its moral aim. The Indian mythology ends in the same ethics; and it would seem impossible for any fable to be invented and get any currency which was not moral. Aurora forgot to ask youth for her lover, and though Tithonus is immortal, 335 he is old. Achilles is not quite invulnerable; the sacred waters did not wash the heel by which Thetis held him. Siegfried, in the Nibelungen, is not quite immortal, for a leaf fell on his back whilst he was bathing in the dragon's blood, and that spot which it covered is mortal. And so it 340 must be. There is a crack in every thing God has made. It would seem there is always this vindictive circumstance stealing in at unawares even into the wild poesy in which the human fancy attempted to make bold holiday and to shake itself free of the old laws, — this back-stroke, this kick 345 of the gun, certifying that the law is fatal; that in nature nothing can be given, all things are sold. [22] This is that ancient doctrine of Nemesis, who keeps watch in the universe and lets no offence go unchastised. The Furies they said are attendants on justice, and if the 350 sun in heaven should transgress his path they would punish him. The poets related. that stone walls and iron swords and leathern thongs had an occult sjrmpathy with the wrongs of their' owners ; that the belt which Ajax gave Hector dragged' the Trojan hero over the field at the wheels of the car of 355 Achilles, and the sword which Hector gave Ajax was that on whose point Ajax fell. They recorded that when the Thasians erected a statue to Theagenes, a victor in the games, one of his rivals went to it by night and endeavored to throw it down by repeated blows, vmtil at last he moved it from 36o its pedestal and was crushed to death beneath its fall. [23] This voice of fable has in it somewhat divine. It came from thought above the will of the writer. That is the best part of each writer which has nothing private in it; that which he does not know; that which flowed out of his ses constitution and not from his too active invention; that which 128 American Literary Readings in the study of a single artist you might not easily find, but in the study of many you would abstract as the spirit of them all. Phidias it is not, but the work of man in that early 370 Hellenic world that I would know. The name and circum- stance of Phidias, however convenient for history, embarrass when we come to the highest criticism. We are to see that which man was tending to do in a given period, and was hindered, or, if you will, modified in doing, by the interfering 375 volitions of Phidias, of Dante, of Shakespeare, the organ whereby man at the moment wrought. [24] Still more striking is the expression of this fact in the proverbs of all nations, which are always the literature of reason, or the statements of an absolute truth without 380 qualification. Proverbs, like the sacred books of each nation, are the sanctuary of the intuitions. That which the droning world, chained to appearances, will not allow the realist to say in his own words, it will suffer him to say in prov- erbs without contradiction. And this law of laws, which the 385 pulpit, the seriate and the college deny, is hourly preached in all markets and workshops by flights of proverbs, whose teach- ing is as true 4nd as omnipresent as that of birds and flies. [25] All things are double, one against another. — Tit for tat; an eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth; blood for 390 blood; measure for measure; love for love. — Give, and- it shall be given you. — He that watereth shall be watered himself. — What will you have? quoth God; pay for it and take it. — Nothing venture, nothing have. — Thou sfcalt be paid exactly for what thou hast done, no more, no less. — Who doth not 895 work shall not eat. — Harm watch, harm catch. — Curses always recoil on the head of him who imprecates them. — If you put a chain around the neck of a slave, the other end fastens itself around your own. — Bad counsel confounds the adviser. — The Devil is an ass. 400 [26] It is thus written, because it is thus in life. Our action is overmastered and characterized above our will by the law of nature. We aim at a petty end quite aside from Compensation 129 the public good, but our act arranges itself by irresistible magnetism in a line with the poles of the world- fa;] A man cannot speak but he judges himself. With 405 his will or against his will he draws his portrait to the eye of his companions by every word. Every opinion reacts on him who utters it. It is a thread-ball thrown at a mark, but the other end remains in the thrower's bag. Or rather it is a harpoon hurled at the whale, unwinding, as it flies, 410 a coil of cord in the boat, and, if the harpoon is not good, or not well thrown, it will go nigh to cut the steersman in twain or to sink the boat. [28] You cannot do wrong without suffering wrong. "No man had ever a point of pride that was not injurious 415 to him, " said Burke. The exclusive in fashionable life does not see that he excludes himself from enjoyment, in the attempt to appropriate it. The exclusionist in religion does not see that he shuts the door of heaven on himself, in striving to shut out others. Treat men as pawns and ninepins and 420 you shall suffer as well as they. If you leave out their heart, you shall lose your own. The senses would make things of all persons; of women, of children, of the poor. The vulgar proverb, "I will get it from his purse or get it from his skin," is sound philosophy. 425 [29] All infractions of love and equity in our social relations are speedily punished. They are punished by fear. Whilst I stand in simple relations to my fellow- man, I have no displeasure in meeting him. We meet as water meets water, or as two currents of air mix, with 430 perfect diffusion and interpenetration of nature. But as soon as there is any departure from simplicity and attempt at halfness, or good for me that is not good for him, my neighbor feels the wrong; he shrinks from me as far as I have shrunk from him; his eyes no longer seek mine; there is war 435 between us; there is hate in him and fear in me. [30] All the old abuses in society, universal and partic- ular, all unjust acctunulations of property and power, are 130 American Literary Readings avenged in the same manner. Fear is an instructor of great 440 sagacity and the herald of all revolutions. One thing he teaches, that there is rottenness where he appears. He is a carrion crow, and though you see not well what he hovers for, there is death somewhere. Our property is timid, our laws are timid, our cultivated classes are timid. Fear for 445 ages has boded and mowed and gibbered over government and property. That obscene bird is not there for nothing. He indicates great wrongs which must be revised. [31] Of the like natiire is that expectation of change which instantly follows the suspension of our voluntary 4S0 activity. The terror of cloudless noon, the emerald of Polycrates, the awe of prosperity, the instinct which leads every generous soul to impose on itself tasks of a noble asceticism and vicarious virtue, are the tremblings of the balance of justice through the heart and mind of man. 465 [32] Experienced men of the world know very well that it is best to pay scot and lot as they go along, and that a man often pays dear for a small frugality. ' The borrower runs in his own debt. Has a man gained any thing who has received a hundred favors and rendered none? Has he gained by 460 borrowing, through indolence or cunning, his neighbor's wares, or horses, or money? There arises on the deed the instant acknowledgment of benefit on the one part and of debt on the other ; that is, of superiority and inferiority. The transaction remains in the memory of himself and his 466 neighbor; and every new transaction alters according to its nature their relation to each other. He may soon come to see that he had better have broken his own bones than to have ridden in his neighbor's coach, and that "the highest price he can pay for a thing is to ask for it." 470 [33] A wise man will extend this lesson to all parts of life, and know that it is the part of prudence to face every claimant and pay every just demand on your time, your talents, or your heart. Always pay; for first or last you must pay your entire debt. Persons and events may stand Compensation 131 for a time between you and justice, but it is only a postpone- 475 ment. You must pay at last your own debt. If you are wise you will dread a prosperity which only loads you with more. Benefit is the end of nature. But for every benefit which you receive, a tax is levied. He is great who confers the most benefits. He is base, — and that is the one base 48o thing in the universe, — to receive favors and render none. In the order of nature we cannot render benefits to those from whom we receive them, or only seldom. But the benefit we receive must be rendered again, line for line, deed for deed, cent for cent, to somebody. Beware of too much 435 good staying in yotir hand. It will fast corrupt and worm worms. Pay it away quickly in some sort. [34] Labor is watched over by the same pitiless laws. Cheapest, say the prudent, is the dearest labor. What we buy in a broom, a mat, a wagon, a knife, is some application 490 of good sense to a common want. It is best to pay in your land a skilful gardener, or to buy good sense applied to gar- dening; in your sailor, good sense applied to navigation; in the house, good sense applied to cooking, sewing, serving; in your agent, good sense applied to accotints and affairs. So 495 do you multiply your presence, or spread yourself through- out your estate. But because of the dual constitution of things, in labor as in life there can be no cheating. The thief steals from himself. The swindler swindles himself. For the real price of labor is knowledge and virtue, whereof soo wealth and credit are signs. These signs, like paper money, may be counterfeited or stolen, but that which they repre- . sent, namely, knowledge and virtue, cannot be counterfeited or stolen. These ends of labor cannot be answered but by real exertions of the mind, and in obedience to pure motives. 505 The cheat, the defaulter, the gambler, cannot extort the knowledge of material and moral nature which his honest care and pains yield to the operative. The law of nature is. Do the thing, and you shall have the power; but they who do not the thing have not the power. 510 132 American Literary Readings [35] Human labor, through all. its forms, from the sharpening of a stake to the construction of a city or an epic, is one immense illustration of the perfect compensation of the universe. The absolute balance of Give and Take, the 515 doctrine that every thing has its price, — and if that price is not paid, not that thing but something else is obtained, and that it is impossible to get anything without its price, — is not less sublime in the coltunns of a leger than in the budgets of states, in the laws of light and darkness, in all the 520 action and reaction of nature. I cannot doubt that the high laws which each man sees implicated in those processes with which he is conversant, the stem ethics which sparkle on his chisel-edge, which are measured out by his plumb and foot- rule, which stand as manifest in the footing of the shop-bill as 625 in the history of a state — do recommend to him his trade, and though seldom named, exalt his business to his imagination. [36] The league between virtue and nature engages all things to assume a hostile front to vice. The beautiful laws and substances of the world persecute and whip the traitor. 630 He finds that things are arranged for truth and benefit, but there is no den in the wide world to hide a rogue. Commit a crime, and the earth is made of glass. Commit a crime, and it seems as if a coat of snow fell on the ground, such as reveals in the woods the track of every partridge and fox 535 and squirrel and mole. You cannot recall the spoken word, you cannot wipe out the foot-track, you cannot draw up the ladder, so as to leave no inlet or clew. Some damning circumstance always transpires. The laws and substances of nature,— water, snow, wind, gravitation, — become penal- 640 ties to the thief. [37] On the other hand the law holds with equal sure- ness for all right action. Love, and you shall be loved. All love is mathematically just, as much as the two sides of an algebraic equation. The good man has absolute good, which 645 like fire turns every thing to its own nature, so that you can- not do him any harm; but as the royal armies sent against Compensation 133 Napoleon, when he approached cast down their colors and from enemies became friends, so disasters of all kinds, as sickness, offence, poverty, prove benefactors: — "Winds blow and waters roll 80O Strength to the brave and power and deity, Yet in themselves are nothing." [38] The good are befriended even by weakness and defect. As no man had ever a point of pride that was not injurious to him, so no man had ever a defect that was not 555 somewhere made useful to him. The stag in the fable admired his horns and blamed his feet, but when the hunter came, his feet saved him, and afterwards, caught in the thicket, his horns destroyed him. Every man in his lifetime needs to thank his fatdts. As no man thoroughly tinder- seo stands a truth until he has contended against it, so no man has a thorough acquaintance with the hindrances or talents of men imtil he has suffered from the one and seen the tri- umph of the other over his own want of the same. Has he a defect of temper that unfits him to live in society? ses Thereby he is driven to entertain himself alone and acquire habits of self-help; and thus, like the wounded oyster, he mends his shell with pearl. [39] Our strength grows out of our weakness. The indignation which arms itself with secret forces does not 570 awaken until we are pricked and stung and sorely assailed. A great man is always willing to be little. Whilst he sits on the cushion of advantages, he goes to sleep. When he is pushed, tormented, defeated, he has a chance to learn something; he has been put on his wits, on his manhood; 575 he has gained facts; learns his ignora,nce; is cured of the insanity of conceit; has got moderation and real skill. The wise man throws himself on the side of his assailants. It is more his interest than it is theirs to find his weak point. The wound cicatrizes and falls off from him like a dead skin 5 so and when they would triumph, lo! he has passed on invul- nerable. Blame is safer than praise. I hate to be defended 134 American Literary Readings in a newspaper. As long as all that is said is said against me, I feel a certain assurance of success. But as soon as 585 honeyed words of praise are spoken for me I feel as one that lies unprotected before his enemies. In general, every evil to which we do not succumb is a benefactor. As the Sandwich Islander believes that the strength and valor of the enemy he kills passes into himself, so we gain the strength 590 of the temptation we resist. [40] The same guards which protect us from disaster, defect and enmity, defend us, if we will, from selfishness and fraud. Bolts and bars are not the best of our institu- tions, nor is shrewdness in trade a mark of wisdom. Men 695 suffer all their life long under the foolish superstition that they can be cheated. But it is as impossible for a man to be cheated by any one but himself, as for a thing to be and not to be at the same time. There is a third silent party to all our bargains. The nature and soul of things takes 600 on itself the guaranty of the fulfillment of every contract, so that honest service cannot come to loss. If you serve an un- grateful master, serve him the more. Put God in your debt. Every stroke shall be repaid. The longer the payment is withholden, the better for you; for compound interest on 605 compound interest is the rate and usage of this exchequer. [41] The history of persecution is a history of endeavors to cheat nature, to make water run up hill, to twist a rope of sand. It makes no difference whether the actors be many or one, a tyrant or a mob. A mob is a society of bodies 610 voluntarily bereaving themselves of reason and traversing its work. The mob is man voluntarily descending to the nature of the beast. Its fit hour of activity is night. Its actions are insane, like its whole constitution. It persecutes a principle; it would whip a right; it would tar and feather 616 justice, by inflicting fire and outrage upon the houses and persons of those who have these. It resembles the prank of boys, who run with fire-engines to put out the ruddy aurora streaming to the stars. The inviolate spirit turns Compensation 135 their spite against the wrongdoers. The martyr cannot be dishonored. Every lash inflicted is a tongue of fame; every 620 prison a more illustrious abode; every burned book or house enlightens the world; every suppressed or expunged word reverberates through the earth from side to side. Hours of sanity and consideration are always arriving to com- munities, as to individuals, when the truth is seen and the 625 martjTTS are justified. [42] Thus do all things preach the indifferency of circumstances. The man is all. Every thing has two sides, a good and an evil. Every advantage has its tax. I learn to be content. But the doctrine of compensation is not the doc- eao trine of indifferency. The thoughtless say, on hearing these representations, — ^What boots it to do well ? there is one event to good and evil; if I gain any good I must pay for it; if I lose any good I gain some other; all actions are indifferent. [43] There is a deeper fact in the soul than compensa- ess tion, to wit, its own nature. The soul is not a compensation, but a life. The soul is. Under all this running sea of ~ circumstance, whose waters ebb and flow with perfect balance, lies the aboriginal abyss of real Being. Essence, or God, is not a relation or a part, but the whole. Being 64o is the vast affirmative, excluding negation, self-balanced, and swallowing up all relations, parts, and times within itself. Nature, truth, virtue, are the influx from thence. Vice is the absence or departure of the same. Nothing, Falsehood, may indeed stand as the great Night or shade on 645 which as a backgroimd the living universe paints itself forth, but no fact is begotten by it; it cannot work, for it is not. It cannot work any good; it cannot work any harm. It is harm inasmuch as it is worse not to be than to be. [44] We feel defrauded of the retribution due to evil eso acts, because the criminal adheres to his vice and contumacy and does not come to a crisis or judgment anywhere in visible nature. There is no stunning confutation of his non- sense before men and angels. Has he therefore outwitted 136 American Literary Readings 655 the law? Inasmuch as he carries the malignity and the lie with him he so far deceases from nature. In some manner there will be a demonstration of the wrong to the under- standing also; but, should we not see it, this deadly deduction makes square the eternal account. 660 [45] Neither can it be said, on the other hand, that the gain of rectitude must be bought by any loss. There is no penalty to virtue; no penalty to wisdom; they are proper additions of being. In a virtuous action I properly am; in a virtuous act I add to the world; I plant into deserts conquered 665 from Chaos and Nothing and see the darkness receding on the limits of the horizon. There can be no excess to love, none to knowledge, none to beauty, when these attributes are considered in the purest sense. The soul refuses limits, and always affirms, an Optimism, never a Pessimism. 070 [46] His life is a progress, and not a station. His instinct is- trust. Our instinct uses "more" and "less" in application to man, of the presence of the soul, and not of its absence; the brave man is greater than the coward; the true, the benevolent, the wise, is more a man and not less, 676 than the fool and knave. There is no tax on the good of virtue, for that is the incoming of God himself, or absolute existence, without any comparative. Material good has its tax, and if it came without desert or sweat, has no root in me, and the next wind will blow it away. But all the good 680 of nature is the soul's, and may be had if paid for in nature's lawful coin, that is, by labor which the heart and the head allow. I no longer wish to meet a good I do not earn, for example to find a pot of buried gold, knowing that it brings with it new burdens. I do not wish more external goods, — 686 neither possessions, nor honors, nor powers, nor persons. The gain is apparent; the tax is certain. But there is no tax on the knowledge that the compensation exists and that it is not desirable to dig up treasure. Herein I rejoice with a serene eternal, peace. I contract the boundaries of 690 possible mischief. I learn the wisdom of St. Bernard, — Compensation 137 "Nothing, can work me damage except n^self; the harm that I sustain I carry about with me, and never am a real sufferer but by my own fault." [47] In the nature of the soul is the compensation for the inequalities of condition. The radical tragedy of nature 695 seems to be the distinction of More and Less. How can Less not feel the pain; how not feel indignation or malev- olence towards More? Look at those who have less faculty, and one feels sad and knows not well what to make of it. He almost shuns their eye; he fears they will upbraid 700 God. What should they do? It seems a great injustice. But see the facts nearly and these mountainous inequalities vanish. Love reduces them as the sun melts the iceberg in the sea. The heart and soul of all men being one, this bitterness of His and Mine ceases. His is mine. I am my 705 brother and my brother is me. If I feel overshadowed and outdone by great neighbors, I can yet love; I can still receive; and he that loveth maketh his own the grandeur he loves. Thereby I make the discovery that my brother is my guardian, acting for me with the friendliest designs, and 710 the estate I so admired and envied is my own. It is the nature of the soul to appropriate all things. Jesus and Shakespeare are fragments of the soul, and by love I conquer and incorporate them in my own conscious domain. His virtue, — is not that mine? His wit, — if it cannot be made 715 mine, it 'is not wit. [48] Such also is the natural history of calamity. The changes which break up at short intervals the prosperity of men are advertisements of a nature whose law is growth. Every sotd is by this iatrinsic necessity quitting its whole 720 system of things, its friends and home and laws and faith, as the shell-fish crawls out of its beautiful but stony case, because it no longer admits of its growth, and slowly forms a new house. In proportion to the vigor of the individual these revolutions are frequent, until in some happier mind 725 they are incessant and all worldly relations hang very 138 American Literary Readings loosely about him, becoming as it were a transparent fluid membrane through which the living form is seen, and not, as in most men, an indurated heterogeneous fabric of many 730 dates and of no settled character, in which the man is imprisoned. Then there can be enlargement, and the man- of to-day scarcely recognizes the man of yesterday. And such should be the outward biography of man in time, a putting off of dead circumstances day by day, as he renews 735 his raiment day by day. But to us, in our lapsed estate, resting, not advancing, resisting, not cooperating with the diviiie expansion, this growth comes by shocks. [49] We cannot part with our friends. We cannot let our angels go. We do not see that they only go out that 740 archangels may come in. We are idolaters of the old. We do not believe in the riches of the soul, in its proper eternity and omnipresence. We do not believe there is any force in to-day to rival or recreate that beautiful yesterday. We linger in the ruins of the old tent where once we had bread 745 and shelter and organs, nor believe that the spirit can feed, cover, and nerve us again. We cannot again find aught so dear, so sweet, so graceful. But we sit and weep in vain. The voice of the Almighty saith, ' Up and onward for ever- more!' We cannot stay amid the ruins. Neither will we 760 rely on the new; and so we walk ever with reverted eyes, like those monsters who look backwards. [50] And yet the compensations of calamity are made apparent to the understanding also, after long intervals of time. A fever, a mutilation, a cruel disappointment, a loss 755 of wealth, a loss of friends, seems at the moment unpaid loss, and unpayable. But the sure years reveal the deep remedial force that underlies all facts. The death of a dear friend, wife, brother, lover, which seemed nothing but privation, somewhat later, asstmies the aspect of a guide or 760 genius; for it commonly operates revolutions in our way of life, terminates an epoch of infancy or of youth which was waiting to be closed, breaks up a wonted occupation, or a Concord Hymn 139 household, or style of living, and allows the formation of new ones more friendly to the growth of character. It permits or constrains the formation of new acquaintances 765 and the reception of new influences that prove of the first importance to the next years; and the man or woman who would have remained a sunny garden-flower, with no room for its roots and too much sunshine for its head, by the falling of the walls and the neglect of the gardener is made the 770 banian of the forest, yielding shade and fruit to wide neighborhoods of men. CONCORD HYMN SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE BATTLE MONUMENT, APRIL 19, 1836 By the rude bridge that arched the flood. Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood. And fired the shot heard round the world. The foe long since in silence slept'; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward" creeps. On this green bank, by this soft stream. We set to-day a votive stone; That memory may their deed redeem. When, like our sires, our sons are gone. Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee. I40 American Literary Readings THE RHODORA: ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER? In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook. The purple petals, fallen in the pool. Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why I This charm is wasted on the earth and sky. Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing. Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew: i But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self -same Power that brought me there brought you. THE HUMBLE-BEE Burly, dozing humble-bee. Where thou art is clime for me. Let them sail for Porto Rique, Far-off heats through seas to seek; I will follow thee alone. Thou animated torrid-zone! Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer. Let me chase thy waving lines;- Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 1 Singing over shrubs and vines. Insect lover of the sun, Joy of thy dominion! The Humble-Bee 141 Sailor of the atmosphere; Swimmer through the waves of air; Voyager of light and noon; Epictirean of June; Wait, I prithee, till I come Within earshot of thy htun, — All without is martyrdom. When the south wind, in May days, With a net of shining haze Silvers the horizon, wall, And with softness touching all, Tints the human countenance With a color of romance. And infusing subtle heats. Turns the sod to violets, Thou, in sunny solitudes, Rover of the underwoods, The green silence dost displace With thy mellow, breezy bass. Hot midsummer's petted crone, Sweet to me thy drowsy tone Tells of countless sunny hours. Long days, and solid banks of flowers; Of gulfs of sweetness without bound In Indian wildernesses found; Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure. Firmest cheer; and bird-like pleasure. Aught unsavory or unclean Hath my insect never seen ; But violets and bilberry bells. Maple-sap and daffodels. Grass with green flag half-mast high. Succory to match the sky. 142 American Literary Readings Columbine with horn of honey, Scented fern, and agrimony. Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue, And brier-roses, dwelt among; All beside was unknown waste; All was picture as he passed. Wiser far than human seer, Yellow-breeched philosopher! Seeing only what is fair, Sipping only what is sweet, Thou dost mock at fate and care. Leave the chafE and take the wheat. When the fierce northwestern blast Cools sea and land so far and fast. Thou already slumberest deep; Woe and want thou canst outsleep; Want and woe, which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous. DAYS Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, Mvifiled and dumb like barefoot dervishes. And marching single in an endless file, Bring diadems and fagots in their hands. To each they offer gifts after his will. Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all. I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp. Forgot my morning wishes, hastily Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day Turned and departed silent. I, too late. Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 1804-1864 Nathaniel Hawthorne, born in the seacoast town of Salem, Massachusetts, July 4, 1804, was descended from two generations of sea captains and from a long line of Puritan magistrates and warriors. Among his progenitors on his father's side were some who persecuted the Quakers and authorized the executions of witches in the celebrated Salem witchcraft delusion. It is said that the curse of one of the sufferers lingered like a black blot in the blood, and it has been suggested that , the dark and gloomy cast of Hawthorne's genius was traceable to this ancestral source. His mother was a Manning, another distinguished Puritan family, and so we may certainly say that Hawthorne came naturally by that Puritan conscience of which he was to become the renowned artistic interpreter. When he was four years old, his father died while away on a sea voyage, and his mother shut herself up from the world in a sort of life-long grief. After several years she irioved to the large Manning land holdings on Sebago Lake, Maine, and here Nathaniel lived from his ninth until his four- teenth year. As he afterwards declared, this was one of the bright periods in his rather gloomy and solitary early life. "I ran quite wild," he Wrote, "and would, I doubt not, have willingly run wild till this time, fishing all day long, or shooting with an old fowling-piece; but reading a good deal, top, on the rainy days, especially in Shakespeare and The Pilgrim's Progress." This last book, along with another early favorite of Hawthorne's, Spenser's Faerie Queene, is significant as the source of his delight in the creation of allegorical settings for his own stories. His mother returned to Salem to seek means of education for her three children. She selected a tutor for Nathaniel, and within two years he was ready to enter Bowdoin College. Franklin Pierce, afterwards president of the United States, was one class ahead of Hawthorne, and Longfellow was in the same class, that of 1825. Hawthorne made a few close friendships, notably with Pierce and Horatio Bridge, the . [143] 144 American Literary Readings last named being his most intimate friend, and the one who beHeved in him and had most influence in turning him toward authorship. After graduation Hawthorne went back to Salem, where his mother still lived.. And in "a solitary chamber under the eaves" of the house on Herbert Street, not far from where he was bom, he developed through the next twelve years his powerful and original literary style. All the members of the family were seclusive in their habits. The two sisters kept to their rooms, the mother had her meals served in her separate apartment, and naturally in such a household, Hawthorne developed to the fullest extent what he called his "cursed habit of solitude." He published anonymously an immature novel called Fanshawe in 1828, but he afterwards wished to withdraw it from circulation. He became extremely fastidious about the finish and style of his work, and it is said that during this period of his literary apprenticeship he wrote and rewrote and then burned many tales and sketches. He published a few pieces in the New England Magazine and in the early issues of The Token, a Boston annual; and under G. C. Goodrich's editorship of The Token he increased his contributions to this annual, so that within a few years he had published enough stories to make up the first edition of the happily christened Twice-told Tales (1837). This volume was subsequently (1842) enlarged from eighteen to thirty-nine tales, and it has since held its place as one of the few permanent short-story collections in our literature. Mosses from an Old Manse (1846) and The Snow Image and Other' Twice-told Tales (1852) are similar collections. Except for the work of Poe and Irving nothing has yet appeared in our literature that can be com- pared with these tales for finish of style, literary art, and profound analysis of the various phases of himian life. Part of them are mere sketches or essays, others are based on historical incidents, but most of them are works of pure fancy and imagination. Even when the skeleton or basal facts are historical, the real flesh and blood, the creative part of the story, is almost entirely imaginative and original. It is almost impossible to select the best of these stories for special mention. Every critic of the volumes seems to light upon different ones as the best, and no two persons are found to agree. We have selected for our purpose three stories that have inet with general approval and certainly Nathaniel Hawthorne 145 three that well represent Hawthorne's art at its best — "The Great Carbuncle," "The Ambitious Guest," and "The Wedding-Knell." It was the publication of Twice-told Tales that led to Haw- thorne's acquaintance, and later engagement and marriage, with Miss Sophia Peabody. Elizabeth Peabody, the elder sister, became interested in the author of these exquisite short stories, and through her friendship with Hawthorne's sisters she invited Hawthorne to call at her home. Here he met the youngest of the three sisters, Sophia, and even though she was something of an invalid at this time, her bright, well-trained mind and her artistic temperament — for she was gifted with brush and pencil — attracted the romancer from his social seclusion. Her beneficent influence caused the petals of his soul to expand like a flower in the spring sunshine. She was similarly attracted by his classic, masculine features and athletic frame as well as by the wonderful charm of his mind. Their love story, since given to the public in Hawthorne's letters, is one of the sweetest and happiest in the annals of literatiure. She gave him encouragement and stimulus and love, and he gave her life and home and happiness. Her health unproved after her marriage, and three children were bom to them, Una, Julian, and Rose. But when Hawthorne met Miss Peabody he was not able to support an invalid wife; so the engagement ran on for four years before the marriage took place in 1842. George Bancroft, in the meantime, used his influence to have Haw- thorne appointed to the position of weigher and ganger at the Boston Custom House. He labored at this; to him, imsavory task for two years, and then took his savings of one thousand dollars and invested them in the impractical social com- munity of Brook Farm, a transcendental experiment in which physical labor and intellectual activities were to be alternately and equally enjoyed. The experiment proved a failure, of course, and Hawthorne lost his money. In spite of this serious loss, however, he determined now to marry. " He took his wife to the Old Manse in Concord, the house already made famous by Emerson's residence in it, and now made doubly so by Hawthorne's occupancy; and there he began the long and desperate struggle of making a living by his pen. The story of these impecu- nious years has been fully told by the family letters, and the 146 American Literary Readings happy way in which the couple met their difficulties will always arouse interest. Once Mrs. Hawthorne, noticing a large tear in one of her husband's garments, remarked that it was strange that they did not have more ready money, since her husband was a man of such large rents. She fairly worshiped him, and he was as devoted to her, and this made these years of poverty not only endurable but happy ones. Friends came to the rescue again, and Hawthorne was appointed collector, or surveyor, of the port of Salem. This gave him a better immediate income, but it cut off his literary productivity for a time. He planned a larger work on the basis of some old records which he found in _the office at Salem, but the work did not progress satisr factorily. When he announced his removal from office in 1849, Mrs. Hawthorne complacently remarked, "Oh, then you can write your book!" And when the impractical dreamer wanted to know what they could live on while it was being written, she disclosed a pile of gol^ coins which she had saved out of her weekly allowance for household expenses and hidden away for just such an emergency. The book was written; it was The Scarlet Letter, by common consent designated as the one absolutely great masterpiece of fiction in all American literature. Hawthorne's friend, James T. Field, the publisher, came over from Boston toward the end of the year and found the germ of the manuscript already in shape, and in 1850 the enlarged romance was published. It took the public by storm and has ever since retained its position as the greatest American novel. After the phenomenal success of The Scarlet Letter, Haw- thorne's period of being what he called "the obscurest man of letters in America" was over. He moved to "the little red cottage" near Lennox in the Berkshire Hills of western Massachusetts, and here he wrote the second of his four great romances. The House of the Seven Gables (1851). Here, also, those delightful books for yoimg readers. The Wonder -Book (1852) and Tanglewood Tales (1853), both based on the old Greek and Roman hero myths, were pro- duced. Grandfather's Chair (1841) and several other juvenile books had been written much earlier; and with these new volumes and several other childhood pieces, like "The Snow Image" and "Little Daffydowndilly," the contributions of Hawthorne to our juvenile classics are very important. Nathaniel Hawthorne 147 During 1852 Hawthorne moved his family to West Newton, a suburb of Boston, and here he produced his third great novel. The BUthedale Romance, reflecting largely his experi- ences at Brook Farm in Roxbury, not very far from West Newton. He had not yet found the home to suit him^ however, and so he purchased the old house of the Alcotts in Concord near Emerson's residence, and christened it "The Wayside." In this year, 1852, Hawthorne wrote a campaign life of his friend Franklin Pierce, who was now a. candidate for the presidency. Naturally, upon being elected. President Pierce desired to reward his friend and supporter, and consequently he appointed him to be consul at Liverpool, England. This was a lucrative position, and the income from the office, together with the increased returns from his books, put Hawthorne and his family above want for the remainder of his life. He did not enjoy the work nor the honors of his new position, but he went through the routine with the same punctilious devotion to duty that he had shown in his previous official positions. The literary results of this residence abroad were Our Old Home; a Series of English Sketches, published in the Atlantic Monthly spme years later, and the last of his great romances. The Marble Faun, written at Rome and published in England under the title The Transformed in i860. After the appearance of The Marble Faun, Hawthorne returned to his home in Concord. Here he attempted some further literary work, but his health was gradually giving way, and the old creative impulse was almost gone. He started several romances, among them Septimus Felton, Dr. Grimshaw's Secret, and The Dolliver Romance, but none of them were satisfactorily completed. In a vain search for improvement in health, he went on a carriage trip with Franklin Pierce through the mountains of New Hampshire. When they reached Portsmouth, his strength gave out and he died alone in his room in an inn, May 17, 1864. He was buried in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, his grave being now marked with a plain marble headboard not over a foot high bearing the simple inscription "Hawthorne." Three things make Hawthorne's work great — first, the originality and spontaneity of his conceptions; second, the fundamental moral truth and spiritual purity underlying these conceptions; and third, the supreme artistry of the 148 American Literary Readings ^ form of expression in which he has presented these concep- tions. No writer in America has depended more absolutely and more consistently on his own ideas and instincts as to what material was best suited to his genius. Hawthorne's work is unique because his genius was unique, and because he. allowed it to mature slowly and naturally, without the intermixture of foreign elements or the distraction of foreign models. There is no English author with whom we care to compare him, for he was too original, too much himself to be like any one of them. In the second place, while he dealt with sin and the human conscience and some of the darker aspects of life, he handled these problems with the utmost purity of conception. Some parents do not wish for their daughters to read The Scarlet Letter, but they are merely obsessed with a mistaken idea. There never was a purer book nor a more powerful appeal for Christlike charity toward those who have sinned and felt all the awful pangs of expiation and the final purification of character through repentance and steadfast resistance. So it is with all Hawthorne's works ; there is not a word of" sacrilege, nor a hint of encouragement to the evil-doer, nor a cause for a blush on the cheek of the purest-minded maiden. Finally, also, in his style, Hawthorne is a supreme artist. His manner of expression sits as naturally on him as his own features. There is no strut, no superficial veneer,- no painfully evident striving after effect, no trick or artifice, but every word and phrase is as natural and easy and spontaneous as the con- ception which gave it birth. The picturesqueness, the vivid character portrayal, the music and rhythm of his prose cadences, the apt and precise diction, the dominant tone of spirituality, the suggestive other- worldliness — ^^in short, the pure artistry of his style — all this undoubtedly places him in the first rank of American literary artists. ' (The best life of Hawthorne is by George E. Woodberry in the American Men of Letters Series. Henry James, Jr., has also written a brilliant criticism in the English Men of Letters Series.) THE AMBITIOUS GUEST One September night a family had gathered round their hearth and piled it high with the driftwood of moun- tain streams, the dry cones of the pine, and the splintered ruins of great trees that had come crashing down the preci- pice. Up the chimney roared the fire, and brightened the 5 room with its broad blaze. The faces of the father and mother had a sober gladness; the children laughed. The eldest daughter was the image of Happiness at seventeen, and the aged grandmother, who sat knitting in the warmest place, was the image of Happiness grown old. They had 10 found the "herb heart's-ease " in the bleakest spot of all New England. This family were situated in the Notch of the White Hills, where the wind was sharp throughout the year, and pitilessly cold in the winter, giving their cottage aU its fresh inclemency before it descended on the valley of 15 the Saco. They dwelt in a cold spot and a dangerous one, for a mountain towered above their heads so steep that the stones would often rumble down its sides and startle them at midnight. The daughter had just uttered some simple jest that 20 filled them all with mirth, when the wind came through the Notch and seemed to pause before their cottage, rattling the door with a sound of wailing and lamentation before it passed iato the valley. For a moment it saddened them, though there was nothing unusual in the tones. But the 25 family were glad again when they perceived that the latch was Ufted by some traveller whose footsteps had been unheard amid the dreary blast whi'ch heralded his approach, and wailed as he was entering and went moaning away from the door. 30 Though they dwelt in such a solitude, these people held daily converse with the world. The romantic pass of the [149] i5o American Literary Readings Notch is a great artery through which the life-blood of internal commerce is continually throbbing between Maine 35 on one side and the Green Mountains and the shores of the St. Lawrence on the other. The stage-coach always drew up before the door of the cottage. The wayfarer with no companion but his staff paused here to exchange a word, that the sense of loneliness might not utterly overcome him 40 ere he could pass through the cleft of the mountain or reach the first house in the valley. And here the teamster on his way tp Portland market would put up for the night and, if a bachelor, might sit an hoiu: beyond the usual bed- time, and steal a kiss from the mountain maid at parting. 45 It was one of those primitive taverns where the traveller pays only for food and lodging, but meets with a homely kindness beyond all price. When the footsteps were heard, therefore, between the outer door and the inner one, the whole family rose up, grandmother, children and all, as if 50 about to welcome some one who belonged to them, and whose fate was linked with theirs. The door was opened by a young man. His face at first wore the n^elancholy expression, almost despondency, of one who travels a wild and bleak road at nightfall and 55 alone, but soon brightened up when he saw the kindly warmth of his reception. He felt his heart spring forward to meet them all, from the old woman who wiped a chair with her apron to the little child that held out its arms to him. One glance and smile placed the stranger on a footing 60 of innocent familiarity with the eldest daughter. ' ' Ah ! this fire is the right thing, ' ' cried he, " especially when there is such a pleasant circle round it. I am quite he- nunabed, for the Notch is just like the pipe of a great pair of bellows; it has blown & terrible blast in my face all the 65 way from Bartlett." "Then you are going towards Vermont?" said the master of the house as he helped to take a light knapsack off the young man's shoulders. The Ambitious Guest 151 "Yes, to Burlington, and far enough beyond," replied he. "I meant to have been at Ethan Crawford's to-night, but 70 a pedestrian Hngers along such a road as this. It is no matter; for, when I saw this good fire and all your cheerful faces, I felt as if you had kindled it on purpose for me and were waiting my arrival. So I shall sit down among you and make myself at home." 75 The frank-hearted stranger had just drawn his chair to the fire when something like a heavy footstep was heard without, rushing down the steep side of the mountain as with long and rapid strides, and taking such a leap in passing the cottage as to strike the opposite precipice. The so family held their breath, because they knew the sound, and their guest held his by instinct. "The old mountain has thrown a stone at us for fear we should forget him," said che landlord, recovering himself. "He sometimes nods his head and threatens to come down, ss but we are old neighbors, and agree together pretty well upon the whole. Besides, we have a sure place of refuge hard by if he should be coming in good earnest." Let us now suppose the stranger to have finished his supper of bear's meat, and by his natural feUcity of manner, 90 to have placed himself on a footing of kindness with the whole family; so that they talked as freely together as if he belonged to their mountain brood. He was of a proud, yet gentle spirit, haughty and reserved among the rich and great, but ever ready to stoop his head to the lowly cottage 95 door, and be like a brother or a son at the poor man's fire- side. In the household of the Notch he found warmth and simpHcity of feeling, the pervading intelligence of New Eng- land, and a poetry of native growth which they had gathered when they Uttle thought of it from the mountain peaks and 100 chasms, and at the very threshold of their romantic and dangerous abode. He had travelled far and alone; his whole life, indeed, had been a soUtary path, for, with the lofty caution of his nature, he had kept himself apart from those 152 American Literary Readings 105 who might otherwise have been his companions. The family, too, though so kind and hospitable, had that con- sciousness of unity among themselves and separation from the world at large which, in every domestic circle, should still keep a holy place where no stranger may intrude. But no this evening a prophetic sympathy impelled the refined and educated youth to pour out his heart before the simple mountaineers, and constrained them to answer him with the same free confidence. And thus it should have been. Is not the kindred of a common fate a closer tie than that of birth? 115 The secret of the young man's character was a high and abstracted ambition. He could have borne to live an undistinguished life, but not to be forgotten in the grave. Yearning desire had been transformed to hope, and hope, long cherished, had become like certainty that, obscurely as 120 he journeyed now, a glory was to beam on all his pathway, though not, perhaps, while he was treading it. But when posterity should gaze back into the gloom of what was now the present, they wotild trace the brightness of his footsteps, brightening as meaner glories faded, and confess that a 125 gifted one had passed from his cradle to his tomb with none to recognize him. "As yet," cried the stranger, his cheek glowing and his eye flashing with enthusiasm — "as yet I have done nothing. Were I to vanish from the earth to-morrow, none wotild 130 know so much of me as you- — ^that a nameless youth came up at nightfall from the valley of the Saco, and opened his heart to you in the evening, and passed through the Notch by sunrise, and was seen no more. Not a soul would ask, 'Who was he? Whither did the wanderer go?' But I can- 135 not die tUl I have achieved my destiny. Then let Death come: I shall have built my montiment. " There was a continual flow of natural emotion gushing forth amid abstracted reverie which enabled the family to tmderstand this young man's sentiments, though so foreign HO from their own. With quick sensibility of the ludicrous, he The Ambitious Guest 153 blushed at the ardor into which he had been betrayed. "You laugh at me," said he, taking the eldest daughter's hand and laughing himself. "You think my ambition as nonsensical as if I were to freeze myself to death on the top of Mount Washington only that people might spy at 145 me from the country roundabout. And truly that would be a noble pedestal for a man's statue." "It is better to sit here by this fire," answered the girl, blushing, "and be comfortable and contented, though no- body thinks about us." 150 "I suppose," said her father, after a fit of musing, "there is something natural in what the young man says; and if my mind had been turned that way, I might have felt just the same. It is strange, wife, how his talk has set my head running on things that are pretty certain never to come to 155 pass." "Perhaps they may," observed the wife. "Is the man thinking what he will do when he is a widower? " "No, no!" cried he, repelling the idea with reproachful kindness. "When I think of your death, Esther, I think uo of mine too. But I was wishing we had a good farm in Bartlett or Bethlehem or Littleton or some other township round the White Mountains, but not ■vyhere they could tumble on our heads. I should want to stand well with my neighbors and be called squire and sent to General Cotirt i65 for a term or two; for a plain, honest man may do as much good there as a lawyer. And when I should be grown quite an old man, and you an old woman, so as not to be long apart, I might die happy enough in my bed, and leave you aU crying around me. A slate gravestone wotild suit me no as well as a marble one, with just my name and age, and a verse of a hjmin, and something to let people know that I lived an honest man and died a Christian." "There, now!" exclaimed the stranger; "it is otu" nature to desire a monument, be it slate or marble, or a pillar of 175 granite, or a glorious memory in the universal heart of man." 154 American Literary Readings "We're in a strange way to-night," said the wife, with tears in her eyes. "They say it's a sign of something when folks' minds go a-wandering so. Hark to the children!" 180 They listened accordingly. The younger children had been put to bed in another room, but with an open door between; so that they could be heard talking busily among themselves. One and all seemed to have caught the infection from the fireside circle, and were outvying each other in wild 185 wishes and childish projects of what they would do when they came to be men and women. At length a little boy, instead of addressing his brothers and sisters, called out to his mother. "I'll tell you what I wish, mother," cried he: "I want you 190 and father and grandma'm, and all of us, and the stranger too, to start right away and go and take a drink out of the basin of the Flume. " Nobody could help laughingat the child's notion of leaving a warm bed and dragging them from a cheerful fire, to visit 195 the basin of the Flume — a brook, which tvimbles over the precipice, deep within the Notch. The boy had hardly spoken, when a wagon rattled along the road, and stopped a moment before the door. It appeared to contain two or three men who were cheering their hearts 200 with the rough chorus of a song which resounded in broken notes between the cliffs, while the singers hesitated whether to continue their journey or put up here for the night. "Father," said the girl, "they are calling you by name." But the good man doubted whether they had really called 205 him, and was tmwiUing to show himself too solicitous of gain by inviting people to patronize his house. He therefore did not hurry to the door, and the lash being soon applied, the travellers plimged into the Notch, still singing and laughing, though their music and mirth came back drearily 210 from the heart of the mountain. "There, mother!" cried the boy, again; "they'd have given us a ride to the Flume." iHe Ambttious Guest iSS Again they laughed at the child's pertinacious fancy for a night-ramble. But it happened that a light cloud passed over the daughter's spirit; she looked gravely into the fire 216 and drew a breath that was almost a sigh. It forced its way, in spite of a little struggle to repress it. Then, starting and blushing, she looked quickly round the circle, as if they had caught a glimpse into her bosom. The stranger asked what she had been thinking of. 220 "Nothing," answered she, with a downcast smile; "only I felt lonesome just then." "Oh, I have always had a gift of feeling what is in other people's hearts," said he, half seriously. "Shall I tell the secrets of yours? For I know what to think when a young 225 girl shivers by a warm hearth and complains of lonesome- ness at her mother's side. Shall I put these feelings into words?" ' ' They would not be a girl's feelings any longer if they could be put into words," rephed the mountain nymph, laughing, 230 but avoiding his eye. All this was said apart. Perhaps a germ of love was springing in their hearts so pure that it might blossom in Paradise, since it could not be matured on earth; for women worship such gentle dignity as his, and the proud, eon- 235 templative, yet kindly, soul is oftenest captivated by sim- plicity like hers. But while they spoke softly, and he was watching the happy sadness, the lightsome shadows, the shy yearnings, of a maiden's nature, the wind through the Notch took a deeper and drearier sound. It seemed, as the fanciful 240 stranger said, like the choral strain of the spirits of the blast who in old Indian times had their dweUing among these mountains and made their heights and recesses a sacred region. There was a waU along the road, as if a funeral were passing. To chase away the gloom, the family threw 245 pine -branches on their fire till the dry leaves crackled and the flame arose, discovering once again a scene of peace and humble happiness. The light hovered about them fondly iS6 American Literary Readings and caressed them all. There were the Uttle faces of the 250 children peeping from their bed apart, and here the father's frame of strength, the mother's subdued and careful mien, the high-browed youth, the budding girl, and the good old grandam, still knitting in the warmest place. The aged woman looked up from her .task, and with 255 fingers ever busy was the next to speak. "Old folks have their notions," said she, " as well as young ones. You've been wishing and planning and letting yotu* heads run on one thing and another till you've set my mind a-wandering too. Now, what should an old woman wish for, 260 when she can go but a step or two before she comes to her grave? Children, it wOl havmt me night and day tiU I tell you." "What is it, mother? " cried the husband and wife at once. Then the old woman, with an air of mystery which drew 265 the circle closer roimd the fire, informed them that she had provided her grave-clothes some years before — a nice linen shroud, a cap with a muslin ruff, and everjrthing of a finer sort than she had worn since her wedding-day. But this evening an old superstition had strangely recurred to her. 270 It used to be said in her yotmger days that if anything were amiss with a corpse — if only the ruff were not smooth or the cap did not set right — the corpse in the coffin and beneath the clods, would strive to put up its cold hands and arrange it. The bare thought made her nervous. 275 "Don't talk so, grandmother!" said the girl, shuddering. "Now," continued the old woman, with singular earnest- ness, yet smUing strangely at her own folly, "I want one of you, my children, when your mother is dressed and in the coffin, — I want one of you to hold a looking-glass over my 280 face. Who knows but I may take a glimpse at myself and see whether all's right?" "Old and yovmg, we dream of graves and monimients," murmured the stranger-youth. "I wonder how mariners feel when the ship is sinking and they, imknown and The Ambitious Guest 157 undistinguished, are to be buried together in the ocean, 285 that wide and nameless sepulchre?" For a moment the old woman's ghastly conception so engrossed the minds of her hearers that a sound abroad in the night, rising like the roar of a blast, had grown broad, deep, and terrible before the fated group were conscious of 290 it. The house and all within it trembled; the foundations of the earth seemed to be shaken, as if this awful sound were the peal of the last trump. Young and old exchanged one wild glance and remained an instant pale, affrighted, with- out utterance or power to move. Then the same shriek 295 btirst simultaneously from all their hps: "ThesHde! The slide!" The simplest words must intimate, but not portray, the unutterable horror of the catastrophe. The victims rushed from their cottage and sought refuge in what they deemed 300 a safer spot, where, in contemplation of such an emergency, a sort of barrier had been reared. Alas! they had quitted their security and fled right into the pathway of destruction. Down came the whole side of the mountain in a cataract of ruin. Just before it reached the house the stream broke 305 into two branches, shivered not a window there, but over- whelmed the whole vicinity, blocked up the road, and annihilated everything in its dreadful course. Long ere the thunder of that great slide had ceased to roar among the moimtains the mortal agony had been endured, and the 310 victims were at peace. Their bodies were never found. The next morning the light smoke was seen stealing from the cottage chimney up the mountain-side. Within, the fire was yet smouldering on the hearth, and the chairs in a circle round it, as if the inhabitants had but gone forth 315 to view the devastation of the slide and would shortly return, to thank Heaven for their miraculous escape. All had left separate tokens by which those who had known the family were made to shed a tear for each. Who has not heard their name? The story has been told far and wide, and will 320 158 American Literary Readings forever be a legend of these mountains. Poets have sung their fate. There were circumstances whith led some to suppose that a stranger had been received into the cottage on this awful 326 night, and had shared the catastrophe of all its inmates; others denied that there were sufficient grounds for such a conjecttore. Woe for the high-souled youth with his dream of earthly immortality! His name and person utterly unknown, his history, his way of life, his plans, a mystery 330 never to be solved, his death and his existence equally a doubt, — whose was the agony of that death-moment? THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 1 A MYSTERY OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS At nightfall once in the olden time, on the rugged side of one of the Crystal Hills, a party of adventurers were refreshing themselves after a toilsome and fruitless quest for the Great Carbuncle. They had come thither, not as 6 friends nor partners in the enterprise, but each, save one youthful pair, impelled by his own selfish and solitary longing for this wondrous gem. Their feeling of brotherhood, how- ever, was strong enough to induce them to contribute a mutual aid in building a rude hut of branches and kindling 10 a great fire of shattered pines that had drifted down the headlong current of the Amonoosuck, on the lower bank of which they were to pass the night. There was but one of their number, perhaps, who had become so estranged from natural sympathies by the absorbing spell of the pur- 15 suit as to acknowledge no satisfaction at the sight of human faces in the remote and solitary region whither they had iThe Indian tradition on which this somewhat extravagant tale is founded is both too wild and too beautiful to be adequately wrought up in prose. Sullivan, in his History of Maine, written since the Rev- olution, remarks that even then the existence of the Great Carbuncle was not entirely discredited. The Great Carbuncle 159 ascended. A vast extent of wilderness lay between them and the nearest settlement, while scant a mile above their heads was that black verge where the hills throw off their shaggy mantle of forest-trees and either robe themselves in 20 clouds or tower naked into the sky. The roar of the Amo- noosuck would have been too awful for endurance if only a solitary man had listened while the mountain stream talked with the wind. The adventurers, therefore, exchanged hospitable greet- 25 ings and welcomed one another to the hut where each man was the host and aU were the guests of the whole company. They spread their individual supplies of food on the flat surface of a rock and partook of a general repast; at the close of which a sentiment of good-feUowship was 30 perceptible among the party, though repressed by the idea that the renewed search for the Great Carbuncle must make them strangers again in the morning. Seven men and one young woman, they warmed themselves together at the fire, which extended its bright wall along the whole front of their ss wigwam. As they observed the various and contrasted figures that made up the assemblage, each man looking like a caricature of himself in the unsteady light that flickered over him, they came mutually to the conclusion that an odder society had never met, in city or wilderness, on moun- 40 tain or plain. The eldest of the group — a tall, lean, weatherbeaten man some sixty years of age — was clad in the skins of wild animals whose fashion of dress he did well to imitate, since the deer, the wolf, and the bear^had long been his most intimate 45 companions. He was one of those lU-fated mortals, such as the Indians told of, whom in their early youth the Great Carbuncle smote with a peculiar madness and became the passionate dream of their existence. AU who visited that region knew him as "the Seeker," and by no other name. As 50 none could remember when he first took up the search, there went a fable in the valley of the Saco that for his inordinate i6o American Literary Readings lust after the Great Carbuncle he had been condemned to wander among the mountains till the end of time, still with 66 the same feverish hopes at sunrise, the same despair at eve. Near this miserable Seeker sat a Httle elderly personage wearing a high-crowned hat shaped somewhat like a crucible. He was from beyond the sea — a Doctor Cacaphodel, who had wilted and dried himself into a mummy by continually 80 stooping over charcoal-furnaces and inhaling unwholesome fumes during his researches in chemistry and alchemy. It was told of him — whether truly or not — that at the commence- ment of his studies he had drained his body of all its richest blood and wasted it, with other inestimable ingredients, in 65 an unsuccessful experiment, and had never been a well man since. Another of the adventtirers was Master Ichabod Pigsnort, a weighty merchant and selectman of Boston, and an elder of the famous Mr. Norton's church. His enemies had a ridiculous story that Master Pigsnort was accustomed 70 to spend a whole hour after prayer-time every morning and evening in wallowing naked among an immense quantity of pine-tree shillings, which were the earliest silver coinage of Massachusetts. The fourth whom we shall notice had no name that his companions knew of, and was _ chiefly dis- 75 tinguished by a sneer that always contorted his thin visage, and by a prodigious pair of spectacles which were supposed to deform and discolor the whole face of nature to this gentleman's perception. The fifth adventurer likewise lacked a name, which was the greater pity, as he appeared 80 to be a poet. He was a bright-eyed man, but woefully pined away, which was no more than natural if, as some people affirmed, his ordinary diet was fog, morning mist, and a slice of the densest cloud within his reach, sauced with moonshine whenever he could get it. Certain it is that the 86 poetry which flowed from him had a smack of aU these dainties. The sixth of the party was a young man of haughty mien and sat somewhat apart from the rest, wear- ing his plumed hat loftily among his elders, while the fire The Great. Carbuncle i6i glittered on the rich embroidery of his dress and gleamed mtensely on the jewelled pommel of his sword. This was 90 the lord De Vere, who when at home was said to spend much of his time in the burial-vault of his dead progenitors rummaging their mouldy coffins in search of all the earthly pride and vainglory that was hidden among bones and dust; so that, besides his own share, he had the collected haughti- 95 ness of his whole line of ancestry. Lastly, there was a handsome youth in rustic garb, and by his side a blooming little person in whorfi a delicate shade of maiden reserve was just melting into the rich glow of a young wife's affection. Her name was Hannah, and her 100 husband's Matthew — two homely names, yet well enough adapted to the simple pair who seemed strangely out of place among the whimsical fraternity whose wits had been set agog by the Great Carbuncle. Beneath the shelter of one hut, in the bright blaze of the los same fire, sat this varied group of adventurers, all so intent upon a single object that of whatever else they began to speak their closing words were sure to be illuminated with the Great Carbuncle. Several related the circumstances that brought them thither. One had listened to a traveller's no tale of this marvellous stone in his own distant country, and had immediately been seized with such a thirst for beholding it as could only be quenched in its intensest lustre. Another, so long ago as when the famous Captain Smith visited these coasts, had seen it blazing far at sea, and had felt no rest in us all the intervening years till now that he took up the search. A third, being encamped on a hunting-expedition full forty miles south of the White Mountains, awoke at midnight and beheld the Great Carbuncle gleaming like a meteor, so that the shadows of the trees fell backward from it. They spoke 120 of the innumerable attempts which had been made to reach the spot, and of the singular fatality which had hitherto withheld success from all adventurers, though it might seem so easy to follow to its source a light that overpowered the i62 American Literary Readings 125 moon and almost matched the sun. It was observable that each smiled scornfully at the madness of every other in anticipating better fortune than the past, yet nourished a scarcely-hidden conviction that he would himself be the favored one. As if to aUay their too sanguine hopes, they 130 reciorred to the Indian traditions that a spirit kept watch about the gem and bewildered those who sought it either by removing it from peak to peak of the higher hills or by calling up a mist from the enchanted lake over which it himg. But these tales were deemed unworthy of credit, all professing to 135 believe that the search had been baffled by want of sagacity or perseverance in the adventurers, or such other causes as might naturally obstruct the passage to any given point among the intricacies of forest, valley, and mountain. In a pause of the conversation the wearer of the prodigious 140 spectacles looked round upon the party, making each individual in turn the object of the sneer which invariably dwelt upon his countenance. "So, fellow-pilgrims," said he, "here we are, seven wise men and one fair damsel, who doubtless is as wise as any 145 graybeard of the company. Here we are, I say, all botmd on the same goodly enterprise. Methinks, now, it were not amiss that each of us declare what he proposes to do with the Great Carbuncle, provided he have the good hap to clutch it. — What says our friend in the bear skin ? How mean you, 150 good sir, to enjoy the prize which you have been seeking the Lord knows how long among the Crystal Hills?" "How enjoy it!" exclaimed the aged Seeker, bitterly. " I hope for no enjoyment from it: that folly has passed long ago. I keep up the search for this accursed stone because 155 the vain ambition of my youth has become a fate upon me in old age. The ptirsuit alone is my strength, the energy of my soul, the warmth of my blood, and the pith and marrow of my bones ! Were I to turn my back upon it, I should fall down dead on the hither side of the notch which 160 is the gateway of this mountain region. Yet not to have my The Great Carbuncle 163 wasted lifetime back again would I give up my hopes of the Great Carbuncle. Having found it, I shall bear it to a certain cavern that I wot of, and there, grasping it in my arms, lie down and die and keep it buried with me forever." "O wretch regardless of the interests of science," cried les Doctor Cacaphodel, with philosophic indignation, "thou art not worthy to behold even from afar off the lustre of this most precious gem that ever was concocted in the laboratory of Nature. Mine is the sole purpose for which a wise man may desire the possession of the Great Carbuncle, no Immediately on obtaining it — for I have a presentiment, good people, that the prize is reserved to crown my scientific reputation — I shall return to Europe and employ my remaining years in reducing it to its first elements. A portion of the stone will I grind to impalpable powder, other parts 175 shall be dissolved in acids or whatever solvents will act upon so admirable a composition, and the remainder I design to melt in the crucible or set on fire with the blowpipe. By these various methods I shall gain an accurate analysis, and finally bestow the result of my labors upon the world in a 1 so folio voltime." "Excellent!" quoth the man with the spectacles. "Nor need you hesitate, learned sir, on account of the necessary destruction of the gem, since the perusal of your folio may teach every mother's son of us to concoct a Great Carbuncle iss of his own." "But verily," said Master Ichabod Pigsnort, "for mine own part, I object to the making of these counterfeits, as being calculated to reduce the marketable value of the true gem. I tell ye frankly, sirs, I have an interest in keeping up loo the price. Here have I quitted my regular traffic, leaving my warehouse in the care of my clerks, and putting my credit to great hazard, and, furthermore, have put myself in peril of death or captivity by the accursed heathen savages, and all this without daring to ask the prayers of the congre- 195 gation, because the quest for the Great Carbuncle is deemed 164 American Literary Readings little better than a traffic with the evil one. Now, think ye that I would have done this grievous wrong to my soul, body, reputation, and estate without a reasonable chance of 200 profit?" "Not I, pious Master Pigsnort," said the man with the spectacles. "I never laid such a great folly to thy charge." "Truly, I hope not," said the merchant. "Now, as touching this Great Carbuncle, I am free to own that I have 205 never had a glimpse of it, but, be it only the hundredth part so bright as people tell, it will surely outvalue the Great Mogul's best diamond, which he holds at an incalculable sum; wherefore, I am minded to put the Great Carbuncle on shipboard and voyage with it to England, France, Spain, 210 Italy, or into heathendom if Providence should send me thither, and, in a word, dispose of the gem to the best bidder among the potentates of the earth, that he may place it among his crown-jewels. If any of ye have a wiser plan, let him expound it." 216 "That have I, thou sordid man!" exclaimed the poet. "Dost thou desire nothing brighter than gold, that thou wouldst transmute all this ethereal lustre into such dross as thou wallowest in already? For myself, hiding the jewel under my cloak, I shall hie me back to my attic-chamber, 220 in one of the darksome alleys of London. There night and day will I gaze upon it. My soul shall drink its radiance; it shall be diffused throughout my intellectual powers and gleam brightly in every line of poesy that I indite. Thus long ages after I am gone the splendor of the Great Car- 225 buncle will blaze around my name. " "Well said. Master Poet!" cried he of the spectacles. "Hide it under thy cloak, sayest thou? Why, it will gleam through the holes and make thee look like a jack-o'-lantern! " "To think," ejaculated the lord DeVere, rather to him- 23 self than his companions, the best of whom he held utterly unworthy of his intercourse — "to think that a fellow in a tattered cloak should talk of conveying the Great Carbuncle The Great Carbuncle 165 to a garret in Grub Street! Have not I resolved within myself that the whole earth contains no fitter ornament for the great hall of my ancestral castle? There shall it flame 235 for ages, making a noonday of midnight, glittering on the suits of armor, the banners and escutcheons, that hang around the wall, and keeping bright the memory of heroes. Wherefore have all other adventurers sought the prize in vain but that I might -win it and make it a symbol of the glories 240 of our lofty line? And never on the diadem of the White Mountains did the Great Carbuncle hold a place half so honored as is reserved for it in the hall of the De Veres!" " It is a noble thought," said the Cynic, with an obsequious sneer. "Yet, might I presume to say so, 'the gem would 245 make a rare sepulchral lamp, and would display the glories of Your -Lordship's progenitors more truly in the ancestral vault than in the castle-hall." "Nay, forsooth," observed Matthew, the young rustic, who sat hand in hand with his bride, "the gentleman has 250 ■bethought himself of a profitable use for this bright stone. Hannah here and I are seeking it for a like purpose." "How, fellow?" exclaimed His Lordship, in siuprise. "What castle-hall hast thou to hang it in?" "No castle," replied Matthew, "but as neat a cottage 255 as any within sight of the Crystal HiUs. Ye must know, friends, that Hannah and I, being wedded the last week, have taken up the search of the Great Carbuncle because we shall need its light in the long winter evenings and it will be such a pretty thing to show the neighbors when they 260 visit us ! It wiU shine through the house, so that we may pick up a pin in any comer, and wiU set all the windows aglowing as if there were a great fire of pine-knots in the chimney. And then how pleasant, when we awake in the night, to be able to see one another's faces!" 265 There was a general smile among the adventurers at the simplicity of the yotmg couple's project in regard to this wondrous and invaluable stone, with which the greatest 1 66 American Literary Readings monarch on earth might have been proud to adorn his palace. 270 Especially the man with spectacles, who had sneered at all the company in ttim, now twisted his visage into such an expression of ill-natured mirth that Matthew asked him, rather peevishly, what he himself meant to do with the Great Carbuncle. 275 "The Great Carbuncle!" answered the Cynic, with inef- fable scorn. "Why, you blockhead, there is no such thing in rerum natura. I have come three thousand miles, and am resolved to set my foot on every peak of these mountains and poke my head into every chasm for the sole purpose of 280 demonstrating to the satisfaction of any man one whit less an ass than thyself that the Great Carbuncle is all a humbug. " Vain and foolish were the motives that had brought most of the adventurers to the Crystal HiUs, but none so vain, so fooHsh, and so impious too, as that of the scoffer with the 285 prodigious spectacles. He was one of those wretched and evil men whose yearnings are downward to the darkness instead of heavenward, and who, could they but extinguish the lights which God hath kindled for us, would count the midnight gloom their chiefest glory. 290 As the Cjmic spoke, several of the party were startled by a gleam of red splendor, that showed the huge shapes of the surrounding mountains and the rock-bestrewn bed of the turbulent river, with an lU-umination unlike that of their fire, on the trunks and black boughs of the forest-trees. They 295 listened for the roll of thunder, but heard nothing, and were glad that the tempest came not near them. The stars — those dial-points of heaven — now warned the adventurers to close their eyes on the blazing logs and open them in dreams to the glow of the Great Carbuncle. 300 The young married couple had taken their lodgings in the farthest comer of the wigwam, and were'separated from the rest of the party by a curtain of ciiriously woven twigs such as might have hung in deep festoons around the bridal- bower of Eve. The modest little wife had TSTought this piece The Great Carbuncle 167 of tapestry while the other guests were talking. She and her sos husband fell asleep with hands tenderly clasped, and awoke from visions of unearthly radiance to meet the more blessed Hght of one another's eyes. They awoke at the same instant and with one happy snule beaming over their two faces, which grew brighter with their consciousness of the 310 reality of Ufe and love. But no sooner did she recollect where they were than the bride peeped through the inter- stices of the leafy curtain and saw that the outer room of the hut was deserted. "Up, dear Matthew!" cried she, in haste. "The strange 315 folk are all gone. Up this very minute, or we shall lose the Great Carbuncle!" In truth, so little did these poor young people deserve the mighty prize which had Itrred them thither that they had slept peacefully all night and till the svunmits of the hills 320 were glittering with sunshine, while the other adventurers had tossed their limbs in feverish wakefulness or dreamed of climbing precipices, and set off to realize their dreams- with the earliest peep of dawn. But Matthew and Hannah after their calm rest were as light as two young deer, and sas merely stopped to say their prayers and wash themselves in a cold pool of the Amonoosuck, and then to taste a morsel of food ere they turned their faces to the mountain-side. It was a sweet emblem of conjugal affection as they toiled up the difficult ascent, gathering strength from the mutual aid 330 which they afforded. After several little accidents, such as a torn robe, a lost shoe, and the entanglement of Hannah's hair in a bough, they reached the upper verge of the forest and were now to pursue a more adventurous course. The innumerable 335 trunks and heavy foliage of the trees had hitherto shut in their thoughts, which now shrank affrighted from the region of wind and cloud and naked rocks and desolate sunshine that rose imnneasurably above them. They gazed back at the obscure wilderness which they had traversed, and longed 340 i68 American Literary Readings to be buried again in its depths rather than trust themselves to so vast and visible a solitude. "Shall we go on?" said Matthew, throwing his arm round Hannah's waist both to protect her and to comfort his heart 345 by drawing her close to it. But the little bride, simple as she was, had a woman's love of jewels, and could not forego the hope of possessing the very brightest in the world, in spite of the perils with which it must be won. 350 "Let us climb a little higher," whispered she, yet tremu- lously, as she turned her face upward to the lonely sky. "Come, then," said Matthew, mustering his manly courage and drawing her along with him; for she became timid again the moment that he grew bold. 865 And upward, accordingly, went the pilgrims of the Great Carbuncle, now treading upon the tops and thickly inter- woven branches of dwarf pines which by the growth of centuries, though mossy with age, had barely reached three feet in altitude. Next they came to masses and fragments 860 of naked rock heaped confusedly together, like a cairn reared by giants in memory of a giant chief. In this bleak realm of upper air nothing breathed, nothing grew; there was no life but what was concentred in their two hearts; they had climbed so high that Nature herself seemed no longer 866 to keep them company. She lingered beneath them within the verge of the forest-trees, and sent a farewell glance after her children as they strayed where her own green footprints had never been. But soon they were to be hidden from her eye. Densely and dark the mists began to gather below, 870 casting black spots of shadow on the vast landscape and sailing heavily to one centre, as if the loftiest mountain peak had summoned a council of its kindred clouds. Finally the vapors welded themselves, as it were, into a mass, presenting the appearance of a pavement over which the wanderers 876 might have trodden, but where they would vainly have sought an avenue to the blessed earth which they had lost. The Great Carbuncle 169 And the lovers yearned to behold that green earth again — more intensely, alas! than beneath a clouded sky they had ever desired a glimpse of heaven. They even felt it a relief to their desolation when the mists, creeping gradually up sso the mountain, concealed its lonely "peak, and thus anni- hilated — at least, for them — the whole region of visible space. But they drew closer together with a fond and melancholy gaze, dreading lest the universal cloud should snatch them from each other's sight. Still, perhaps, they would have 335 been resolute to cUmb as far and as high between earth and heaven as they could find foothold if Hannah's strength had not begun to fail, and with that her courage also. Her breath grew short. She refused to burden her husband with her weight, but often tottered against his side, and recovered 390 herself each time by a feebler effort. At last, she sank down on one of the rocky steps of the acclivity. "We are lost, dear Matthew," said she, mournfully; "we shaU never find our way to the earth again. And oh how happy we might have been in our cottage!" 395 "Dear heart, we will yet be happy there," answered Matthew. "Look! In this direction, the sunshine pene- trates the dismal mist; by its aid I can direct our course to the passage of the Notch. Let us go back, love, and dream no more of the Great Carbuncle." 100 "The sun cannot be yonder," said Hannah, with despond- ence. "By this time it must be noon; if there could ever be any sunshine here, it would come from above our heads." "But look!" repeated Matthew, in a somewhat altered tone. "It is brightening every moment. If not sunshine, 405 what can it be?" Nor could the young bride any longer deny that a radiance was breaking through the mist and changing its dim hue to a dusky red, which continually grew more vivid, as if JDrilliant particles were interfused with the gloom. Now, 410 also, the cloud began to roll away from the mountain, while, as it heavily withdrew, one object after another started out 170 American Literary Readings of its impenetrable obscurity into sight with precisely the effect of a new creation before the indistinctness of the old 415 chaos had been completely swallowed up. As the process went on they saw the gleaming of water close at their feet, and found themselves on the very border of a mountain lake, deep, bright, clear, and calmly beautiful, spreading from brim to brim of a basin that had been scooped out of the solid 420 rock. A ray of glory flashed across its surface. The pilgrims looked whence it. should proceed, but closed their eyes, with a thrill of awful admiration, ta exclude the fervid splendor that glowed from the brow of a cliff impending over the enchanted lake. 425 For the simple pair had reached that lake of mystery, and found the long-sought shrine of the Great Carbuncle. They threw their arms around each other and trembled at their own success, for as the legends of this wondrous gem rushed thick upon their memory they felt themselves marked 430 out by fate, and the consciousness was fearful. Often from childhood upward they had seen it shining like a distant star, and now that star was throwing its intensest lustre on their hearts. They seemed changed to one another's eyes in the red brilliancy that flamed upon their 435 cheeks, while it lent the same fire to the lake, the rocks, and sky, and to the mists which had rolled back before its power. But with their next glance they beheld an object that drew their attention even from the mighty stone. At the base of the cliff, directly beneath the Great Carbuncle, 440 appeared the figure of a man with his arms extended in the act of climbing and his face turned upward as if to drink the full gush of splendor. But he stirred not, no more than if changed to marble. "It is the Seeker," whispered Hannah, convulsively 445 grasping her husband's arm. "Matthew, he is dead." "The joy of success has killed him," replied JMatthew, trembling violently. "Or perhaps the very light of the Great Carbuncle was death." The Great Carbuncle 171 "The Great Carbuncle!" cried a peevish voice behind them. " The Great Humbug ! If you have fotmd it, prithee 150 point it out to me." They turned their heads, and there was the C3mic with his prodigious spectacles set carefully on his nose, staring now at the lake, now at the rocks, now at the distant masses of vapor, now right at the Great Carbuncle itself, yet seem- 455 ingly as unconscious of its light as if all the scattered clouds were condensed about his person. Though its radiance actually threw the shadow of the unbeliever at his own feet as he turned his back upon the glorious jewel, he would not be conviaced that there was the least glimmer there. 46o "Where is your Great Humbug?" he repeated. "I chal- lenge you to make me see it." "There! " said Matthew, incensed at such perverse blind- ness, and turning the Cynic round toward the illuminated cliff. "Take off those abominable spectacles, and you les cannot help seeing it." Now these colored spectacles probably darkened the Cynic's sight, in at least as great a degree as the smoked glasses through which people gaze at an eclipse. With resolute bravado, however, he snatched them from his nose, 470 and fixed a bold stare full upon the ruddy blaze of the Great Carbuncle. But scarcely had he encountered it when, with a deep, shuddering groan, he dropped his head and pressed both hands across his miserable eyes. Thenceforth there was in very truth no light of the Great Carbuncle, nor any 47a other light on earth, nor light of heaven itself, for the poor Cynic. So long accustomed to view all objects through a medium that deprived them of every glimpse of brightness, a single flash, of so glorious a phenomenon, striking upon his naked vision, had blinded him for ever. iso 'Matthew," said Hannah, clinging to him, "let us go hence." Matthew saw that she was faint, and kneeling down, sup- ported her in his arms while he threw some of the thrillingly 172 American Literary Readings 485 cold water of the enchanted lake upon her face and bosom. It revived her, but could not renovate her courage. "Yes, dearest," cried Matthew, pressing her tremulous form to his breast; "we will go hence and return to otir himible cottage. The blessed sunshine and the quiet moon- 490 light shall come through oiur window. We will kindle the cheerful glow of our hearth at eventide and be happy in its light. But never again will we desire more light than all the world may share with us." "No," said his bride, "for how could we live by day or 496 sleep by night in this awful blaze of the Great Carbuncle?" Out of the hollow of their hands, they drank each a draught from the lake, which presented them its waters uncontaminated by an earthly lip. Then, lending their guidance to the blinded Cynic, who uttered not a word, and 600 even stifled his groans in his own most wretched heart, they began to descend the mountain. Yet as they left the shore, till then untrodden, of the spirit's lake, they threw a farewell glance toward the cliff and beheld the vapors gathering in dense volumes, through which the gem burned 606 duskily. As touching the other pilgrims of the Great Carbuncle, the legend goes on to tell that the worshipful Master Ichabod Pigsnort soon gave up the quest as a desperate speculation, and wisely resolved to betake himself again to his warehouse, 610 near the town-dock, in Boston. But as he passed through the Notch of the mountains a war-party of Indians captured our unlucky merchant and carried him to Montreal, there holding him in bondage till by the payment of a heavy ransom he had woefully subtracted from his hoard of pine- 615 tree shillings. By his long absence, moreover, his affairs had become so disordered that for the rest of his life, instead of wallowing in silver, he had seldom a sixpence-worth of copper. Doctor Cacaphodel, the alchemist, returned to his laboratory with a prodigious fragment of granite, which he ground to 620 powder, dissolved in acids, melted in the crucible and burned The Great Carbuncle 173 with the blowpipe, and pubHshed the result of his experi- ments in one of the heaviest folios of the day. And for aU these purposes the gem itself cotdd not have answered better than the granite. The poet, by a somewhat similar mistake, made prize of a great piece of ice which he found in a sunless 525 chasm of the moimtains, and swore that it corresponded in all points with his idea of the Great Carbuncle. The critics say that, if his poetry lacked the splendor of the gem, it retained aU the coldness of the ice. The lord De Vere went back to his ancestral hall, where he contented himself with 530 a wax-Ughted chandelier, and filled in due course of time another coffin in the ancestral vault. As the ftineral torches gleamed within that dark receptacle, there was no need of the Great Carbuncle to show the vanity of earthly pomp. The Cynic, having cast aside his spectacles, wandered 535 about the world a miserable object, and was punished with an agonizing desire of Ught for the wilful blindness of his ' former life. The whole night long he would lift his splendor- blasted orbs to the moon and stars; he turned his face eastward at sunrise as duly as a Persian idolater; he made 540 a pilgrimage to Rome to witness the magnificent illumina- tion of St. Peter's Church, and finally perished in the Great Fire of London, into the midst of which he had thrust himself with the desperate idea of catching one feeble ray from the blaze that was IdndHng earth and heaven. sis Matthew and his bride spent many peaceftd years and were fond of telling the legend of the Great Carbuncle. The tale, however, towards the close of their lengthened lives, did not meet with the full credence that had been accorded to it by those who remembered the ancient lustre of the gem. 550 For it is affirmed that from the hour when two mortals had shown themselves so simply wise as to reject a jewel which would have dimmed all earthly things its splendor waned. When other pilgrims reached the cUfE, they found only an opaque stone with particles of mica glittering on its surface, sse There is also a tradition that as the youthful pair departed 174 American Literary Readings the gem was loosened from the forehead of the cliff and fell into the enchanted lake, and that at noontide the Seeker's form may still be seen to bend over its quenchless gleam. 660 Some few believe that this inestimable stone is blazing as of old, and say that they have caught its radiance, like a flash of summer Ughtning, far down the valley of the Saco. And be it owned that many a mile from the Crystal Hills I saw a wondrous light around their summits, and was G65 lured by the faith of poesy to be the latest pilgrim of the Great Carbuncle. THE WEDDING-KNELL There is a certain church in the city of New York which I have always regarded with peculiar interest on account of a marriage there solemnized under very singular circum- stances in my grandmother's girlhood. That venerable 5 lady chanced to be a spectator of the scene, and ever after made it her favorite narrative. Whether the edifice now standing on the same site be the identical one to which she referred I am not antiquarian enough to know, nor would it be worth while to correct myself, perhaps, of an agreeable 10 error by reading the date of its erection on the tablet over the door. It is a stately church stirrounded by an enclosure of the loveliest green, within which appear urns, pillars, obelisks, and other forms of monumental marble, the tributes of private affection or more splendid memorials 15 of historic dust. With such a place, though the tumult of the city rolls beneath its tower, one would be willing to connect some legendary interest. The marriage might be considered as. the result of an early engagement, though there had been two intermediate 20 weddings on the lady's, part and forty years of celibacy on that of the gentleman. At sixty-five Mr. EUenwood was a shy but not quite a secluded man; selfish, like all men who The Wedding-Knell 175 brood over their own hearts, yet manifesting on rare occa- sions a vein of generous sentiment; a scholar throughout life, though always an indolent one, because his studies had 25 no definite object either of public advantage or personal ambition; a gentleman, high-bred and fastidiously delicate, yet sometimes requiring a considerable relaxation in his behalf of the common rides of society. In truth, there were so many anomalies in his character, and, though shrink- 30 ing with diseased sensibility from public notice, it had been his fatality so often to become the topic of the day by some wild eccentricity of conduct, that people searched his lineage for a hereditary taint of insanity. But there was no need of this. His caprices had their origin in a mind that lacked 35 the support of an engrossing purpose, and in feelings that preyed upon themselves for want of other food. If he were mad, it was the consequence, and not the cause, of an aimless and abortive life. The widow was as complete a contrast to her third bride- 40 groom in ever5d;hing but age as can well be conceived. Compelled to relinquish her first engagement, she had been united to a man of twice her own years, to whom she became an exemplary wife, and by whose death she was left in possession of a splendid fortune. A Southern gentleman 45 considerably younger than herself succeeded to her hand and carried her to Charleston, where after many tmcom- fortable years she found herself again a widow. It would have been singular if any uncommon delicacy of feeling had survived through such a life as Mrs. Dabney's; it could not 50 but be crushed and killed by her early disappointment, the cold duty of her first marriage, the dislocation of the heart's principles consequent on a second union, and the unldndness of her Southern husband, which had inevitably driven her to connect the idea of his death with that of her comfort. 55 To be brief, she was that wisest but unloveliest variety of woman, a philosopher, bearing troubles of the heart with equanimity, dispensing with all that should have been her 176 American Literary Readings happiness and making the best of what remained. Sage in 60 most matters, the widow was perhaps the more amiable for the one frailty that made her ridiculous. Being childless, she could not remain beautiful by proxy in the person of a daughter; she therefore refused to grow old and ugly on any consideration; she struggled with Time, and held fast 65 her roses in spite of him, till the venerable thief appeared to have relinquished the spoil as not worth the trouble of acquiring it. The approaching marriage of this woman of the world with such an unworldly man as Mr. EUenwood was 70 announced soon after Mrs. Dabney's return to her native city. Superficial observers, and deeper ones, seemed to concur in supposing that the lady must have borne no inactive part in arranging the affair; there were considera- tions of expediency which she would be far more likely to 75 appreciate than Mr. EUenwood, and there was just the specious phantom of sentiment and romance in this late union of two early lovers which sometimes makes a fool of a woman who has lost her true feelings among the accidents of life. All the wonder was how the gentleman, with his 80 lack of worldly wisdom and agonizing consciousness of ridicule, could have been induced to take a measure at once so prudent and so laughable. But while people talked the wedding-day arrived. The ceremony was to be solemnized according to the Episcopalian -forms and in open church, 86 with a degree of publicity that attracted many spectators, who occupied the front seats of the galleries, and the pews near the altar and along the broad aisle. It had been arranged, or .possibly it was the custom of the day, that the parties should proceed separately to church. By some 90 accident the bridegroom was a little less pimctual than the widow and her bridal attendants, with whose arrival, after this tedious but necessary preface, the action of our tale may be said to commence. The clumsy wheels of several- old-fashioned coaches were The Wedding-Knell 17 7 heard, and the gentlemen and ladies composing the bridal- 95 party came through the church door with the sudden and gladsome effect of a burst of sunshine. The whole group, except the principal figure, was made up of youth and gayety. As they streamed up the broad aisle, while the pews and- piUars seemed to brighten on either side, their steps were 100 as buoyant as if they mistook the church for a ball-room and were ready to dance hand in hand to the altar. So briUiant was the spectacle that few took notice of a singular phenomenon that had marked its entrance. At the moment when the bride's foot touched the threshold the bell swtmg 10s heavily in the tower above her and sent forth its deepest knell. The vibrations died away, and returned with pro- longed solemnity as she entered the body of the church. "Good heavens! What an omen!" whispered a young lady to her lover. uo "On my honor," replied the gentleman, "I beHeve the bell has the good taste to toll of its own accord. What has she to do with weddings? If you, dearest Julia, were approaching the altar, the bell would ring out its merriest peal. It has only a ftmeral-knell for her." lu The bride and most of her company had been too much occupied with the bustle of entrance to hear the first boding stroke of the bell — or, at least, to reflect on the singularity of such a welcome to the altar. They therefore continued: to advance with undiminished gayety. The gorgeous dresses 120 of the time — the crimson velvet coats, the gold-laced hats, the hoop-petticoats, the silk, satin, brocade, and embroidery, the buckles, canes, and swords, aU displayed to the best advantage on persons suited to such finery — made the group appear more like a bright-colored picture than anything real. 125 But by what perversity of taste had the artist represented his principal figure as so wrinkled and decayed, while yet he had decked her out in the brightest splendor of attire, as if the loveliest maiden had suddenly withered into age and become a moral to the beautiftd around her? On they i3o 178 American Literary Readings went, however, and had glittered along about a third of the aisle, when another stroke of the bell seemed to fill the church with a visible gloom, dimming and obscuring the bright pageant tiU it shone forth again as from a mist. 136 This time the party wavered, stopped and huddled closer together, while a sHght scream was heard from some of the ladies and a confused whispering among the gentlemen. Thus tossing to and fro^ they might have been fancifully compared to a splendid bunch of flowers suddenly shaken 140 by a puff of wind which threatened to scatter the leaves of an old brown, withered rose on the same stalk with two dewy buds, such being the emblem of the widow between her fair young biidemaids. But her heroism was admirable. She had started with an irrepressible shudder, as if the stroke 146 of the bell had fallen directly on her heart; then, recovering herself, while her attendants were yet in dismay, she took the lead and paced calmly up the aisle. The bell continued to swing, strike, and vibrate with the same doleful regularity as when a corpse is on its way to the tomb. 160 " My yoimg friends here have their nerves a Httle shaken," said the widow, with a smile, to the clergyman at the altar. "But so many weddings have been ushered in with the merriest peal of the beUs, and yet turned out unhappily, that I shall hope for better fortune under such different auspices." 155 "Madam," answered the rector, in great perplexity, "this strange occurrence brings to my mind a marriage-sermon of the famous Bishop Taylor wherein he mingles so many thoughts of mortality and future woe that, to speak some- what after his own rich style, he seems to hang the bridal- 160 chamber in black and cut the wedding-garment out of a coffin-pall. And it has been the custom of divers nations to infuse something of sadness into their marriage ceremonies, so to keep death in mind while contracting that engagement which is hfe's chiefest business. Thus we may draw a sad 166 but profitable moral from this funeral-knell." But, though the clergyman might have givenhismoral even The Wedding-Knell 179 a keener point, he did not fail to despatch an attendant to inqtiire into the mystery and stop those sounds so dismally appropriate to such a marriage. A brief space elapsed, during which the silence was broken only by whispers and a few no suppressed titterings among the wedding-party and the spectators, who after the first shock were disposed to draw an ill-natufed merriment from the affair. The yotmg have less charity for aged follies than the old for those of youth. The widow's glance was observed to wander for an instant its toward a window of the chxtrch, as if searching for the time- worn marble that she had dedicated to her first husband; then her eyelids dropped over their faded orbs and her thoughts were drawn irresistibly to another grave. Two buried men with a voice at her ear and a cry afar off were iso calling her to lie down beside them. Perhaps, with momen- tary truth of feeling, she thought how much happier had been her fate if, after years of bHss, the bell were now tolling for her funeral and she were followed to the grave by the old affection of her earliest lover, long her husband. But why iss had she returned to him when their cold hearts shrank from each other's embrace? Still the death-bell tolled so mournfully that the sunshine seemed to fade in the air. A whisper, communicated from those who stood nearest the windows, now spread through 190 the church: a hearse with a train of several coaches was creeping along the street, conveying some dead man to the chtirchyard, while the bride awaited a living one at the altar. Immediately after, the footsteps of the bridegroom and his friends were heard at the door. The widow looked down 195 the aisle and clenched the arm of one of her bridemaids in her bony hand with such unconscious violence that the fan- girl trembled. "You frighten me, my dear madam," cried she. "For heaven's sake, what is the matter?" 200 ' ' Nothing, my dear — nothing, ' ' said the widow ; then, whis- pering close to her ear, " There is a foolish fancy that I cannot i8o American Literary Readings get rid of. I am expecting my bridegroom to come into the chtirch with my first two husbands for groomsmen!" 205 "Look! look!" screamed the bridemaid. "What is here? The funeral!" As she spoke a dark procession paced into the church. First came an old man and woman, like chief mourners at a funeral, attired from head to foot in the deepest black, 210 aU but their pale features and hoary hair, he leaning on a staff and supporting her decrepit form with his nerveless arm. Behind appeared another and another pair, as aged, as black and mournful as the first. As they drew near the widow recognized in every face some trait of former friends long 215 forgotten, but now returning as if from their old graves to warn her to prepare a shroud, or, with purpose almost as unwelcome, to exhibit their wrinkles and infirmity and claim her as their companion by the tokens of her own decay. Many a merry night had she danced with them in youth, 220 and now in joyless age she felt that some withered partner should request her hand and all unite in a dance of death to the music of the fimeral-bell. While these aged movimers were passing up the aisle it was observed that from pew to pew the spectators shuddered 225 with irrepressible awe as some object hitherto concealed by the intervening figures came full in sight. Many turned away their faces; others kept a fixed and rigid stare, and a young girl giggled hysterically and fainted with the laughter on her lips. When the spectral procession approached 230 the altar, each couple separated and slowly diverged, till in the centre appeared a form that had been worthily ushered in with all this gloomy pomp, the death-knell and the funeral. It was the bridegroom in his shroud. No garb but that of the grave cotdd have befitted such a 236 death-Uke aspect. The eyes, indeed, had the wild gleam of a sepidchral lamp; all else was fixed in the stem calmness which old men wear in the coffin. The corpse stood motion- less, but addressed the widow in accents that seemed to melt The Wedding-Knell i8i into the clang of the bell, which fell heavily on the air while he spoke. 240 "Come, my bride!" said those pale lips. "The hearse is ready; the sexton stands waiting for us at the door of the tomb. Let us be married, and then to our coffins!" How shall the widow's horror be represented? It gave her the ghastHness of a dead man's bride. Her youthful 245 friends stood apart, shuddering at the mourners, the shrouded bridegroom and herself; the whole scene expressed by the strongest imagery the vain struggle of the gUded vanities of this world when opposed to age, infirmity, sorrow, and death. 250 The awestruck silence was first broken by the clergyman. "Mr. Ellenwood," said he, soothingly, yet with somewhat of authority, "you are not well. Your mind has been agi- tated by the unusual circumstances in which you are placed. The ceremony must be deferred. As an old friend, let me 255 entreat you to return home." "Home — yes; but not without my bride," answered he, in the same hoUow accents. "You deem this mockery — perhaps madness. Had I bedizened my aged and broken frame with scarlet and embroidery, had I forced my 260 withered Ups to smile at my dead heart, that might have been mockery or madness; but now let young and old declare which of us has come hither without a wedding- garment — the bridegroom or the bride." He stepped forward at a ghostly pace and stood beside 265 the widow, contrasting the awful simplicity of his shroud with the glare and glitter in which she had arrayed herself for this unhappy scene. None that beheld them could deny the terrible strength of the moral which his disordered intellect had contrived to draw. 270 " Cruel •! cruel!" groaned the heartstricken bride. "Cruel?" repeated he; then, losing his deathlike compos- ure in a wild bitterness, "Heaven judge which of us has . been cruel to the other ! In youth you deprived me of my i82 American Literary Readings 276 happiness, my hopes, my aims; you took away all the substance of my life and made it a dream without reality enough even to grieve at — with only a pervading gloom, through which I walked wearily and cared not whither. But after forty years, when I have biult my tomb and would 280 not give up the thought of resting there — no, not for such a life as we once pictured — you call me to the altar. At your summons I am here. But other husbands have enjoyed your youth, your beauty, your warmth of heart and all that could be termed your life. What is there for me but your decay 285 and death? And therefore I have bidden these funeral- friends, and bespoken the sexton's deepest kneU, and am come in my shroud to wed you as with a burial-service, that we may join our hands at the door of the sepulchre and enter it together." 290 It was not frenzy, it was not merely the drunkenness of strong emotion in a heart unused to it, that now wrought upon the bride. The stem lesson of the day had done its work ; her worldliness was gone, She seized the bridegroom's hand. 296 "Yes!" cried she; "let us wed even at the door of the sepulchre. My Hfe is gone in vanity and emptiness, but at ite close there is one true feeling. It has made me what I was in youth : it makes me worthy of you. Time is no more for both of us. Let us wed for eternity." 300 With 91 long and deep regard the bridegroom looked into her eyes, while a tear was gathering in his own. How strange that gush of htrnian feeling from the frozen bosom of a corpse ! He wiped away the tear, even with his shroud. " Beloved of my youth," said he, " I have been wild. The 306 despair of my whole lifetime had returned at once and mad- dened me. Forgive and be forgiven. Yes; it is evening with us now, and we have realized none of our morning dreams of happiness. But let us join our hands before the altar as lovers whom adverse circumstances have separated 310 through life, yet who meet again as they are leaving it The Wedding-Knell 183 and find their earthly affection changed into something holy as religion. And what is time to the married of eternity?" Amid the tears of many and a swell of exalted sentiment in those who felt aright was solemnized the union of two immortal souls. The train of withered mourners, the hoary 315 bridegroom in his shroud, the pale features of the aged bride and the death-bell tolling through the whole till its deep voice overpowered the marriage-words, — all marked the funeral of earthly hopes. But as the ceremony proceeded, the organ, as if stirred by the sympathies of this impressive 320 scene, poured forth an anthem, first mingling with the dismal knell, then rising to a loftier strain, till the soul looked down upon its woe. And when the awful rite was finished and with cold hand in cold hand the married of eternity with- drew, the organ's peal of solemn triimiph drowned the 325 wedding-kneU. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFEL'LOW 1807-1882 Whenever American poets are mentioned, the name that flashes at once into the mind at the head of the list is that of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Like Washington, but in a literary rather than in a political sense, he is "first in the hearts of his countr3mien." He has produced a larger body of poetry than has any other of our poets, his poems are more familiarly read and quoted than are the works of any of our other writers, and he has been more widely trans- lated and more prominently recognized abroad, particularly in England, as the most representative, if not the most original and powerful, of our poets. Longfellow is the only one of the more distinguished New England men of letters bom outside the present borders of Massachusetts. Portland, Maine, his birthplace, was really a part of Massachusetts at the time of his birth, February 27, 1807. He studied at Bowdoin College, and was graduated in 1825 along with Nathaniel Hawthorne and several other men who rose to prominence. Long- fellow's father was a lawyer, and he had proposed to give his son a legal education after he finished college; but in his senior year the young man professed in a letter to his father his aspiration for future eminence in litera- ture. "Whether Nature has given me any capacity for knowledge or not, she has at any rate given me a 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 law." He had asked the privilege of spending a year after graduation at Bowdoin in studying what was then called belles-lettres, or polite literature, at Harvard College. His father consented, but the trustees of Bowdoin College offered the young graduate a professorship in modem languages on the condition that he should go abroad for study at his own expense. His father furnished the money, and the pros- pective professor, then but nineteen, sailed for Europe. He fi84l From a painting by Healy in the possession of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW Henry Wadsworih Longfellow 185 spent three years studying the languages and literatures of France, Spain, Italy, and Germany. This contact with European literature and culture was the best possible preparation for his later work as a poet. He returned to Bowdoin and began his work as a teacher in 1829. He had not only to do all the work of directing his classes in the various foreign languages, but also to prepare elementary textbooks for the guidance of his pupils. He did his work well, and in 1834 he was called to succeed George Ticknor as Smith professor of French and Spanish at Harvard College. In April, 1835, he sailed again to Europe for another year and a half of study. In 183 1 he had married Miss Mary Potter of Portland, and he took his wife along with him. Her health was delicate, and she died in Rotterdam, Holland, some months later. She is fittingly commemorated in the poem "Footsteps of Angels." Partly to bury himself from his grief and partly in prep- aration for his future work at Harvard, the poet plunged into the study of German language and literature. He made good progress and by the siunmer of 1836 he was ready to return to America to enter upon his professorship. When he went to Cambridge, he was directed to the home of Mrs. Craigie, who owned the famous old Craigie House where General Washington once had his headquarters during the Revolutionary War. Mrs. Craigie at first refused to accept him, taking him for a college student, but when she found out that he was the new professor and the author of Outre Mer, she gave him rooms in her home. When Longfellow married Miss Frances Appleton in 1843, his father-in-law made them a present of Craigie House, which has since become a sort of Uterary shrine for pilgrims from all over the world. There Longfellow lived the remainder of his life. After eighteen years of service he resigned his professorship to James Russell Lowell, but he continued to live in Cambridge and take a lively interest in the affairs of the university. Longfellow's prose works are Outre Mer ("Beyond the Sea") (1833), a sort of imitation of Irving's Sketch Book with scenes drawn from France, Spain, and Italy; Hyperion (1839), a sentimentalized romance interspersed with German legends, translation, and bits of description; and Kavanagh (1849), .a realistic novel of rural New England life. These have been overshadowed by the greater popularity of his i86 American Literary Readings poetical works, but the last two in particular are well worth a perusal, especially while one is young. The style is per- haps too highly colored and the stories too sentimental for the more robust modem taste, but these works give Long- fellow a right to a place in the history of American romantic prose. The history of Longfellow's poetical production begins at least in his thirteenth year when the Portland Gazette published his "Battle of Lovell's Pond." He continued to write poetry from this time until his death in 1882. His first volume of verse, Voices of the Night, was published in 1839; in 1841 Ballads and Other Poems appeared; and in 1846, The Belfry of Bruges and Other Poems. From the first of these volumes we have selected for publication here "A Psalm of Life" and "Hymn to the Night"; from the second "The Wreck of the Hesperus," "Maidenhood," and "Excelsior"; from the third "The Arrow and the Song." Though forced to omit many a favorite, we think that these, along with Evangeline and the sonnet called "Divina Commedia," are fairly representative of Longfellow's lyric and epic powers. Other single volumes of poetry appeared from time to time, up to his death, but these have now all been included in his collected works and need not be men- tioned separately here. The enthusiastic and widespread reception accorded these early volumes led the poet to essay greater themes. His mind was steeped in European literature and legend, but more and more he was turning to American life, legend, and history for his subjects. In 1847 appeared what is now recognized as the greatest of all his works, Evangeline, the epic-idyl of the Anglo-French conflict for supremacy on the North American continent. Other great narrative works followed, such as Hiawatha (1855), The Courtship of Miles Standish (1858), and Tales of a Wayside Inn (1863). Some have pronounced Hiawatha the -most original con- tribution to our literature, and others have hailed it as the only truly American epic. But in spite of its originality, its aboriginal American coloring, and its appealing beauty, we are inclined to rank it below Evangeline in artistic power and fundamental human appeal. The Courtship of Miles Standish is deservedly popular, though Longfellow does not seem to handle the hexameter in this happier-toned poem so well as he did in the more melancholy and solemn-toned Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 187 Evangeline. \t is interesting to know that Longfellow traced his ancestry on his. mother's side back to John and Priscilla Alden, the hero and heroine of the romance. Tales of a Wayside Inn is modeled on Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. The characters gathered in the old inn at Sudbury near Cambridge are described in the Prelude very much as Chaucer's Canterbury pilgrims are presented in the Prologue. The first of the tales, "Paul Revere's Ride," told by the landlord, has proved to be the most popular, though the poet's first tale, " The Birds of Killingworth," is more poetical, being appraised by Emerson as "serene, happy, and im- mortal." Although Longfellow wrote some dramas, he did not yet possess a strong dramatic gift. The Spanish Student, a play in three acts, appeared in 1843. With a beautiful Spanish dancing girl as heroine and a dashing Spanish student as hero, one might think that the poet would have produced a good strong play; but such is not the case. It is a dramatic poem or closet drama rather than a good acting play. And so it is with Longfellow's other attempts at dramatization. The Golden Legend (1851), later included as the second part of the Christus trilogy, is in dramatic form, but it is merely a poem on "Der Arine Heinxich" legend which interprets rather beautifully some phases of medieval life. The other two parts of the Christus, naniely. The New England Trage- dies (1868) and The Divine Tragedy (1872), are now ranked as practical failures in spite of the high estimate which the poet put upon this work of his later years. The Masque of Pandora is another dramatic work. It was put on the stage in Boston in 1881, but it failed to attract audiences. The last large work done by Longfellow was his excellent translation of Dante's Divina Commedia. He had contem- plated this task for some years and had done something on it, but it was not until after the death of his wife that he set himself seriously to complete the translation. He finally pubhshed it in 1870, prefixing to each of the three parts two original sonnets of surpassing beauty. The first of these we have chosen for reproduction here. The personal refer- ence in this sonnet to the loss of his wife is particularly pathetic. Her dress caught fire, and before her husband could put out the flames she was burned so badly that she died within a short time. Longfellow went abroad for the third time in 1868. He 1 88 American Literary Readings was received everywhere with enthusiasm. In England he met many celebrated literary and public men, was invited to dine with the queen, and was honored with the degree of LL.D. by Cambridge University. It is said that his works were as well known in England as Tennyson's, and naturally the masses of the people, as well as the notable persons, were glad to welcome one who had given therii so much pleasure. And at home he was similarly honored. On his seventy-second birthday, the Cambridge school children presented to him a chair made from the wood of "the spreading chestnut tree" of Village Blacksmith fame, and the schools of the whole country celebrated his seventy- fifth birthday. He died on March 24, 1882., and was buried in Mount Auburn Cemetery, Cambridge. Long- fellow is the only American poet who has been honored with a memorial in Westminster Abbey. We usually say that Longfellow is the most popular of our poets, and yet he is not an American of the most char- acteristic type. He lived in an academic atmosphere all his life, and he represented the older European culture more than he did the fresh, vigorous American life. He knew books and life through books better than he knew men and life through actual contact with the busy world. But he was by no means a recluse; in fact, he was conspicuously generous in giving his time and personality to the entertain- ment of Americans and foreigners who sought him out. And it is said that his doors were never closed against the children. But, after all, his life was largely spent amid books — writing, teaching, reading, absorbed in the literatures of many nations. He felt deeply, but not passionately, and he controlled his emotions perfectly, both in life and in his poetry. He was no eager reformer or wild devotee burning -with the white heat of enthusiasm and passion, but a calm, soberminded, peace-loving, home-loving bard. "Although he is not necessarily among the twelve greatest poets of the world, he is incontestably a great benefactor and a great man." During recent years there has been, a tendency among some of the more sophisticated critics to speak slightingly of Longfellow's genius. They accuse him of being over- moral, sentimental, simple, commonplace, unimaginative. They admit the popularity and power of his work so far as the general public is concerned, but they immediately dodge Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 189 behind the insinuating query, "Is it art?" To all such critics we reply that to touch the hearts of a whole people, to inspire youth and comfort age, to express the profoundest ideals of the individual and the national life in pleasing and enduring literary form is art of the only kind worthy of attention. It is to be hoped that the time will not soon come when American youths shall be robbed of the pleasure and inspiration that come to them from reading the simple, heart-moving poems of Henry W. Longfellow. (The standard life of Longfellow is that by his brother, Samuel Longfellow. This three-volume book contains a great many letters and extracts from Longfellow's Journals, and is a storehouse of informa- tion about the poet. A good short life is that by E. S. Robertson in the Great Writers Series.) EVANGELINE A TALE OF ACADIE 1847 This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hen^locks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistiiict in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic. Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. 5 Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman? Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers, — 10 Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the wood- lands. Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven? Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers for ever departed ! Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean. [190] Evangeline 191 Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of 15 Grand-Pr^. Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient. Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion, List to the mournful tradition, still sung by the pines of the forest; List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy. Part the First I In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, 20 Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward. Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number. Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant. Shut out the ttu-bulent tides; but at stated seasons the 25 flood-gates Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows. West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the moun- tains Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty so Atlantic Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended. There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village. 1 92 American Literary Readings Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of chestnut, Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries. 35 Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting Over the basement below protected and shaded the door- way. There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys, Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles 40 Scarlet and blue and green, with -distaffs spinning the golden Flax, for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens. Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them. 45 Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens. Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome. Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village 50 Colimms of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending. Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment. Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers, — Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from Evangeline 193 Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics. Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their 55 windows; But their dwelHngs were open as day and the hearts of the owners ; There the richest was poor^ and the poorest lived in abundance. Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas, Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pre, Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his house- eo hold. Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village. Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters; Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow- flakes'; White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves. Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers, es Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the way-side. Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses! Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows. When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the 70 maiden. Fairer was she when, on Sunday mom, while the bell from its turret Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop 194 American Literary Readings Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal, 76 Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings, Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heir- loom, Handed down from mother to child, through long generations. But a celestial brightness — a more ethereal beauty — Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession, 80 Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her. When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it. 85 Rudely carved was the porch,' with seats beneath; and a footpath Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow. Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse. Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the road-side, Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary. 90 Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses. Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the bams and the farm-yard. Evangeline 195 There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows; There were the folds for the sheep ; and there, in his feathered seraglio, Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the 95 selfsame Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter. Bursting with hay were the bams, themselves a village. In each one Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase, Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft. There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent 100 inmates Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled.and sang of mutation. Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pre Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household. Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his 105 missal. Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion; Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment ! Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended. And as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps. Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of no iron; Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village. Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered Hurried words of love, that seemed 'a part of the music. But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome; Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith, us 196 American Literary Readings Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men ; For since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations, Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people. Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhood 120 Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician, Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters Out of the selfsame book, with the hjmms of the church and the plain-song. But when the hymn was stmg, and the daily lesson completed. Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the black- smith. 125 There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything, Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders. Oft on auttimnal eves, when without in the gathering dark- ness 130 Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice. Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows. And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes. Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel. Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle, 135 Down the hill-side boimding, they glided away o'er the meadow. Oft in the bams they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters, Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow Evangeline 197 Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings; Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow! Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were uo children. He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning. Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action. She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman. "Sunshine of Saint Eulalie" was she called; for that was the sunshine Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards 145 with apples; She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance, Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children. II Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer, And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters. Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the 150 ice-bound. Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands. Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of September Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel. All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their iss honey Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters asserted Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fiu: of the foxeS. igS American Literary Readings Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season, Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints! 160 Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood. Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended. Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm- yards, 165 Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons, All were subdued and low as the murmtirs of love, and the great sun Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him; While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow. Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest 170 Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels. Now recommenced the reign of rest and afEection and stillness. Day with its burden and heat had departed, and tv^light descending Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead. Pawing the grotmd they came, and resting their necks on each other, 175 And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening. Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer, Evangeline i99 Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar, Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of hvanan affection. Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the sea-side, Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed iso the watch-dog, Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct. Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers; Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector. When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, ise the wolves howled. Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes, Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor. Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks. While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles, Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of 190 crimson. Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavywith blossoms. Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended. Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the 195 farm-yard, Echoed back by the bams. Anon they sank into stillness; Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors, Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent. 200 American Literary Readings In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer 200 Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him, Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic. Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness. Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair 205 Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates' on the dresser Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sun- shine. Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas, Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards. 210 Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated, Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the comer behind her. Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle. While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe. Followed the old man's song, and united the fragments together. 215 As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases. Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar. So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked. Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted. Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges. Evangeline 201 Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the 220 blacksmith, And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him. "Welcome!" the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold, "Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the settle Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee; Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of 225 tobacco ; Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes." Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith. Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside: — 230 "Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad! Ever in cheerfuUest mood art thou, when others are filled with ^ Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them. Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe." Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought 233 him. And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued: — "Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us. 202 American Literary Readings What their design may be is unknown; but all are com- manded 240 On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the mean time Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people." Then made answer the farmer: — "Perhaps some friendlier purpose Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England 245 By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted, And from our bursting bams they would feed their cattle and children." "Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, warmly, the blacksmith, Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he con- tinued: — "Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau S^jour, nor Port Royal. 260 Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its out- skirts. Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow. Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds ; Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower." Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer: — 266 "Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields. Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean. Than were our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon. Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow Evangeline 203 Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract. Built are the house and the bam. The merry lads of the zeo village Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about them, Filled the bam with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth. Ren6 Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and ink- horn. Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?" As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her zes lover's, Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken. And as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered. Ill Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean. Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public; Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung 270 Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bows Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal. Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick. Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a 275 captive. Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English. Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion. Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and child- like. 204 American Literary Readings He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children; 280 For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest, And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses, And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children; And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable, 285 And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell. And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes. With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village. Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the black- smith, Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand, 290 "Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, "thou hast heard the talk in the village. And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand." Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public:—- "Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser; And what their errand may be, I know not better than others. 295 Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention Brings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us?" "God's name!" shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith; "Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore? Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest!" Evangeline 205 But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary 300 public: — "Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me. When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal." This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it When his neighbors complained that any injustice was done sos them. " Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember, Raised aloft on a coltimn, a brazen statue of Justice Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand, And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the 310 ■ people. Even the birds had' built their nests in the scales of the balance. Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them. But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted ; Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty - Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's au palace That a necklace of pearls was lost, and ere long a suspicion Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household. She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold. Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice. As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended, 320 Lo ! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand Down on the pavement, below the clattering scales of the balance. And in the hollow thereof was foimd the nest of a magpie. 2o6 American Literary Readings 826 Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven." Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language; All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter. 330 Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table, Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home- brewed Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pr6; While from his pocket the notary direw his papers and inkhom. Wrote with a steady hand the date, and the age of the parties, 335 Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle. Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed, And the great seal of the law was set like a sim on the margin. Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver; 340 And the notary, rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom. Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare. Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed arid departed, While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside, Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its comer. 346 Soon was the game begim. In friendly contention the old men Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre. Evangeline 207 Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row. Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure. Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows. 350 Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. Thus passed the evening away. Anon the bell from the belfry Rang out the hoiu- of nine, the village curfew, and straight- way Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the 366 household. . Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-step Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness. Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone. And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer. Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed, seo Up the staircase moved a liuninous space in the darkness, Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden. Silent she passed through the hall, and entered the door of her chamber. Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully 366 folded Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven. This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage. Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife. 2o8 American Literary Readings Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight 870 Streamed through the windows and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean. Ah ! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber! Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard, 875 Waited her lover, and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow. Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment. And as she gazed from the window she saw serenely the moon pass 880 Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps, As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar! IV Pleasantly rose next mom the stm on the village of Grand-Pr6. Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas, Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor. 3 85 Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning. Now from the country around, from the farms and the neighboring hamlets. Evangeline 209 Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants. Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk Made the bright air brighter, as up from the mmierous 390 meadows, Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward, Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway. Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced. Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doors Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. 395 Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted; For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together, All things were held in common, and what one had was another's. Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant : For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father; loo Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness Fell from her beautiful Hps, and blessed the cup as she gave it. Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard. Stripped of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal. There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the 405 notary seated; There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith. Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives, Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats. Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white 210 American Literary Readings 410 Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers. Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle, Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dunkerque, And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music. 416 Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows; Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them. Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter! Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith ! 420 So passed the morning away. And lo! with a summons sonorous Sounded the bell f-rom its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat. Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard. Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the head-stones Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest. 426 Then came the guard from the ships, and, marching proudly among them. Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement, — Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers. 430 Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar, Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal com- mission. Evangeline 211 "You are convened this day," he said, "by his Majesty's orders. Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness. Let your own hearts reply! To my natural make and my temper Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be 435 grievous. Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch; Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this province Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people! 44o Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his Majesty's pleasure!" As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer, Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones Beats down the farmer's com in the field and shatters his windows. Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from 445 the house-roofs. Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures; So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker. Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger. And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door- 450 way. Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations 212 American Literary Readings Rang through the house of prayer; and high o'er the heads of the others Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the black- smith. As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows. 455 Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he shouted: "Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn them allegiance! Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!" More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement. 460 In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention, Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar. Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people; 465 Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alanun, distinctly the clock strikes. "What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you? Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you. Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another! 470 Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations? Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness? Evangeline 213 This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred? Lo ! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you! See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy 475 compassion ! Hark ! howthose lipsstill repeat the prayer, '0 Father, forgive them!' Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us. Let us repeat it now, and say, 'O Father, forgive them! ' " Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate 48o outbreak ; And they repeated his prayer, and said, "O Father, forgive them!" Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar. Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded. Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave Maria Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with 485 devotion translated. Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven. Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children. Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, 490 descending, 214 American Literary Readings Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed each Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows. Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table; There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild-flowers; 495 There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy; And at the head of the board the great arm-chair of the farmer. Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows. Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen, 600 And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended, — Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience ! Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village, Cheering with looks and words the disconsolate hearts of the women. As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed, 505 Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children. Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai. Sweetly over the village the bell of the Aiigelus sounded. Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered. 610 All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windows Evangeline 215 Stood she, and listened and looked, until, overcome by emotion, "Gabriel!" cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answer Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living. Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father. Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was the su supper untasted. Empty and drear was each room,- and haunted with phan- toms of terror. Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber. In the dead of the night she heard the whispering rain fall Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window. Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing 520 thunder^ Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created! Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven; Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning. Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm- sn house. Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession. Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women. Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore, 2i6 American Literary Readings Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings, B30 Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland. Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen, While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings. Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants. 535 All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply; All day long the wains came laboring down from the village. Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting. Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard. Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors 640 Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers. Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country. Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and way-worn. So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended 545 Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters. Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices. Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions : — "Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain! Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!" Evangeline 217 Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that 550 stood by the way-side Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence. Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction, — Calmly and sadly waited, until the procession approached her, 555 And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion. Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him, Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whispered : "Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one another. Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may seo happen!" Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her father Saw she slowly advancing. Alas! how changed was his aspect ! Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstep Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom. But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and 565 embraced him, , Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not. Thus to .the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession. There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking. Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion 2i8 - American Literary Readings 670 Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. So vinto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried. While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father. Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight 676 Deepened and darkened arovind; and in haste the refluent ocean Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery seaweed. Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons, Like .to a Gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle, 580 All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them. Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers. Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean. Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors. 685 Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures; Sweet was the moist, still air with the odor of milk from their udders; Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard, — Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid. Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded, 590 Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows. Evangeline 219 But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled, Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest. Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered, Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children. Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his 595 parishj^ Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering, Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore. Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father, And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man, Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or eoo emotion, E'en as- the fa;ce of a clock from which the hands have been taken. Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him. Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not, But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire- light. " Benedicite!" murmured the priest, in tones of com-eos passion. More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold, Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awftil presence of sorrow. Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden. 220 American Literary Readings 610 Raising his eyes full of tears, to the silent stars that above them Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals. Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence. Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autiunn the blood-red Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon 615 Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow. Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together. Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village. Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead. Coltimns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were 620 Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr. Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting. Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled. These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard. 625 Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish, " We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand- Pre!" Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards, Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle Evangeline 221 Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs inter- rupted. Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping oso encampments Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska, When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind. Or the loud-bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river. Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er ess the meadows. Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them; And as they turned at length to speak to their silent com- panion, Lo ! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shore Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed, eio Slowly the priest uplifted the hfeless head, and the maiden Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror. Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom. Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber; And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude 645 near her. Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her. Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion. Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape. Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her. And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses, eso 222 American Literary Readings Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people: " Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile, Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard." 655 Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the seaside, Having the glare of the burning village for ftmeral torches. But without bell or book, they btiried the farmer of Grand- Pre. And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow, Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congrega- tion, 660 Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. 'T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean. With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward. Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embark- ing; And with the ebb of that tide the ships sailed out of the harbor, 665 Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins. Part the Second I Many a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand- Pr^, When on the falHng tide the freighted vessels departed, Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile, — Exile without an end, and without an example in story. 670 Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed; Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the northeast Evangeline 223 Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of Newfoundland. Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to to city, From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern sa- vannas, — From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the 875 Father of Waters Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean, Deep in their sands to hxiry the scattered bones of the mammoth. Friends they sought and homes; and many, despairing, heart-broken. Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside. Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the eso > chtirchyards. Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered. Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things. Fair was she and young; but, alas! before her extended, Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its path- way Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suf- ess fered before her, Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and aban- doned, As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked by Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine. Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfin- ished; As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine, 89o Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen. 2 24 American Literary Readings Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her, Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit, 695 She would commence again her endless search and endeavor; Sometimes in chturchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones. Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom He was already at rest, and she longed to slimiber beside him. Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper, 700 Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward. Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him, But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten. "Gabriel Lajeunesse!" said they; "O yes! we have seen him. He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the -prairies ; 705 Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trap- pers." "Gabriel Lajeunesse!" said others; "0 yes! we have seen him. He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana." Then would they say: "Dear child! why dream and wait for him longer? Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? others 710 Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal? Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee Many a tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be happy ! Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's tresses." Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, "I cannot ! Evangeline 225 Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and 71s not elsewhere. For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway, Many tHings are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness. " And thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor, Said, with a smile: "O daughter! thy God thus speaketh within thee! Talk not of wasted affection, — affection never was wasted; 720 If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment ; That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. Patience! accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy work of affection ! Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is god- 725 like. ' Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike. Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven!" Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline labored and waited. Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean. But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, 730 " Despair not ! " Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless dis- comfort, Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence. Let me essay, O Muse! to follow the wanderer's foot- steps; — Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence ; But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the 735 valley : 226 American Literary Readings Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water Here and there in some open space, and at intervals only; Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it, * Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur^ 740 Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet. II It was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River, Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash, Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi, Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen. 745 It was a band of exiles: a raft, as it were, from the ship- wrecked Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together. Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common mis- fortune; Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay, Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmers 760 On the^ Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas. With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician. Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with forests, Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river; Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders. 755 Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelike Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current, Evangeline 227 Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin, Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded. Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river, reo Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens, Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dove- cots. They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual simmier. Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron. Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward. 755 They, too, swerved from their course; and, entering the Bayou of Plaquemine, Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters, Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction. Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypress Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air 770 Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals. Deathlike the silence seemed, and imbroken, save by the herons Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset. Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter. Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the 775 water, Gleamed on the columns, of cypress and cedar sustaining the arches, Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a ruin. Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around them; 228 American Literary Readings And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sadness, — 780 Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be com- passed. As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies, Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa, So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil. Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it. 785 But Evangeline's heart was sustained by . a vision, that faintly Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight. It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a phantom. Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her. And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer. 790 Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen. And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventure Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle. Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang. Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest. 795 Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music. Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance, Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches ; But not a voice replied; no answer came from the darkness; And when the echoes had ceased, Uke a sense of pain was the silence. Evangeline 229 Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the goo midnight, Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs. Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers. And through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert, Far off, indistinct, as of wave or wind in the forest, Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the sos grim alligator. Thus ere another noon they emerged from those shades; and before them Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya.- Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen, sio Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia ^ blossoms. And with the heat of noon; and numberless sylvan islands, Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses. Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to sltunber. Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were sis suspended. Under the boughs of Wachita wUlows, that grew by the margin. Safely their boat was moored; and scattered about on the greensward. Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers sltim- bered. Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar. Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the 820 grape-vine Htmg their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob, On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending. 230 American Literary Readings Were the swift hiimming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom. Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it. 825 FiUed was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial. Nearer and ever nearer, among the numberless islands, Darted a Ught, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water, Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers. 830 Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver. At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and careworn. Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadness Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written. Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, tmhappy and restless, 835 Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow. Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island. But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos. So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows. And undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers; 840 Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden. Swiftly they glided away, Uke the shade of a cloud on the , prairie. After the soimd of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance, As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, "O Father Felicianl Evangeline 231 Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders, sis Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition? Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit? " Then, with a blush, she added: "Alas for my credulous fancy! Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning." But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he sso answered: — "Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they to me without meaning. Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surface Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden. Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls « illusions. Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the south- sss ward, On the banks of the TSche, are the towns of St. MaUr and St. Martin. There the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegroom. There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheep- fold. Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fitiit- trees; Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens seo Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest. They who dweU there have named it the Eden of Louisiana." And with these words of cheer they arose and contiiiued their joumey. Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape ; ses Twinkling, vapors arose ; and sky and water and forest 232 American Literary Readings Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together. Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver, Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water. 870 Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness. Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling Glowed with the Hght of love, as the skies and waters around her. Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers, Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water, 875 Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music. That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to Usten. Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madness Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes. Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation; 880 Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision. As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches. With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion, Slowly they entered the TIche, where it flows through the green Opelousas, 886 And through the amter air, above the crest of the wood- land. Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighboring dwelling; — Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle. Evangeline 233 III Near to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks, from whose branches Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted, Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Ytile- 89o * tide, Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. A garden Girded it rotmd about with a belt of luxviriant blossoms, Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of timbers Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together. Large and low was the roof; and on slender columns sup- sss ported, Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious veranda. Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it. At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden, Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual symbol. Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals. 900 Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow and sunshine Ran near the tops of the trees; but the house itself was in shadow. And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose. In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathway 905 Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie, * Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending. Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics, Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grape-vines. 910 Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie, 234 American Literary Readings Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups, Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deer-skin. Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombrero 915 Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master. Round about him were numberless herds of kine that were grazing Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory freshness That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the land- scape. Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding 920 Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening. Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean. Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the prairie, 925 And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance. Then, as the herdsman ttuned to the house, through the gate of the garden Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him. Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forward Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder; 930 When they beheld his face, they ^cognized Basil the Black- smith. Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden. There in an arbor of roses with endless question and answer Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces, Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful. Evangeline 235 Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark doubts and 935 misgivings Stole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, somewhat embar- rassed, Broke the silence and said: "If you came by the Atcha- falaya. How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's boat on the bayous?" Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed. Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous 940 accent : — "Gone? is Gabriel gone?" and, concealiag her face on his shoulder. All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented. Then the good Basil said, — and his voice grew blithe as he said it, — "Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he departed. Foolish boy! he has left me alone with my herds and my 945 horses. Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spirit Could no longer endtire the calm of this quiet existence. Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever. Ever sUent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles, He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens, 950 Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent him Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards. Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Moun- tains, Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver. Therefore be of good cheer; we wiU foUow the fugitive lover; 955 He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him. 236 American Literary Readings Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morning We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison." Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river, 980 Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler. Long vinder Basil's roof had he lived like a god on Olympus, Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals. Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle. "Long live Michael," they cried, "our brave Acadian minstrel!" 9 65 As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and straight- way Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while BasU, enraptured. Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips. Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters. 970 Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the ci-devant blacksmith. All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanor; Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the cHmate, And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who would take them; Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise. 975 Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the airy veranda, Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil Waited his late return; and they rested and feasted together. Evangeline 237 Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended. All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with f silver, Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but within sso • doors, Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmer- ing lamplight. Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion. Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco, Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as oss they listened: — "Welcome once more, my friends, who so long have been friendless and homeless. Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one! Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers; Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer. Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel 090 through the water. All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom; and grass grows More in a single night than a whole Canadian stimmer. Here, too, ntimberless herds run wild and imclaimed in the prairies; Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timber With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into 995 houses. After yotir houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests. No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads, 238 American Literary Readings Burning yottr dwellings and bams, and stealing your farms and your cattle." ;• Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils, 1000 And his huge, brawny hand came thundering down on the table, So that the guests aU started; and Father Felician, astounded, Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to his nostrils. But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were nulder and gayer: — "Only beware of the fever, my friends,, beware of the fever! 1005 For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate, Cvired by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nutshell!" Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approaching ^ Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda. It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian planters, 1010 Who had been simmioned all to the house of Basil the Herdsman. Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbors: Friend clasped friend in his arms; and they who before were as strangers, Meeting in exUe, became straightway as friends to each other. Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together. 1016 But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, proceeding From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious fiddle, Btoke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted, All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddening Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music, 1020 Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments. Evangeline 239 Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsman Sat, conversing together of past and present and future; While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music Heard she the sotmd of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness 1025 Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden. Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest. Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight. Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious 1030 spirit. Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian. Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews, Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical loss moonlight Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, As, through the garden gate, and beneath the brown shade of the oak-trees, Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie. Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies Gleamed and floated away in mingled and infinite numbers. 1040 Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens. Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship. 240 American Literary Readings Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple, As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, "Upharsin." 1045 And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire- flies, Wandered alone, and she cried: "0 Gabriel! O my beloved! Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee? Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me? Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie! 1050 Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me! Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor. Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers ! When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?" ' Loud and sudden and near the notes of a whippoorwill Sounded 1065 Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets. Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. "Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness; And, from the moonUt meadow, a sigh responded, "To- morrow!" Bright rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the garden loeo Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses With -the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal. Evangeline 241 "Farewell!" said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold; "See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and famine, And, too, the FooHsh Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming." "Farewell!" answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil loes descended Down to the river's brink, where the boatmen already were waiting. Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and gladness. Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before them, Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert. Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded, io7o Fotmd they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river. Nor, after many days, had they found him; but vague and uncertain Rumors alone were their guides through a wild and desolate country; Till, at the Uttle inn of the Spanish town of Adayes, Weary and worn, they ahghted, and learned from the garru- 1075 lous landlord. That on the day before, with horses and guides and com- panions, Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies. IV Far in the West there lies a desert land, where the moun- tains Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and Itmiinous sum- mits. Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, hke loso a. gateway. Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's wagon, 242 American Literary Readings Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee. Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river Mountains, Through the Sweetwater Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska; 1086 And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras. Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert, Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean, Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vi- brations. Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies, 1090 BiUowy bays of grass ever rolUng in shadow and svmshine. Bright with luxviriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas. Over them wander the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck; Over them wander the wolves, and herds of riderless horses; Fires that blast and bUght, and winds that are weary with travel; 1096 Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children. Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible war- trails Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture. Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered ia battle, By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens, uoo Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders; Here and there rise groves from the margin of swift-running rivers; And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert, Creeps down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook-side. Evangeline 243 And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven, Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them. 1105 Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains, Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him. Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him. Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his mo camp-fire Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but at nightfall. When they had reached the place, they foimd only embers and ashes. And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary, Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana Showed them her lakes of Hght, that retreated and vanished nu before them. Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow. She was a Shawnee woman retttming home to her people, From the far-off himting-grounds of the cruel Camanches, 1120 Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been murdered. Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome Gave they, with .words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them 244 American Literary Readings On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers. 1125 But when their meal was done, and Basil and aU his com- panions, Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the bison. Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire-light Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their blankets, Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated 1130 Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent, All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses. Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another Hapless heart Uke her own had loved and had been dis- appointed. Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's com- passion, 1135 Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her. She in turn related her love and all its disasters. Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended Still was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horror Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis; 1140 Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden. But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam. Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine, Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far mto the forest. Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation, Evangeline 245 Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a lus phantom, That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of the twiUght, Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden. Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest, Never more to return, nor was seen again by her people. Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened nso To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her Seemed like enchanted grovmd, and her swarthy guest the enchantress. Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose. Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendor Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the 1155 woodland. With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers. Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a secret. Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror. As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the ueo swallow. It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of spirits Seemed to float in the air of night; and she felt for a moment That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom. With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished. Early upon the morrow the march was resumed; and the uu Shawnee Said, as they journeyed along: "On the western slope of these mountains 246 American Literary Readings Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission. Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus; Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him." 1170 Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered: "Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us!" Thither they turned their steeds; and behind a spur of the mountains, Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices, And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river, 1175 Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission. Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village, Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix fastened High on the trunk of the- tree, arid overshadowed by grape- vines, Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it. 1180 This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers. Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches. Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approach- ing, Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions. 1185 But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower. Evangeline 247 Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade them Welcome; and when they repUed, he smiled with benignant expression, Hearing the homeHke soimds of his mother-tongue in the forest, And with words of kindness conducted them into his wig- 1190 wam. There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize-ear Feasted,- and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher. Soon was their story told; and the priest with solemnity answered: — "Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes, 1195 Told me this same sad tale; then arose and continued his journey!" Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness; But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the snow-flakes Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed. "Far to the north he has gone," continued the priest; "but 1200 in autumn. When the chase is done, will retirni again to the Mission." Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and sub- missive, "Let me remain with thee, for my soiil is sad and afflicted." So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow. Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and 1205 companions, Homeward Basil returned, and EvangeUne stayed at the Mission. 248 American Literary Readings Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other, — Days and weeks and months; and the fields of maize that were springing Green from the grotmd when a stranger she came, now waving above her, 1210 Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels. Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover, But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the corn- field. 1215 Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover. "Patience!" the priest woxild say; "have faith, and thy prayer wiU be answered! Look at this delicate plant that lifts its head from the meadow. See how its leaves all point to the north, as true as the magnet ; This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has suspended 1220 Here on its fragile stalk, to direct the traveller's journey Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert. Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion. Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fiiller of fragrance. But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly. 1225 Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe." So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter, yet Gabriel came not; Evangeline 249 Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and blue-bird Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not. But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted 1230 Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom. Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests, Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw River. ' And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence, Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission. 1235 When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches, She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests, Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin! Thus did the long, sad years gUde on, and in seasons and places Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden; — 1240 Now in the tents of grace of the meek Moravian Missions, Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army, Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities. Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered. Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long 1245 journey; Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended. Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty. Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow. Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o'er her forehead. Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon, 1250 As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning. V In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters. Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle. 2 so American Literary Readings Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. 1266 There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty, And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest, ' As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested. There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile, Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country. 1260 There old Ren^ Leblanc had died; and when he departed, Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants. Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the city, Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger; And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers, 1266 For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country. Where aU men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters. So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor. Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining. Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps. 1270 As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning RoU away, and afar we behold the landscape below us. Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets. So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her, Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and the pathway 1275 Which she had chmbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance. Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image. Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him. Evangeline 251 Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence. Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not. Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but izso transfigured; He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent ; Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others. This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices. Suffered no waste nor loss, though fUHng the air with 1255 aroma. Other hope had she none, nor wish in Ufe, but to follow Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; frequenting Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city. Where distress and want concealed themselves from the 1290 stmHght, Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watch- man repeated Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city, High at some lonely window he saw the Ught of her taper. Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the 1295 suburbs Plodded the German^ fanner, with flowers and fruits for the market. Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings. Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city, Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons. Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws 1300 but an acorn. And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September, 252 American Literary Readings Flooding some silver stream, tUl it spreads to a lake in the meadow, So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin. Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence. 1305 Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor; But all perished aUke beneath the scourge of his anger; — Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants, Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands; — 1310 Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gateway and wicket Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo Softly the words of the Lord: "The poor ye always have with you." Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to. behold there 1315 Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor. Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles. Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance. Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial. Into whose shining gates ere long their spirits would enter. 1320 Thus, on a Sabbath mom, through the streets, deserted and silent. Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the alms- house. Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the garden; -^ And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them. That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty. Evangeline 253 . Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by 1325 the east wind, Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church, While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at Wicaco. Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit: Something within her said, "At length thy trials are ended" ; 1330 And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sicknessr Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces. Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the 1335 road-side. Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered. Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison. And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it for ever. 1340 Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night-time; Vacant their places were, or fiUed already by strangers. Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder. Still she stood, with her colorless Hps apart, while a shudder Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped 13*5 from her fingers, And from her eyes and cheeks the Hght and bloom of the morning. 254 American Literary Readings Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish, That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. 1350 Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples ; But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood; So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying. Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever, 1355 As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals. That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over. Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness. Darkness of slumber and death, for ever sinking and sinking. 1360 Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverbera- tions. Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-Eke, "Gabriel! my beloved!" and died away into silence. Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his child- hood; 136S Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them. Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking tmder their shadow. As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. Tears came into his eyes ; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside, ifro Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered Died on his lips, -and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken. Evangeline 255 Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him, Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness, As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. 1375 AU was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience ! And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom. Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank uso thee!" Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow. Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping. Under the humble walls of the little CathoUc chvirchyard. In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed. Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, uss Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and for ever. Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy. Thousands of toiHng hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors. Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey! Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its 1390 branches Dwells another race, with other customs and language.. Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom. Jn the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy; uss 256 American Literary Readings Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespim, And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story, While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. A PSALM OF LIFE WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST Tell me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!" For the soul is dead that slumbers. And things are not what they seem. i Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal ; "Dust thou art, to dust retumest," Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjojrment, and not sorrow, 1 Is ova destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting. And owe hearts, though stout and brave, i Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! I Be a hero in the strife ! Hymn to the Night 257 Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead ! Act, — act in the living Present ! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men aU remind us We can make ova lives sublime. And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er Hfe's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother. Seeing, shall tsike heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; StiU achieving, still pursuing. Learn to labor and to wait. HYMN TO THE NIGHT 'A.6Tta6iri, TpiXXidroi I heard the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls ! I felt her presence, by its speU of might. Stoop o'er me from above; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love, I heard the sounds of sorrow and deUght, The manifold, soft chimes. 2S8 American Literary Readings That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, Like some old poet's rhymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, — From those deep cisterns flows. holy Night! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before! Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more. Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! Descend with broad- winged flight, The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night! MAIDENHOOD Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes In whose orbs a shadow Ues Like the dusk in evening skies! Thou whose locks outshine the sun Golden tresses, wreathed in one, As the braided streamlets run! Standing, with reluctant feet. Where the brook and river meet. Womanhood and childhood fleet! Gazing, with a timid glance. On the brooklet's swift advance, On the river's broad expanse ! MaidenHood 259 Deep and still, that gliding stream Beautiful to thee must seem, As the river of a dream. Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian? Seest thou shadows sailing by. As the dove, with startled eye. Sees the falcon's shadow fly? Hearest thou voices on the shore. That our ears perceive no more. Deafened by the cataract's roar? O thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands, — Life hath snares! Care and age come unawares ! Like the swell of some sweet tune. Morning rises into noon, May glides onward into June. Childhood is the bough, where slumbered Birds and blossoms many-numbered; — Age, that bough with snows encumbered. Gather, then, each flower that grows. When the yoimg heart overflows, To embalm that tent of snows. Bear a lily in thy hand; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand. 26o American Literary Readings I Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth. On thy lips the smile of truth. O, that dew, like balm, shall steal Into wounds that cannot heal, i Even as sleep our eyes doth seal; And that smile, hke sunshine, dart Into many a sunless heart. For a smile of God thou art. EXCELSIOR The shades of night were falUng fast. As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, Excelsior! His brow was sad; his eye beneath. Flashed like a falchion from its sheath. And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue. Excelsior! In happy homes he saw the Ught Of household fires gleam warm and bright; Above, the spectral glaciers shone. And from his lips escaped a groan. Excelsior!.. Excelsior 261 "Try not the Pass!" the old man said; " Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior! "0 stay," the maiden said, "and rest Thy weary head upon this breast ! " A tear stood in his bright blue eye, But still he answered, with a sigh, Excelsior! "Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche!" This was the peasant's last Good-night ; A voice repUed, far up the height, Excelsior! At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint Bernard Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air, Excelsior ! A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half buried in the snow was found. Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device. Excelsior! There in the twilight cold and gray. Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay. And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star. Excelsior! 262 American Literary Readings THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 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 ia the month of May. The skipper he stood beside the hehn, I 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 saildr. Had sailed the Spanish Main, i "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 whifE from his pipe, ) And a scornful laugh laughed he. Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the northeast; The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed Hke yeast. 5 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. I He Wreck oj the Hesperus 263 "Come hither! come hither! my little daught&r, And do not tremble so; 3 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, 3 And bound her to the mast. "O father! I hear the church-bells ring, say, what may it be?" " 'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"— And he steered for the open sea. 4 "O father! I hear the sound of guns, 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, s The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That savM she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, 5 On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the n£dnight dark and drear. Through the whistling sleet and snow. 264 American Literary Readings Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept I 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 trampHng 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! The Arrow and the Song 265 THE ARROW AMD THE SONG I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so Swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, stiU unbfoke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. SONNET DiVINA COMMEDIA Oft have I seen at some cathedral door A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat. Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er; Far off the noises of the world retreat; The loud vociferations of the street Become an undistinguishable roar. So, as I enter here from day to day. And leave my burden at this minster gate, KneeUng in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, The tumult of the time disconsolate To inarticulate .murmurs dies away. While the eternal ages watch and wait, JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 1807-1892 John Greenleaf Whittier has been called "The Poet Laureate of New England," "The Quaker Poet," "The Bums of America." Any one of these titles may be aptly applied to him, but perhaps the first is most suggestive of his real service to American literature. He is called the Bums of America because, like the Scotch poet, he was bom on a farm and reared amid the usual isolation and hardships incident to farm life in his day, arid because, like Bums, he wrote most successfully about the things immediately connected with this rural life into which he was bom. But he lacked the Scotch singer's alertness for things of sense, his fiery passion, his keen ear for music, and hence in lyric power he falls far below the peasant bard. He is called the Quaker poet because he voiced the deepest religious moods of that particular sect. He was bom a Quaker, and he citing to this qtiiet, self-denying form of religion throughout his life. He inherited from his ances- tors that strict conscience and deeply religious nature which he poured forth in his hymns and moral odes. In fact, his sense for morality was so strong that it not infrequently overshadowed and obscured what little instinct for pure art he possessed. But above all he was, and is still, the poet laureate of New England life. He has taken the local legends and ballads and enshrined them in perma- nent art forms. He has painted the most perfect pictures of the rigid New England climate, and of the exquisite New England rural landscape, its hills and valleys, its fields and flowers, its coasts and rivers. He has given the most accu- rate portraits of the native New England population in all the simplicity, ptuity, and charm of that unsophisticated class of which he was himself a member. Whittier was bom December 17, 1807, near East Haver- hill, a small country village in northeast Massachusetts. He has given us in "Snow-Bound" a broad, sweeping winter picture of his birthplace, the old homestead built by his early Puritan ancestor Thomas Whittier; and a minutely [266] "'^^^ JOHN GREENLEAP WHITTIER John Greenleaf Whittier 267 drawn summer picture of the same spot in "Telling the Bees" and other personal poems. All the members of the family are mentioned and faithfully drawn in "SnoW- Bound" — the father and mother, John Whittier and Abigail Haney, Uncle Moses Whittier, Atint Mercy Hussey, the brother, Matthew Franklin Whittier, and the two sisters Mary and Elizabeth. Besides these, one of the village schoolmasters, George Haskell, and Miss Harriet Liver- more, that "half-welcome guest," are also included in the family circle of the particular week when the family were snowbound. Whittier's boyhood and early surroundings are inter- esting because they show what can come out of many a country home where there are energy and perseverance and ambition in the hearts of boys and girls similarly situ- ated. The school advantages were meager. Only a few months in the year were the children privileged to attend the district school. There were few books in the homes, but the few in the Whittier household were mostly well- chosen religious books. John Greenleaf made the best of his opportunities for an education, however, and he learned much that was valuable to him, both in school and on the farm. He showed at an early age his propensity for poetry, making on his slate rimes on the people he knew and the books he read. One of his teachers, Joshua Coffin, later immortalized in the poem "To My Old Schoolmaster," one day read to the Whittier family some of Burns's songs. The lad was enchanted. So eager was he for more of this delightful Scotch verse that the teacher offered to leave the volume with him for a few days. He conned the hard Scotch dialect until he could read it with ease, and from that time on he felt that he too wanted to .become a poet. In a later poem on Bums he acknowledges his debt. " New light on home-seen Nature beamed. New glory over Woman; And daily life and duty seemed No longer poor and common.'' After school time the boy was put to work at the hard tasks of the farm, but he was not particularly strong, and once he injured himself, so that thereafter he was not expected to undertake the very heaviest tasks. He took up the trade of making shoes, and this enabled him a little 268 American Literary Readings later on to earn part of his expenses for a term in the Haver- hill Academy. He had been writing more or less ambitious verse ever since the volume of Bums fell into his hands. His elder sister Mary thought some of his efforts worthy of being printed, and so, without her brother's knowledge, she sent one of them, "The Exile's Departure," to the Newbury Free Press, a weekly journal of which the young William Lloyd Garrison, who afterwards became a famous leader of the abolitionists, was the editor. The verses were accepted, and when the young poet saw his composition in print in the poets! comer, he was so overcome with emotion that for some minutes he could not go on with the task of fence mending in which he was at the moment engaged. He admitted in later years that no keener pleastire ever came into his life. Fortunately for him the young editor of the Free Press sought him out, asked for more contributions, and urged his parents to send the boy off to the newly established Academy at Haverhill. The father objected, for he did not think there was much in education and literature so far as making an honest living was concerned; but the good mother joined in the persuasions, and the boy was permitted to go to school 'provided he would earn his way. He went into Mr. Garrison's home, and by means of money earned in making slippers at twenty-five cents a pair, he paid the extra expense for his first term in the Academy. He spent one other term in this school, earning the money this time partly by teaching and partly by clerical work. And this was all the formal education he received. He never would have been the educated man he became, however, had he not been a great reader, and had he not kept up his studies practically all his life. Every one of the other prominent New England writers went to college, and had the advantage of travel in Europe, but Whittier never saw inside a college during his youth, and never quite managed to fulfill his desire for a trip to Europe. He lived and died. in New England, rarely putting his foot outside his native section. It is needless to follow minutely the political and journal- istic career of Whittier. Suffice it to say that early in life he attached himself to what was then an unpopular cause, — namely, the abolition of slavery, — and he devoted his best talents to this cause through thick and thin. He gave up his hope for political preferment by espousing this cause Johyi Greenleaf Whittier 269 He believed it to be a righteous one, and he was doubtless happier in his poverty and political neglect than he could possibly have been as United States senator, an office to which he might well have aspired had he been willing to turn his back on the unpopular cause of abolition. He wrote many articles, published many anti-slavery poems, edited several journals, and did much real service for the cause by his shrewd political management and his untiring devotion to the mean and exacting drudgery of a movement like the one in which he had centered his whole being. During these years he was barely able to make a living; his wants were simple, however, and he did not care for wealth or preferment. He never married, and so he had- but a small family burden in his care for his mother and younger sister, Elizabeth. He said that he was enabled to live in spite of the fact that practically all of the literary channels were closed to him on account of his attachment to an unpopular cause. Just prior to and after the Civil War, however, when the cause for which he had so long battled became popular and finally triumphed, he came into his own, and the very best literary magazines were open to him. The Atlantic Monthly under the editorship of James Russell Lowell and James T. Field was particularly favorable to him, and he published many of his best poems in this magazine. His works became so popular after the publication of "Snow-Bound" in 1866 that he was enabled to live in comfort, though not in luxury, during the remainder ■ of his life. He had given up his old homestead near East Haverhill many years before, and had moved to Amesbtury, a town not many miles away, and here he spent the latter half of his life. Just about the time of his death, the old homestead near Haverhill was purchased and furnished over as nearly as possible in the style of the days of his youth, and it is now open to visitors from all over the country. Whittier's poetry may be discussed in these three groups : (i) his slavery and war-time poems, or " Voices of Freedom"; (2) his New England poems, including his incomparable idyls, his reflective and religious poems, his songs of labor, his nature Ijnrics, and his personal poems; (3) his narrative verse, including the ballads, most of which are lit up with New England coloring. The slavery and war-time poems were the most cherished products of his pen before, during, and immediately after 270 American Literary Readings the terrible war which finally settled the question of slavery. The best of these are "Ichabod," a bold piece of invectiye, written more in sorrow than in anger, on the occasion of the defection of Daniel Webster from the cause of abolition; "Barbara Frietchie," usually ranked as the best ballad of the Civil War, but a poem marred by an unjust reference to the great southern leader "Stonewall" Jackson; "Massa- chusetts to Virginia," a violent and powerful outburst against the fugitive slave law; and "Laus Deo," a magnificent paean of gratitude and praise upon the passage of the constitutional amendment forever abolishing slavery from our country. The second class of poems, the New England group, really gives Whittier a high rank among our American singers. The masterpiece among these is the idyl "Snow- Bound," the almost perfect picture of the New England rural home. This poem is fully analyzed in our text, and need not be further discussed here. Other familiar poems similar in style, but not approaching it in beauty or com- pleteness, are "Maud Muller," "Mabel Martin," "The Barefoot Boy," "My Playmate," "In School-Days," and the Prelude to "Among the Hills." The purely personal and occasional poems and the nature lyrics are too numerous to be mentioned except by bare examples, such as "The Poet and the Children," referring to Longfellow's seventy- fifth birthday celebration, "The Trailing Arbutus," "The Frost Spirit," "The Last Walk in Autumn." There are over five hundred closely printed double-columned pages in his collected works, and at least half of the volume belongs distinctly in what I have called the New England poems, and is the cream of Whittier's poetry. In fact, Whittier, like Milton in the days of the Commonwealth, was so bur- dened with a great political cause during all these early years of his life that he could not produce really great poetry. The poems written after middle age are by far the best products of his life, and the very highest work of his genius came after he was fifty-nine. In narrative verse, Whittier's first serious effort was to save the rich mine of legend and romance which he saw at his hand in the records of early New England history. His voliune Legends of New England in Prose and Verse (183 1) is largely narrative in character. Another poem with an Indian hero, "Mogg Megone," Whittier later classed as a stiff, unnatural sort of poetical performance^ The Tent on John Greenleaf Whittier 271 the Beach contains many poems, most of them narrative in character, and "Among the Hills" may be classed in this category. The number of ballads is large, including such favorites as "Barclay of Ury," "Skipper Ireson's Ride," "Telling the Bees," "Cobbler Keezar's Vision," "Amy Wentworth," and "King Solomon and the Ants." It has been said that Whittier is our truest ballad writer, not even excepting Longfellow. If not so swift in action nor so per- fect in imitative tone, Whittier 's ballads are truer to locality and more thoroughly native than Longfellow's. Whittier died on September 7, 1892. Save Holmes, he was the last of the New England group of American poets to pass away. We have chosen to represent his work in this volvtme by his most perfect idyl, one ballad, one personal or reflective lyric, and one song-lyric. (The standard life of Whittier is that by Samuel T. Pickard, who has also written a delightful additional volume called Whittier Land. A good brief biography is that by George Rice Carpenter in the American Men of Letters Series.) SNOW-BOUND A WINTER IDYL "As the Spirits of Darkness be stronger in the dark, so Good Spirits which be Angels of Light are augmented not only by the Divine light of the Sun, but also by our common Wood fire: and as the celestial Fire drives away dark spirits, so also' this our Fire of Wood doth the same." — CpR. Ageippa, Occult Philosophy, Book I, chap. v. "Announced by all the trumpets of the sky. Arrives the snow; and, driving o'er the fields. Seems nowhere to alight; the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven. And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm." Emerson The sun that brief December day Rose cheeriess over hills of gray, And, darkly circled, gave at noon A sadder light than waning' moon. B Slow tracing down the thickening sky Its mute and ominous prophecy, A portent seeming less than threat. It sank from sight before it set. A chill no coat, however stout, Of homespun sttiff could quite shut out, A hard, dtoll bitterness of cold, That checked, mid-vein, the circling race ■ Of life-blood in the sharpened face. The coming of the snow-storm told. 5 The wind blew east : we heard the roar [272] Snow-Bound 273 Of Ocean on his wintry shore, And felt the strong pulse throbbing there Beat with low rhythm our inland air. Meanwhile we did our nightly chores, — Brought.in the wood from out of doors, : Littered the stalls, and from the mows Raked down the herd's-grass for thp cows; Heard the horse whinnying for his com; And, sharply clashing horn on horn. Impatient down the stanchion rows : The cattle shake their walnut bows; While, peering from his early perch Upon the scaffold's pole of birch, The cock his crested helmet bent And down his querulous challenge sent. : Unwarmed by any sunset light The gray day darkened into night, A night made hoary with the swarm And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, As zigzag wavering to and fro ; Crossed and recrossed the winged snow : And ere the early bed-time came The white drift piled the window-frame. And through the glass the clothes-Hne posts Looked in Uke tail and sheeted ghosts. . So all night long the storm roared on: The morning broke without a sun; In tiny spherule traced with Hnes Of Nature's geometric signs. In starry flake, and peUicle, All day the hoary meteor fell; And, when the second morning shone. We looked upon a world unknown, 10 274 American Literary Readings On nothing we could call our own. I Around the glistening wonder bent The blue walls of the firmament, No cloud above, no earth below, — A universe of sky and snow! The old familiar sights of ours Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood, Or garden wall, or belt of wood; A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, A fenceless drift what once was road; The bridle-post an old man sat With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat; The well-curb had a Chinese roof; And even the long sweep, high aloof. In its slant splendor, seemed to tell Of Pisa's leaning miracle. A prompt, decisive man, no breath Our father wasted : " Boys, a path ! " Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy Count such a summons less than joy?) 1 Our buskins on our feet we drew; With mittened hands, and caps drawn low, To guard our necks and ears from snow. We cut the solid whiteness through. And, where the drift was deepest, made A tunnel walled and overlaid With dazzUng crystal: we had read Of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave. And to our own his name we gave, With many a wish the luck were ours To test his lamp's supernal powers. We reached the bam with merry din. And roused the prisoned brutes within. The old horse thrust his long head out. Snow -Bound 275 And grave with wonder gazed about; The cock his lusty greeting said, And forth his speckled harem led; The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked, And mUd reproach of hunger looked; The homM patriarch of the sheep. Like Egypt's Amun roused from sleep, Shook his sage head with gesttire mute. And emphasized with stamp of foot. All day the gusty north-wind bore The loosening drift its breath before; Low circUng round its southern zone. The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone, No church-bell lent its Christian tone To the savage air, no social smoke Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. A solitude made more intense 1 By dreary-voicM elements. The shrieking of the mindless wind. The moaning tree-boughs swa}nng blind. And on the glass the unmeaning beat Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet. i Beyond the circle of our hearth No welcome sound of toil or mirth ■ Unbotmd the spell, and testified Of human Ufe and thought outside. We minded that the sharpest ear 1 The buried brooklet could not hear, The music of whose liquid lip Had been to us companionship. And, in our lonely Ufe, had grown To have an almost human tone. 1 As night drew on, and, from the crest Of wooded knolls that ridged the west. 276 American Literary Readings The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank From sight beneath the smothering bank, We piled, with care, our nightly stack Of wood against the chimney-back, — The oaken log, green, huge, and thick. And on its top the stout back-stick; The knotty forestick laid. apart. And filled between with curious art The ragged brush; then, hovering near. We watched the first red blaze appear, Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, Until the old, rude-furnished room Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom; While radiant with a mimic flame Outside the sparkling drift became. And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free. The crane and pendent trammels showed. The Turks' heads on the andirons glowed; While childish fancy, prompt to tell The meaning of the miracle. Whispered the old rhjmie: "Under the tree, When fire outdoors burns merrily, There the witches are making tea." The moon above the eastern wood Shone at its full; the hill-range stood Transfigured in the silver flood. Its blown snows flashing cold and keen. Dead white, save where some sharp ravine Took shadow, or the sombre green Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black Against the whiteness at their back. For such a world and such a night Snow -Bound 277 Most fitting that un warming light, "Which only seemed where'er it fell To make the coldness visible. Shut in from all the world without, We sat the clean-winged hearth about. Content to let the north-wind roar In baffied rage at pane and door. While the red logs before us beat The frost-line back with tropic heat; And ever, when a louder blast Shook beam and rafter as it passed. The merrier up its roaring draught The great throat of the chimney laughed. The house-dog on his paws outspread Laid to the fire his drowsy head, The cat's dark silhouette on the wall A couchant tiger's seemed to fall; And, for the winter fireside meet, Between the andirons' straddling feet. The mug of cider simmered slow. The apples sputtered in a row. And, close at hand, the basket stood With nuts from brown October's wood. What matter how the night behaved? What matter how the north-wind raved? Blow high, blow low, not all its snow Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow. O Time and Change! — with hair as gray As was my sire's that winter day. How strange it seems, with so much gone Of Ufe and love, to still live on! Ah, brother! only I and thou Are left of all that circle now, — 278 American Literary Readings The dear home faces whereupon That fitful fireUght paled and shone. Henceforward, listen as we will, The voices of that hearth are still; Look where we may, the wide earth o'er, I Those lighted faces smile no more. We tread the paths their feet have worn. We sit beneath their orchard-trees, We hear, like them, the hiim of bees And rustle of the bladed com; 1 We turn the pages that they read. Their written words we linger o'er. But in the sun they cast no shade, No voice is heard, no sign is made. No step is on the conscious floor! I Yet Love will dream, and Faith will trust, (Since He who knows our need is just,) That somehow, somewhere, meet we must. Alas for him who never sees The stars shine through his cypress-trees ! i Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, Nor looks to see the breaking day Across the mournful marbles play! Who hath not learned, in hours of faith, The truth to flesh and Sense unknown, ) That Life is ever lord of Death, And Love can never lose its own! We sped the time with stories old, Wrought puzzles out, and riddles told, . Or stammered from our school-book lore i "The Chief of Gambia's golden shore." How often since, when all the land Was clay in Slavery's shaping hand. As if a trumpet called, I 've heard Dame Mercy Warren's rousing word: Snow -Bound 279 "Does not the voice of reason cry, 220 Claim the first right which Nature gave. From the red scourge of bondage fly, Nor deign to live a burdened slave! " Our father rode again his ride On Memphremagog's wooded side; 225 Sat down again to moose and samp In trapper's hut and Indian camp; Lived o'er the old idyllic ease Beneath St. Frangois' hemlock-trees; Again for him the moonlight shone 230 On Norman cap and bodiced zone; Again he heard the violia play .Which led the village dance away, And mingled in its merry whirl The grandam and the laughing girl. 235 Or, nearer home, our steps he led Where Sahsbury's level marshes spread Mile-wide as flies the laden bee; Where merry mowers, hale and strong, Swept, scythe on scythe, their swaths along 240 The low green prairies of the sea. We shared the fishing off Boar's Head, And round the rocky Isles of Shoals The hake-broil on the drift-wood coals; The chowder on the sand-beach made, 245 Dipped by the hungry, steaming hot. With spoons of clam-shell from the pot. We heard the tales of witchcraft old. And dream and sign and marvel told To sleepy listeners as they lay 250 Stretched idly on the salted hay, Adrift along the winding shores. When favoring breezes deigned to blow The square sail of the gundalow. And idle lay the useless oars, 355 28o American Literary Readings Our mother, while she turned her wheel Or rtin the new-knit stocking-heel, Told how the Indian hordes came down At midnight on Cochecho town, 260 And how her own great-uncle bore His cruel scalp-mark to fourscore. Recalling, in her fitting phrase, So rich and picturesque and free, (The common unrhymed poetry 265 Of simple life and country ways,) The story of her early days, — She made us welcome to her home; Old hearths grew wide to give us room; We stole with her a frightened look 270 At the gray wizard's conjuring-book. The fame whereof went far and wide Through all the simple country side; We heard the hawks at twilight play, The boat-horn on Piscataqua, 275 The loon's weird laughter far away. We fished her little trout-brook, knew What flowers in wood and meadow grew, What sunny hillsides autumn-brown She climbed to shake the ripe nuts down, 280 Saw where in sheltered cove and bay The ducks' black squadron anchored lay. And heard the wild-geese calling loud Beneath the gray November cloud. Then, haply, with a look more grave, 285 And soberer tone, some tale she gave From painful Sewell's ancient tome, Beloved in every Quaker home. Of faith fixe-winged by martjrdom, Or ChaUdey's Journal, old and quaint,— 890 Gentlest of skippers, rare sea-saint!-' Snow -Bound 281 Who, when the dreary calms prevailed, And water-butt and bread-cask failed. And cruel, htrngry eyes pursued His portly presence mad for food. With dark hints muttered under breath Of casting lots for life or death, Offered, if Heaven withheld supplies. To be himself the sacrifice. Then, suddenly, as if to save The good man from his living grave, A ripple on the water grew, A school of porpoise flashed in view. "Take, eat," he said, "and be content: These fishes in my stead are sent By Him who gave the tangled ram To spare the child of Abraham." Our uncle, innocent of books, > But rich in lore of fields and brooks, The ancient teachers never dimib Of Nature's unhoused lyceum. In moons and tides and weather wise. He read the clouds as prophecies, And foul or fair could well divine. By many an occult hint and sign. Holding the cunning-warded keys To all the woodcraft mysteries; Himself to Nature's heart so near That all her voices in his ear Of beast or bird had meanings clear, Like ApoUonius of old, Who knew the tales the sparrows told, Or Hermes, who interpreted What the sage cranes of Nilus said; A simple, guileless, childlike man, Content to Hve where Ufe began; 282 American Literary Readings Strong only on his native groiinds, The little world of sights and sounds Whose girdle was the parish bounds, Whereof his fondly partial pride The common features magnified, As Surrey hills to moimtains grew In White of Selbome's loving view, — He told how teal and loon he shot. And how the eagle's eggs he got. The feats on pond and river done, The prodigies of rod and gun; TUl, warming with the tales he told, Forgotten was the outside cold. The bitter wind unheeded blew. From ripening com the pigeons flew, The partridge drummed i' the wood, the mink Went fishing down the river-brink. In fields with bean or clover gay, The woodchuck, like a hermit gray, Peered from the doorway of his cell; The muskrat plied the mason's trade, And tier by tier his mud-walls laid; And from the shagbark overhead The grizzled squirrel dropped his shell. Next, the dear aunt, whose smile of cheer And voice in dreams I see and hear, — The sweetest woman ever Fate Perverse denied a household mate. Who, lonely, homeless, not the less Found peace in love's unselfishness, And welcome whereso'er she went, A calm and gracious element, Whose presence seemed the sweet income And womanly atmosphere of home, — Called up her girlhood memories, Snow-Bound 283 The huskings and the apple-bees, The sleigh-rides and the stammer sails, Weaving through all the poor details And homespun warp of circumstance A golden woof -thread of romance. For well she kept her genial mood And simple faith of maidenhood; Before her still a cloud-land lay. The mirage loomed across her way; The morning dew, that dries so soon With others, gUstened at her noon; Through years of toU and soU and care, From glossy tress to thin gray hair, All unprofaned she held apart The virgin fancies of the heart. Be shame to him of woman bom Who hath for such but thought of scorn. There, too, otu- elder sister plied Her evening task the stand beside; A full, rich nature, free to trust. Truthful and almost sternly just, Imptdsive, earnest, prompt to act. And make her generous thought a fact, Keeping with many a light disguise The secret of self-sacrifice. heart sore-tried ! thou hast the best That Heaven itself could give thee, — rest, Rest from all bitter thoughts and things ! How many a poor one's blessing went With thee beneath the low green tent Whose curtain never outward swings! As one who held herself a part Of all she saw, and let her heart Against the household bosom lean, 284 American Literary Readings Upon the motley-braided mat Otir yoimgest and otir dearest sat, Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes. Now bathed within the fadeless green And holy peace of Paradise. I O, looking from some heavenly hUl, Or from the shade of saintly palms. Or silver reach of river calms, Do those large eyes behold me stUl? With me one Httle year ago: — The chill weight of the winter snow For months upon her grave has lain; And now, when summer south-winds blow And brier and harebell bloom again, I tread the pleasant paths we trod, I I see the violet-sprinkled sod Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak The hiUside flowers she loved to seek. Yet following me where'er I went With dark eyes full of love's content. The birds are glad; the brier-rose fills The air with sweetness; all the hills Stretch green to June's unclouded sky; But still I wait with ear and eye For something gone which should be nigh, A loss in aU famUiar things, In flower that blooms, and bird that sings. And yet, dear heart ! remembering thee. Am I not richer than of .old? Safe in thy immortality, What change can reach the wealth I hold? What chance can mar the pearl and gold Thy love hath left in trust with me? And while in life's late afternoon. Where cool and long the shadows grow, I walk to meet the night that soon Snow -Bound 285 Shall shape and shadow overflow, I cannot feel that thou art far, Since near at need the angels are; And when the sunset gates unbar. Shall I not see thee waiting stand, < And, white against the evening star. The welcome of thy beckoning hand? Brisk wielder of the birch and rule, The master of the district school Held at the fire his favored place, « Its warm glow ht a laughing face Presh-hued and fair, where scarce appeared The uncertain prophecy of beard. He teased the mitten-blinded cat. Played cross-pins on my uncle's hat, < Sang songs, and told us what befalls In classic Dartmouth's college halls. Bom the wild Northern hills among. From whence his yeoman father wrung By patien-t toil subsistence scant, i Not competence and yet not want. He early gained the power to pay His cheerful, self-reliant way; Could doff at ease his scholar's gown To peddle wares from town to town ; t Or through the long vacation's reach In lonely lowland districts teach, Where all the droU experience foimd At stranger hearths in boarding roimd, The moonlit skater's keen delight, < The sleigh-drive through the frosty' night. The rustic party, with its rough Accompaniment of bUnd-man's-buff, And whirling-plate, and forfeits paid. His winter task a pastime made. , 286 American Literary Readings Happy the snow-locked homes wherein He tuned his merry violin, Or played the athlete in the bam, Or held the good dame's winding-yam, Or mirth-provoking versions told Of classic legends rare and old, Wherein the scenes of Greece and Rome Had all the commonplace of home, And little seemed at best the odds 'Twixt Yankee pedlers and old gods; Where Pindus-bom Araxes took The guise of any grist-mill brook. And dread Oljmipus at his will Became a huckleberry hill. A careless boy that night he seemed; But at his desk he had the look And air of one who wisely schemed. And hostage from the future took In trained thought and lore of book. Large-brained, clear-eyed, — of such as he Shall Freedom's yoimg apostles be. Who, following in War's bloody trail. Shall every lingering wrong assail; AU chains from Umb and spirit strike. Uplift the black and white alike; Scatter before their swift advance The darkness and the ignorance, The pride, the lust, the squalid sloth. Which nurtured Treason's monstrous growth, Made murder pastime, and the hell Of prison-torture possible; The cruel lie of caste refute. Old forms recast, and substitute For Slavery's lash the freeman's will, For blind routine, wise-handed skill; Snow -Bound 287 A school-house plant on every hill, Stretching in radiate nerve-lines thence The quick wires of intelligence; Till North and South together brought Shall own the same electric thought, , In peace a common flag salute, And, side by side in labor's free And unresentful rivalry. Harvest the fields wherein they fought. Another guest that winter night 1 Flashed back from lustrous eyes the light. Unmarked by time, and yet not young, The honeyed music of her tongue And words of meekness scarcely told A natiu-e passionate and bold, 1 Strong, self-concentred, sptiming guide, Its milder features dwarfed beside Her unbent will's majestic pride. She sat among us, at the best, A not unfeared, half -welcome guest, i Rebuking with her culttired phrase Our homeliness of words and ways. A certain pard-like, treacherous grace Swayed the lithe Hmbs and drooped the lash. Lent the white teeth their dazzling flash ; i And under low brows, black with night, Rayed out at times a dangerous Ught; The sharp heat-lightnings of her face Presaging ill to him whom Fate Condemned to share her love or hate. i A woman tropical, intense In thought and act, in soul and sense. She blended in a like degree The vixen and the devotee, . Revealing with each freak or feint > 288 American Literary Readings The temper of Petruchio's Kate, The raptures of Siena's saint. Her tapering hand and rounded vmst Had f acUe power to form a fist ; t The warm, dark languish of her eyes Was never safe from wrath's surprise. Brows saintly calm and Ups devout Knew every change of scowl and pout; And the sweet voice had notes more high i And shrill for social battle-cry. Since then what old cathedral town Has missed her pUgrim staff and gown. What convent-gate has held its lock Against the challenge of her knock! I Through Smyrna's plague-hushed thoroughfares, Up sea-set Malta's rocky stairs, Gray olive slopes of hills that hem Thy tombs and shrines, Jerusalem, Or startling on her desert throne ; The crazy Queen of Lebanon With claims fantastic as her own, Her tireless feet have held their way; And still, unrestful, bowed, and gray. She watches under Eastern skies, I With hope each day renewed and fresh. The Lord's quick coming in the flesh, Whereof she dreams and prophesies! Where'er her troubled path may be. The Lord's sweet pity with her go I , i The outward wayward life we see. The hidden springs we may not know. Nor is it given us to discern What threads the fatal sisters spun. Through what ancestral years has run Snow-Bound 289 The sorrow with the woman bom, 1 What forged her cruel chain of moods, What set her feet in solitudes, And held the love within her mute, What mingled madness in the blood, A life-long discord and annoy, : Water of tears with oil of joy. And hid within the folded bud Perversities of flower and fruit. It is not ours to separate The tangled skein of will and fate, To show what metes and bounds should stand Upon the soul's debatable land, And between choice and Providence Divide the circle of events; But He who knows our frame is just. Merciful, and compassionate. And full of sweet assurances And hope for all the language is. That He remembereth we are dust ! At last the great logs, crumbling low. Sent out a dull and duller glow. The bull's-eye watch that hung in view, Ticking its weary circuit through. Pointed with mutely-warning sign Its black hand to the hour of nine. That sign the pleasant circle broke: Jity uncle ceased his pipe to smoke, Knocked from its bowl the refuse gray And laid it tenderly away. Then roused himself to safely cover The dull red brand with ashes over. And while, with care, our mother laid The work aside, her steps she stayed One moment, seeking to express 290 American Literary Readings i Her grateful sense of happiness For food and shelter, warmth and health, And love's contentment more than wealth. With simple wishes (not the weak. Vain prayers which no fulfilment seek, 1 But such as warm the generous heart, O'er-prompt to do with Heaven its part) That none might lack, that bitter night, For bread and clothing, warmth and light. Within our beds awhile we heard The wind that round the gables roared, With now and then a ruder shock, Which made our very bedsteads rock. We heard the loosened clapboards tost. The board-nails snapping in the frost; And on us, through the unplastered wall. Felt the light sifted snow-flakes fall, But sleep stole on, as sleep wUl do When hearts are light and life is new; Faint and more faint the murmurs grew, TiU in the summer-land of dreams They softened to the sound of streams. Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars, And lapsing waves on quiet shores. Next mom we wakened with the shout Of merry voices high and clear; And saw the teamsters drawing near To break the drifted highways out. Down the long hillside treading slow We saw the half-buried oxen go. Shaking the snow from heads uptost, Their straining nostrils white with frost. Before our door the straggling train Drew up, an added team to gain. Snow -Bound 291 The elders threshed their hands a-cold, Passed, with the cider-mug, their jokes 1 From lip to lip; the younger folks Down the loose snow-banks, wrestling, rolled, Then toiled again the cavalcade O'er windy hill, through clogged ravine. And woodland paths that wound between 1 Low drooping pine-boughs winter- weighed. From every bam a team afoot. At every house a new recruit, Where, drawn by Nature's subtlest law, Haply the watchful young men saw ( Sweet doorway pictures of the cturls And curious eyes of merry girls. Lifting their hands in mock defence Against the snow-balls' compliments, And reading in each missive tost ( The charm with Eden never lost. We heard once more the sleigh-bells' sound; And, following where the teamsters led, The wise old Doctor went his round, Just pausing at our door to say, 1 In the brief autocratic way Of one who, prompt at Duty's call, Was free to urge her claim on all. That some poor neighbor sick abed At night ottr mother's aid would need. i For, one in generous thought and deed. What mattered in the sufferer's sight The Quaker matron's inward light. The Doctor's mail of Calvin's creed? All hearts confess the saints elect Who, twain in faith, in love agree. And melt not in an acid sect The Christian pearl of charity! 502 American Literary Readings So days went on: a week had passed Since the great world was heard from last. The Almanac we studied o'er, Read and reread otir little store, Of books and pamphlets, scarce a score; One harmless novel, mostly hid From younger eyes, a book forbid. And poetry, (or good or bad, A single book was all we had,) Where Ellwood's meek, drab-sldrted Muse, A stranger to the heathen Nine, Sang, with a somewhat nasal whine. The wars of David and the Jews. At last the floundering carrier bore The village paper to our door. Lo ! broadening outward as we read, I To warmer zones the horizon spread; In panoramic length unrolled We saw the marvels that it told. Before us passed the painted Creeks, And daft McGregor on his raids In Costa Rica's everglades. And up Taygetos winding slow Rode Ypsilanti's Mainote Greeks, A Turk's head at each saddle-bow! Welcome to us its week-old news, I Its comer for the rustic Muse, Its monthly gauge of snow and rain, Its record, mingUng in a breath The wedding beU and dirge of death : Jest, anecdote, and love-lorn tale, 1 The latest culprit sent to jail; Its hue and cry of stolen and lost. Its vendue sales and goods at cost. And traffic calling loud for gain. We felt the stir of haU and street, Snow -Bound 293 The pulse of life that round us beat; ; The chill embargo of the snow Was melted in the genial glow; Wide swung again our ice-locked door, And all the world was ours once more! Clasp, Angel of the backward look i And folded wings of ashen gray And voice of echoes far away. The brazen covers of thy book; The weird palimpsest old and vast. Wherein thou hid'st the spectral past; ; Where, closely mingling, pale and glow The characters of joy and woe; The monographs of outlived years. Or smile-illumed or dim with tears, Green hills of life that slope to death, ; And haunts of home, whose vistaed trees Shade off to mournful cypresses With the white amaranths underneath. Even while I look, I can but heed The restless sands' incessant fall, ; Importtmate hours that hours succeed. Each clamorous with its own sharp need, And duty keeping pace with all. Shut down and clasp the heavy lids; I hear again the voice that bids The dreamer leave his dream midway For larger hopes and graver fears : Life greatens in these later years, The century's aloe flowers to-day ! Yet, haply, in some lull of life, : Some Truce of God which breaks its strife, The worldling's eyes shall gather dew. Dreaming in throngful city ways 294 American Literary Readings Of winter joys his boyhood knew; And dear and early friends — the few Who yet remain — shall pause to view These Flemish pictures of old days; Sit with me by the homestead hearth, And stretch the hands of memory forth To warm them at the wood-fire's blaze! And thanks untraced to Ups unknown Shall greet me like the odors blown From unseen meadows newly mown, Or lilies floating in some pond, Wood-fiinged, the wayside gaze beyond; The traveller owns the grateful sense Of sweetness near, he knows not whence, And, pausing, takes with forehead bare The benediction of the air. ICHABOD! So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn, Which once he wore! The glory from his gray hairs gone Porevermore! Revile him not, — the Tempter hath A snare for all; And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, . Befit his fall! O, dumb be passion's stormy rage, When he who might Have lighted up and led his age. Falls back in night. Ichabod! 295 Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, From hope and heaven! Let not the land once proud of him Insult him now. Nor brand with deeper shame his dim. Dishonored brow. But let its humbled sons, instead, From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make. Of all we loved and honored, naught Save power remains, — A fallen angel's pride of thought. Still strong in chains. All else is gone; from those great eyes The soul has fled: so When faith is lost, when honor dies. The man is dead! Then, pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame; Walk backward with averted gaze And hide the shame! 2g6 American Literary Readings SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE Of all the rides since the birth of time, Told in story or sung in rhyme, — On Apuleius's Golden Ass, Or one-eyed Calender's horse of brass, Witch astride of a human back, Islam's prophet on Al-Borak, — The strangest ride that ever was sped Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Body of turkey, head of owl, Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl. Feathered and ruffled in every part Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. Scores of women, old and young. Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, ' Shouting and singing the shrill refrain: "Here's Flud Oirson, fiu- his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futhefr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips. Girls in bloom of cheek and lips. Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase Bacchus round some antique vase. Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, With conch shells blowing and fish-horns' twang. Over and over the Masnads sang: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt. Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Skipper Ireson's Ride 297 Small pity for him! — He sailed away From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay, — Sailed away from- a sinking wreck. With his own town's people on her deck! "Lay by! lay by!" they called to him. Back he answered, "Sink or swim! Brag of your catch of fish again! " And off he sailed through the fog and rain! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur That wreck shall he forevermore. Mother and sister, wife and maid, Looked from the rocks of Marblehead Over the moaning and rainy sea, — Looked for the coming that might not be ! What did the winds and the sea-birds say Of the cruel captain who sailed away? — Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Through the street, on either side, Up flew windows, doors swung wide; Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, Hulks of old sailors run aground, Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane. And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain: "Here's Flud Oirson, fxrr his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Mprble'ead!" 298 American Literary Readings Sweetly along the Salem road Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. Little the wicked skipper knew Of the fields so green and the skies so blue. Riding there in his sorry trim, Like an Indian idol glum and grim, Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear Of voices shouting, far and near: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" "Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried, — "What to me is this noisy ride? What is the shame that clothes the skin To the nameless horror that lives within? Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, And hear a cry from a reeliag deck ! Hate me and curse me, — I only dread The hand of God and the face of the dead! " Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart. Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea Said, " God has touched him! — why shotild we?" Said an old wife mourning her only son, "Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!" So with soft relentings and rude excuse. Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose. And gave him a cloak to hide him in. And left him alone with his shame and sin. Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart. Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! In School-Days 299 IN SCHOOL-DAYS Still sits the school-house by the road, A ragged beggar sunning; Around it still the sumachs grow, And blackberry vines are running. Within, the master's desk is seen, Deep scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jack-knife's carved initial; The charcoal frescos on its wall; Its door's worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school, Went storming put to plajdng! Long years ago a winter sun Shone over it at setting; Lit up its western window-panes, And low eaves' icy fretting. It touched the tangled golden curls. And brown eyes full of grieving. Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school were leaving. For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled; His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled. Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered; — As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked apron fingered. 300 American Literary Readings He saw her lift her eyes; he felt I The soft hand's light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing. "I'm sorry that I spelt the word: I hate to go above you, i Because,"— the brown eyes lower fell,- " Because, you see, I love you!" Still memory to a gray-haired man That sweet child-face is showing. Dear girl ! the grasses on her grave ) Have forty years been growing! He lives to learn, in Hfe's hard school, How few who pass above him Lament their triumph and his loss. Like her, — because they love him. From an engraving OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 1809-1894 If Lowell is our chief critical essayist and Emerson our greatest philosophical thinker, Oliver Wendell Holmes is no less surely to be classed with Irving as one of our two greatest informal essayists. We think of Holmes first as a humorist and the author of The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, that unique book of informal, chatty talks or essays. But he is also a poet, if not of the very first rank among our American authors, certainly very near to it, for two or three of his lyrics, as well as much of his inimitable humorous poetry, will bear comparison with the best of their kind. Moreover, he is the most human, the most intimately personal, and the most consistently optimistic of all the New England school, and hence he is the favorite author of thousands of readers who would not think of classing his poetry or even his prose as the greatest produced in America. Though he was not autocratic in his disposition, we may call him the beloved "Autocrat" of American literature. Holmes was bom at Cambridge, Massachusetts, August 29, 1809, just two years later than Longfellow and Whittier, in the same year with Poe and Lincoln, and ten years earlier than Lowell and Whitman. He outlived practically all of his literary contemporaries, dying in 1894, two years later than Whittier and Whitman, twelve years later than Longfellow and Emerson, and forty-two years later than Edgar Allan Poe. It seems almost unbelievable that Poe, who was bom in the same year as Holmes had been dead eight years before Holmes began his famous "Autocrat" papers in the Atlantic Monthly. He was descended from what he called the "Brahmin caste" of New England, on both sides of the house. His father, Abiel Holmes, the pastor of the First Congregational Church of Cambridge, traced his line of descent even beyond the John Holmes who came from England to Connecticut in 1686. His mother, Sarah Wendell,, was 'the daughter of Oliver Wendell of Boston, for whom the poet was named, and she' was directly connected with the Dudleys, Brad- streets, Quincys, and other distinguished New England [301] 302 American Literary Readings families. These facts are mentioned because Dr. Holmes himself thoroughly believed in heredity and had much to say about it in his works. His education was the best to be had in America in his day. After a few years in an elementary school, he went to Phillips Academy, Andover, and from there he entered Harvard Col- lege in 1825, the year that Longfellow and Hawthorne graduated at Bowdoin College in Maine. He was already a skilled rimester, having made a metrical translation of Vergil's Aeneid when he was at Andover, and he was selected as class poet. "The famous class of '29" has become so partly because a ntmiber of distinguished men came from it, but largely from the fact that Holmes was its poet and for nearly a half century read delightful poems at the annual class reunions. After graduation he said that he flirted with Blackstone and Chitty for a year in anticipation of becoming a lawyer, but his scientific turn of mind led him finally to decide in favor of medicine. After studying in Boston for a short time, he went abroad and spent two years, mostly in Paris, in preparation for his profession. He visited England, Italy, and Switzerland before his return in 1835, and the next year he took his degree at Harvard Medical College. He located at Boston, the city which he loved devotedly and which he once playfully called "the hub of the solar system," and when he prepared to hang out his pro- fessional sign he characteristically proposed to write beneath his name the motto "Small fevers thankfully received." Holmes did not like the emotional strain of the sick room and operating table, but he was an enthusiastic investigator and a careful observer of the science of medicine. He was gradually building up a practice, but he rather joj^uUy relinquished it for the most part, when, in 1847, some years after a short incumbency in the same chair at Dartmouth College, he was elected to be professor of anatomy and physiology at Harvard. He held the position thirty-five years as professor and twelve more years as professor emeritus, and during all the time of his active duties he was considered the most popular lecturer in the Harvard Medical College. He made several notable discoveries in medicine, and his scientific and inventive gifts led him to perfect the stereoscope, that popular and entertaining little binocular device by which pictured objects are made to stand out almost as distinctly as they do in real life. Oliver Wendell Holmes 303 In 1840 he married Miss Amelia Lee Jackson, who proved to be an ideal mate for a man like Dr. Holmes. She encouraged and helped him and protected him in many ways, so that he was enabled to do the work that he was bom for. They had three children, all of whom lived to maturity, and Mrs. Holmes herself lived to within a few years of the poet's death. Holmes's poetical work falls into two classes — his serious l5Tics and his humorous and occasional pieces. He wrote three or four supremely excellent lyrics, and upon these his poetic fame chiefly rests — "Old Ironsides," "The Last Leaf," "The Chambered Nautilus," and "Voiceless." He composed some longer serious poems, such as "The Rhymed Lesson," otherwise called "Urania," and "Wind Clouds and Snow Drifts," but these have never met the hearty response of his shorter and more perfect lyrics. "The Last Leaf" and "The Chambered Nautilus" deservedly rank among the very finest lyrics in the language. No collection is complete without them, and they are the chief decorative gems of every anthology or golden treasury of American songs. It is his htmiorous and occasional verse that, affer all, gives Holmes his distinctive place in our memory. Here he is perfectly natural and spontaneous. Lowell correctly characterized Holmes as "A Leyden jar always full charged, from which flit Electrical tingles of hit after hit." The mere mentioning of such titles as "The Deacon's Masterpiece," "The Height of the Ridiculous," "Content- ment," "My Aunt," and many others, arouses humorous sensations of a delightful kind. Holmes had a way of giving these light and whimsical humorous pieces a more universal and lasting quality than such literature usually attains. His Harvard class poems are full of fun and good fellowship, and his local and occasional poems are the best that we have of their kind, but they will doubtless be read less and less as time goes on. It was not until late in 1857 that Holmes attained any- thing like permanent fame as an author. In this year the Atlantic Monthly was founded, and Holmes was engaged to write regularly for it. He suggested the name of the new magazine, and it is not too much to say that it was his 304 American Literary Readings contributions that largely gave this periodical its dominant character and its immediate popular hold on the public. We must give Lowell the credit, however, for making it a pre- cedent condition of his editorship that Holmes should write for the magazine, and not the least of Lowell's services in the furthering of American literature was the stimulus he gave Holmes, whom, as the latter shrewdly said, he woke "from a kind of literary lethargy." Lowell remarked later that Holmes was a "sparkling mountain stream which had been dammed up and was only awaiting an outlet into the Atlantic." The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table: Or Every Man His Own Boswell is a unique book, and is as surely marked for immortality as any single volume in our literature. It is a series of what William Dean Howells called "dramatized essays," with a thick sprinkling of poems, serious and humorous, to add variety to the Autocrat's dramatic monologues. The subtitle indicates that Holmes is really writing the history of his own thoughts, showing us just how his own mind works. The three volumes which make up the Breakfast Table series, The Autocrat (1858), The Pro- fessor' (18 Sg), and The Poet (1871), together with Over the Teacups (1888), which really belongs in the same group, certainly give us a most satisfying portrait of the genial "Autocrat's" mind. There is in these books much real intellectual pabulum, but certainly no formal philosophy. Holmes was simply giving us the best observations he had been able to make on life. "Talk about those subjects you have had long in yoiu- mind," he said, "and listen to what others say about subjects you have studied but recently. Knowledge and timber should not be much used till they are seasoned." And again when he was asked how long it took him to write the "Autocrat" papers, he replied that it took him all his life up to the time he wrote them down. The easy conversational tone, the vividly drawn character sketches, the clear thought, the scintillating wit and delight- fully good-natured humor, the unbounded optimism, and the uncompromising hostility toward tyranny, narrowness, and sham, make the whole "Autocrat" series one of the few really original contributions to nineteenth-century literature. The Autocrat is confessedly the best of the series, because it was the first, and because it contains the cream of Holmes's spontaneous wit and life-long thought. The other three Oliver Wendell Holmes 305 volumes are all worth reading, and some discerning critics have said that, though more serious and subdued in tone, they are not less entertaining to the thoughtful reader. The Autocrat more than likely, however, has a hundred readers to one for any of the other volumes. It is a book to be dipped into, to be taken up at odd moments when one wants to hear a genial, witty, healthy personality talk for his own and his reader's amusement and profit. It is true that the slight thread of romance developed between the "Autocrat" and the timid schoolmistress leads one to read steadily through the last four papers; but after one perusal, the book is to be glanced at for pure pleasure rather than read straight through. In The Professor at the Breakfast Table, Holmes had in- troduced a more prominent romantic thread to his series of talks. This led him to write his first novel, Elsie Venner (1861). Two other novels followed. The Guardian Angel (1867) and A Mortal Antipathy (1888). Like the ' ' Autocrat ' ' series these were first published serially in the Atlantic Monthly. Holmes called them "medicated novels," because they are more or less concerned with problems pertaining to the science of medicine. The first deals with the experi- ences of Elsie Venner, who was endowed with peculiar powers of serpentine fascination and hypnotic influence because of the bite of a rattlesnake suffered by her mother just before Elsie was bom. The Guardian Angel, said to be the most artistic of the three, deals with the problem of heredity; and A Mortal Antipathy traces the cause, growth, and cure of a strong antipathy or hatred against woman in a man's life. As works of fiction, these novels do not rise above mediocrity, but, like everything that Holmes put his hand to, they are well -written and deserving of at least a cursory perusal. The last field in which Hohnes employed his gift for authorship was in biography. He wrote A Memoir of John Lathrop Motley (1879) and The Life of Ralph Waldo Emerson (1884). These are excellent and painstaking works. It seems strange that Holmes should have been attracted to such a profound and dignified personality as Emerson's, but when we examine into Holmes's real philosophy of life, we find that it is not altogether unlike Emerson's. At any rate Holmes produced a remarkably sympathetic and illu- minating study of the great thinker, essayist, and poet. 11 3o6 American Literary Readings In 1886 Holmes took a pleasure trip to Europe, which he wrote up in his happy personal style in "One Hundred Days in Europe." He was accorded many honors by the cities and universities which he visited. At Cambridge, England, the students welcomed him with some cleverly adapted new words to an old song, the title of which was "Holmes, Sweet Hohnes." He lived to the ripe old age of eighty-six and, while seated in his chair, died what seemed to be practically a painless death on October 7, 1894. THE LAST LEAF I saw him once before, As he passed by the door, And again The pavement stones resound, As he totters o'er the ground With his cane. They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the Crier on his round Through the town. But now he walks the streets. And he looks at all he meets Sad and wan, And he shakes his feeble head. That it seems as if he said, "They are gone." The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom. And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. My grandmamma has said, — Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago, — [307] 3o8 American Literary Readings That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose ) In the snow. But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh. I know it is a sin For me' to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that. Are so queer! And if I should hve to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, — Let them smile, as I do now. At the old forsaken bough Where I cling. THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE IV .... — My friend, the Professor, whom I have mentioned to you once or twice, told me yesterday that somebody had been abusing him in some of the journals of his calling. I told him that I did n't doubt he deserved it; that I hoped he did deserve a little abuse occasionally, and would for a ntunber of years to come; that nobody could do anything to make The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table 309 his neighbors wiser or better without being liable to abuse for it; especially that people hated to have their little mistakes made fun of, and perhaps he had been doing something of the kind. — The Professor smiled. — Now, said I, 10 hear what I am going to say. It will not take many years to bring you to the period of life when men, at least the majority of writing and talking men, do nothing but praise. Men, like peaches and pears, grow sweet a Httle while before they begin to decay. I don't know what it is, — whether 15 a spontaneous change, mental or bodily, or whether it is thorough experience of the thanklessness of critical honesty, — but it is a fact, that most writers, except sour and unsuc- cessful ones, get tired of finding fault at about the time when they are beginning to grow old. As a genera,! thing, I wotild 20 not give a great deal for the fair words of a critic, if he is himself an author, over fifty years of age. At thirty we are all trying to cut our names in big letters upon the walls of this tenement of life; twenty years later we have carved it, or shut up ovir jack-knives. Then we are ready to help 25 others, and care less to hinder any, because nobody's elbows are in our way. So I am glad you have a little life left; you will be saccharine enough in a few years. — Some of the softening effects of advancing age have struck me very much in what I have heard or seen here and 30 elsewhere. I just now spoke of the sweetening process that authors undergo. Do you know that in the gradual pas- sage from mattuity to helplessness the harshest characters sometimes have a period in which they are gentle and placid as young children? I have heard it said, but I cannot be 35 sponsor for its truth, that the famous chieftain, Lochiel, was rocked in a cradle like a baby, in his old age. An old man, whose studies had been of the severest scnolastic kind, used to love to hear little nursery-stories read over and over to him. One who saw the Duke of Wellington in his last years 40 describes him as very gentle in his aspect and demeanor. I remember a person of singularly stem and lofty bearing 310 American Literary Readings who became remarkably gracious and easy in all his ways in the later period of his life. 46 And that leads me to say that men often remind me of pears in their way of coming to maturity. Some are ripe at twenty, like human Jargonelles, and must be made the most of, for their day is soon over. Some come into their perfect condition late, like the autumn kinds, and they last 60 better than the summer fruit. And some, that, like the Winter-Nelis, have been hard and tininviting until all the rest have had their season, get their glow and perfume long after the frost and snow have done their worst with the orchards. Beware of rash criticisms; the rough and 55 stringent fruit you condemn may be an autumn or a winter pear, and that which you picked up beneath the same bough in August may have been only its worm-eaten windfalls. Milton was a Saint-Germain with a graft of the roseate Early-Catherine. Rich, juicy, lively, fragrant, russet 60 skinned old Chaucer was an Easter-Beurr^; the buds of a new summer were swelling when he ripened. — There is no power I envy so much — said the divinity- student — as that of seeing analogies and making com- parisons. I don't understand how it is that some minds 65 are continually coupling thoughts or objects that seem not in the least related to each other, until all at once they are put in a certain Ught, and you wonder that you did not always see that they were as like as a pair of twins. It appears to me a sort of a miraculous gift. 70 [He is rather a nice yoving man, and I think has an appre- ciation of the higher mental qualities remarkable for one of his years and training. I try his head occasionally as housewives try eggs, — give it an intellectual shake and hold it up to the Ught, so to speak, to see if it has life in it, actual 75 or potential, or only contains lifeless albumen.] You call it miraculous, — I replied, — tossing the expression with my facial eminence, a little smartly, I fear. — Two men are walking by the polyphloesbcean ocean, one of them The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table 311 having a small tin cup with which he can scoop up a gill of sea-water when he will, and the other nothing but his hands, so which will hardly hold water at all, — and you call the tin cup a miraculous possession! It is the ocean that is the miracle, my infant apostle! Nothing is clearer than that all things are in all things, and that just according to the intensity and extension of otir mental being we shall see the many in the ss one and the one in the many. Did Sir Isaac think what he was saying when he made his speech about the ocean, — the child and the pebbles, you know? Did he mean to speak slightingly of a pebble? Of a spherical solid which stood sentinel over its compartment of space before the stone that 90 became the pyramids had grown sohd, and has watched it until now ! " A body which knows all the currents of force that traverse the globe; which holds by invisible threads to the ring of Saturn- and the belt of Orion! A body from the contemplation of which an archangel could infer the entire 95 inorganic universe as the simplest of corollaries! A throne of the all-pervading Deity who has guided its every atom since the rosary of heaven was strung with beaded stars! So, — to return to our walk by the ocean, — if all that poetry has dreamed, all that insanity has raved, all that madden- 100 ing narcotics have driven through the brains of men, or smothered passion ntu-sed in the fancies of women, — if the dreams of colleges and convents and boarding-schools, — if every human feeUng that sighs, or smiles, or curses, or shrieks, or groans, should bring all their innumerable images, such los as come with every hurried heart-beat, — the epic which held them all, though its letters filled the zodiac, would be but a cupful from the infinite ocean of similitudes and analogies that roUs through the universe. [The divinity-student honored himself by the way in no which he received this. He did not swallow it at once, neither did he reject it; but he took it as a pickerel takes the bait, and carried it off with him to his hole (in the fourth story) to deal with at his leisure.] 312 American Literary Readings 116 I know well enough that there are some of you who had a great deal rather see me stand on my head than use it for any purpose of thought. Does not my friend, the Professor, receive at least two letters a week, requesting him to . . .\ . , — on the strength of some youthful antic 120 of his, which, no doubt, autho^rizes the intelligent constitu- ency of autograph-hunters to address him as a harlequin? — ^WeU, I can't be savage with you for wanting to laugh, and I like to make you laugh, well enough, when I can. But then observe this : if the sense of the ridiculous is one side of 125 an impressible nature, it is very well; but if that is all there is in a man, he had better have been an ape at once, and so have stood at the head of his profession. Laughter and tears are meant to turn the wheels of the same machinery of sensibility; one is wind-power, and the other water-power; 130 that is all. I have often heard the Professor talk about hysterics as being Nature's cleverest illustration of the reciprocal convertibiUty of the two states of which these acts are the manifestations. But you may see it every day in children; and if you want to choke with stifled tears at 135 sight of the transition, as it shows itself in older years, go and see Mr. Blake play Jesse Rural. It is a very dangerous thing for a literary man to indulge his love for the ridiculous. People laugh with him just so long as he amuses them; but if he attempts to be serious, 140 they must still have their laugh, and so they lailgh at him. There is in addition, however, a deeper reason for this than would at first appear. Do you know that you feel a little superior to every man who makes you laugh, whether by making faces or verses? Are you aware that you have a 145 pleasant sense of patronizing him, when you condescend so far as to let him ttim somersets, literal or literary, for your royal delight ? Now if a man can only be allowed to stand on a dais, or raised platform, and look down on his neighbor who is exerting his talent for him, oh, it is aU right ! — first- 150 rate performance ! — and all the rest of the fine phrases. But The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table 313 if all at once the performer asks the gentleman to come upon the floor, and, stepping upon the platform, begins to talk down at him, — ah, that wasn't in the programme! I have never forgotten what happened when Sydney Smith — who, as everybody knows, was an exceedingly us sensible man, and a gentleman, every inch of him — ventured to preach a sermon on the .Duties of Royalty. The " Quar- terly," "so savage and tartarly," came down upon him in the most ■ contemptuous style, as "a joker of jokes," a "diner-out of the first water," in one of his own phrases; uo sneering at him, insulting him, as nothing but a toady of a court, sneaking behind the anonymous, would ever have been mean enough to do to a man of his position and genius, or to any decent person even. — If I were giving advice to a young fellow of talent, with two or three facets to his mind, us I would tell him by all means to keep his wit in the back- ground until after he had made a reputation by his more solid qualities. And so to an actor: Hamlet first, and Bob Logic afterwards, if you like; but don't think, as they say poor Liston used to, that people wiU be ready to allow that you 170 can do anjrthing great with Macbeth' s dagger after flourish- ing about with Paul Pry's umbrella. Do you know, too, that the majority of men look upon all who challenge their attention, — for a while, at least, — as beggars, and nuisances? They always try to get off as cheaply as they can; and the us cheapest of all things they can give a Uteraryman — pardon the forlorn pleasantry! — is the funny-hone. That is all very well so far as it goes, but satisfies no man, and makes a good many angry, as I told you on a former occasion. — Oh, indeed, no ! — I am not ashamed to make you laugh, iso occasionally. I think I cotdd read you something I have in my desk which would probably make you smile. Perhaps I will read it one of these days, if you are patient with me when I am sentimental and reflective; not just now. The ludicrous has its place in the universe; it is not a human isc invention, but one of the Divine ideas, illustrated in the 314 American Literary Readings practical jokes of kittens and monkeys long before Aris- tophanes or Shakespeare. How curious it is that we always consider solemnity and the absence of aU gay surprises 190 and encounter of wits as essential to the idea of the future life of those whom we thus deprive of half their faculties and then call blessed! There are not a few who, even in this life, seem to be preparing themselves for that smile- less eternity to which they look forward, by banishing all 195 gaiety from their hearts and all joyousness from their coimtenances. I meet one such in the street not unfre- quently, a person of intelligence and education, but who gives me (and all that he passes) such a rayless and chilling look of recognition,— something as if he were one of Heaven's 200 assessors, come down to "doom" every acquaintance he met, — that I have sometimes begun to sneeze on the spot, and gone home with a violent cold, dating from that instant. I don't doubt he wotdd cut his kitten's tail off, if he caught her plajdng with it. Please tell me, who taught her to play 206 with it? No, no! — give me a chance to talk to you, my feUow- boarders, and you nefed not be afraid that I shall have any scruples about entertaining you, if I can do it, as well as giving you some of my serious thoughts, and perhaps my 210 sadder fancies. I know nothing in English or afiy other Hterattu-e more admirable than that sentiment of Sir Thomas Browne: "Every man truly lives, so long as he acts HIS nature, or some way makes good the faculties of himself." 215 I find the great thing in this world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving; To reach the port of heaven, we must sail sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it, — but we must sail, and not drift, nor lie at anchor. There is one very sad thing in old friend- 2 20 ships, to every mind that is really moving onward. It is this: that one cannot help using his early friends as the seaman uses the log, to mark his progress. Every now and The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table 315 then we throw an old schoohnate over the stem with a string of thought tied to him, and look — I am afraid with a kind of luxurious and sanctimonious compassion — to 225 see the rate at which the string reels off, while he Ues there bobbing up and down, poor feUow! and we are dashing along with the white foam and bright sparkle at oiir bows; — the ruffled bosom of prosperity and progress, with a sprig of dia- monds stuck in it ! But this is only the sentimental side of 230 the matter; for grow we must, if we outgrow all that we love. Don't misunderstand that metaphor of heaving the log, I beg you. It is merely a smart way of sa)Tng that we cannot avoid measuring our rate of movement by those with whom we have long been in the habit of comparing our- 235 selves; and when they once become stationary, we can get our reckoning from them with painfid accuracy. We see just what we were when they were our peers, and can strike the balance between that and whatever we may feel ourselves to be now. No doubt we may sometimes be mistaken. If 240 we change our last simile to that very old and familiar one of a fleet leaving the harbor and sailing in company for some distant region, we can get what we want out of it. There is one of our companions; — her streamers were torn into rags before she had got into the open sea, then by and 24s by her saUs blew out of the ropes one after another, the waves swept her deck, and as night came on we left her a seeming wreck, as we flew under our pyramid of canvas. But lo ! at dawn she is still in sight, — -it may be in advance of us. Some deep ocean-current has been moving her on, 250 strong, but silent, — -yes, stronger than these noisy winds that puff our sails until they are swollen as the cheeks of jubilant cherubim. And when at last the black steam-tug with the skeleton arms, which comes out of the mist sooner or later and takes us all in tow, grapples her and goes off panting 255 and groaning with her, it is to that harbor where all wrecks are refitted, and where, alas ! we, towering in our pride, may never come. 3i6 American Literary Readings So you will not think I mean to speak lightly of old 260 friendships, because we cannot help instituting comparisons between our present and former selves by the aid of those who were what we were, but are not what we are. Nothing strikes one more, in the race of life, than to see how many give out in the first, half of the course. "Commencement 266 day" always reminds me of the start for the "Derby," when the beautiful high-bred three-year olds of the season are brought up for trial. That day is the start, and life is the race. Here we are at Cambridge, and a class is just "graduating." Poor Harry! he was to have been there too, 270 but he has paid forfeit; step out here into the grass back of the chiu-ch; ah! there it is: — "HUNC LAPIDEM POSUERUNT Soon MCERENTES." But this is the start, and here they are, — coats bright as 275 silk, and manes as smooth as eau lustrale can make them. Some of the best of the colts are pranced round, a few minutes each, to show their paces.- What is that old gentle- man crying about? and the old lady by him, and the three girls, what are they all covering their eyes for? Oh, that is 280 their colt which has just been trotted up on the stage. Do they really think those little thin legs can do anything in such a slashing sweepstakes as is coming off in these next forty years? Oh, this terrible gift of second-sight that comes to some of us when we begin to look through the 285 silvered rings of the arcus senilis! Ten years gone. First turn in the race. A few broken down; two or three bolted. Several show in advance of the ruck. Cassock, a black colt, seems to be ahead of the rest; those black colts commonly get the start, I have noticed, 290 of the others, in the first quarter. Meteor has ptilled up. Twenty years. Second comer turned. Cassock has dropped from the front, and Judex, an iron-gray, has the lead. But look! how they have thinned out! Down 00 The Autocrat oj the Breakfast Table 317 flat,— five,— six,— how many? They lie still enough! they will not get up again in this race, be very sure! And the 2 rest of them, what a "tailing ofE"! Anybody can see who is going to win, — perhaps. Thirty years. Third comer turned. Dives, bright sorrel, ridden by the fellow in a yellow jacket, begins to make play fast; is getting to be the favourite with many. But who is 3 that other one that has been lengthening his stride from the first, and now shows close up to the front? Don't you remember the quiet brown colt Asteroid, with the star in his forehead? That is he; he is one of the sort that lasts; look out for him! The black "colt," as we used to call sos him, is in the background, taking it easily in a gentle trot. There is one they used to call the Filly, on accoimt of a certain feminine air he had; well up, you see; the Filly is not to be despised, my boy! Forty years. More dropping off, — but places much as 310 before. Fifty years. Race over. All that are on the course are coming in at a walk; no more running. Who is ahead? Ahead? What! and the winning-post a slab of white or gray stone standing out from that turf where there is no 315 more jockeying or straining for victory! Well, the world marks their places in its betting-book; but be sure that these matter very little, if they have run as well as they knew how! — Did I not say to you a little while ago that the tmJverse 320 swam in an ocean of similitudes and analogies? I will not quote Cowley, or Bums, or Wordsworth, just now, to show you what thoughts were suggested to them by the simplest natural objects, such as a flower or a leaf; but I will read you a few lines, if you do not object, suggested by 325 looking at a section of one of those chambered shells to which is given the name of Pearly Nautilus. We need not trouble ourselves about the distinction between this and the Paper Nautilus, the Argonauta of the ancients. The name applied 3i8 American Literary Readings 330 to both shows that each has long been compared to a ship, as you may see more fully in Webster's Dictionary, or the "Encyclopedia," to which he refers. If you will look into Roget's Bridgewater Treatise, you will find a figure of one of these shells, and a section of it. The last will show you 335 the series of enlarging compartments successively dwelt in by the animal that inhabits the shell, which is built in a widening spiral. Can you find no lesson in this? THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS^ This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main, — 340 The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings. And coral reefs lie bare. Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. 345 Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell. As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell 350 Before thee lies revealed, — Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, 356 He left the past year's dwelling for the new, II have now and then found a naturalist who still worried over the distinction between the Pearly Nautilus and the Paper Nautilus, or Argonauta. As the stories about both are mere fables, attaching to the Physalia, or Portuguese man-of-war, as well as to these two molluscs, it seems over-nice to quarrel with the poetical handling of a fiction suffi- ciently justified by the name commonly applied to the ship of pearl as well as the ship of paper. The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table 319 Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, 1 Cast from her lap forlorn ! From thy dead lips a clearer note is bom Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings : — ; Build thee more stately mansions, my soul, As the swift seasons roll ! Leave thy low-vaulted past ! Let each new temple, nobler than the last. Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast. Till thou at length art free. Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! XI [The company looked a little flustered one morning when I came in, — so much so, that I inquired of my neighbor, the divinity-student, what had been going on. It appears that the young fellow whom they call John had taken advantage of my being a little late (I having been rather 5 longer than usual dressing that morning) to circulate several questions involving a quibble or play upon words, — in short, containing that indignity to the htmian under- standing, condemned in the passages from the distinguished moralist of the last centtu-y and the illustrious historian 10 of the present, which I cited on a former occasion, and known as a pun. After breakfast, one of the boarders handed me a small roll of paper containing some of the questions and their answers. I subjoin two or three of them, to show what 320 American Literary Readings 15 a tendency there is to frivolity and meaningless talk in young persons of a certain sort, when not restrained by the presence of more reflective natures. — It was asked, "Why tertian and quartan fevers were like certain short-lived insects." Some interesting physiological relation would be naturally 20 suggested. The inquirer blushes to find that the answer is in the paltry equivocation, that they skip a day or two. — "Why an Englishman must go to the Continent to weaken his grog or punch." The answer proves to have no relation whatever to the temperance-movement, as no better reason 25 is given than that island- (or, as it is absurdly written. He and) water won't mix. — But when I came to the next question and its answer, I felt that patience ceased to be a virtue. "Why an onion is like a piano" is a query that- a person of sensibility would be slow to propose; but that in an educated 30 community an individual could be found to answer it in these words, — "Because it smell odious," quasi, it's melodious, — is not credible, but too true. I can show you the paper. Dear reader, I beg your pardon for repeating such things. I know most conversations reported in books are altogether 35 above such trivial details, but folly will come up at every table as surely as purslain and chickweed and sorrel will come up in gardens. This young fellow ought to have talked philosophy, I know perfectly well; but he didn't, — he made jokes. 40 I am -willing, — I said, — to exercise your ingenuity in a rational and contemplative manner. — No, I do not proscribe certain forms of philosophical speculation which involve an approach to the absurd or the ludicrous, such as you may find, for example, in the folio of the Reverend Father Thomas 45 Sanchez, in his famous Disputations, "De Sancto Matri- monio." ,1 will therefore turn this levity of yours to profit by reading you a rhymed problem, wrought out by my friend the Professor. The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table 321 THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE: OR THE WONDERFUL " ONE-HOSS-SHAY " A Logical Story Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss-shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it — ah, but stay, I '11 tell you what happened without delay, Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits, — Have you ever heard of that, I say? Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. Georgius Secundus was then alive, — Snuffy old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down. And Braddock's army was done so brown. Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible Earthquake-day That the Deacon finished the one-hoss-shay. Now in building of chaises, I tell you what. There is always somewhere a weakest spot, — In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill. In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,— lurking still Find it somewhere you must and will, — Above or below, or within or without, — And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but does n't wear out. But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do. With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,") He would build one shay to beat the taown 322 American Literary Readings 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun' ; It should be so built that it couldn' break daown: p — "Fur," said the Deacon, " 't's mighty plain Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain. Is only jest T' make that place uz strong uz the rest." So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That could n't be split nor bent nor broke, — That was for spokes and floor and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees; The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese. But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum," — Last of its timber, — they could n't sell 'em, Never an axe had seen their chips. And the wedges flew from between their lips. Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw. Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he "put her through." — "There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew," Do ! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less ! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray. Deacon and deaconess dropped away. Children and grandchildren — where were they? The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table 323 But there stood the stout old one-hoss-shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day ! Eighteen hundred; — it came and found The Deacon's Masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten ; — "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came ; — Running as usual; much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then come fifty, and fifty-five. Little of all we value here Wakes on the mom of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there 's nothing that keeps its youth. So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large; Take it. — You 're welcome. — No extra charge.) First of November, — the Earthquake-day. — There are, traces of age in the one-hoss-shay, A general flavor of mild decay, But nothing local as one may say. There could n't be, — -for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there was n't a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills. And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor. And the whippletree neither less nor more, And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub encore. And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out! 324 American Literary Readings First of November, 'Fifty-five ! This morning the parson takes a drive, i Now, small boys, get out of the way! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss-shay. Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. "Huddup!" said the parson. — Off went they. The parson was working his Sunday's text,^ ) Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what'tfie — Moses — was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. — First a shiver, and then a thrill, i Then something decidedly like a spill, — And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,- Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! — ^What do you think the parson found, 1 When he got up and stared around? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound. As if it had been to the mill and ground ! You see, of course, if you 're not a dunce. How it went to pieces all at once, — 5 All at once, and nothing first, — Just as bubbles do when they burst. End of the wonderful one-hoss-shay. Logic is logic. That 's all I say. HENRY D. THOREAU HENRY DAVID THOREAU 1817-1862 One of the effects of the transcendental movement was to send men back to nature. The most distinguished spirit of this movement was Emerson, whose first book was entitled Nature. But the man who went farthest into the real mys- teries of nature was Henry David Thoreau. We look upon him now as the pioneer and perhaps still the greatest of the large school of nature writers which has sprung up in recent years. His friend William EUery Channing called him the poet-naturalist, the happy designation by which Thoreau is still widely known. He was, indeed, in spirit a poet as well as a naturalist, and he recorded much of his early thought in verse form; but in later years he expressed himself entirely in prose, and he is now chiefly valued as an original and striking prose stylist, who conscien- tiously and lovingly portrayed the varied aspects of nature in and around his native village of Concord, Massachusetts. Thoreau was the son of John Thoreau, a descendant of a French family which had settled on the island of Jersey, and Cynthia Dunbar, a sprightly woman of Scotch descent. He was bom at Concord, July 12, 18 17. Both his parents had been reared at Concord, and the family seems to have taken deep root in this consecrated soil. Henry could not bear to think of living in any other place. Emerson, Hawthorne, Channing, the Alcotts, and other notable literary persons lived here, but none of them was so thor- oughly attached to the soil, so much a natural outgrowth of it, and none has so faithfully and lovingly preserved the external features and the spiritual atmosphere of the region round about as Thoreau. He seemed to be a part of nature itself in this particular spot. For a few years during his early childhood his parents went to seek their fortune in other places near by, but they came back to Concord in time for Henry to get his common-school education there. Then he was sent to Harvard College, and by the combined finan- cial help of the members of his family he was enabled to graduate in 1837. So little did he value the diploma and [325I 326 American Literary Readings so much was economy necessary that he refused to pay the five dollars' fee necessary to secure the formal certificate of his graduation. He engaged in teaching for a few years, finding a place in his native town to test his ability in this capacity, but his refusal to continue the practice of admin- istering corporal punishment led to his withdrawal from the business of keeping school. He then took up his father's business of pencil-making. By working industriously he soon mastered the secrets of this peculiar occupation, and he was in a fair way to earn a substantial income. With that eccentricity for which he had already become noticeable, he announced that he would make no more pencils, since he did not care to do again what he .had once learned to do well. He decided that the best thing a man could do was to learn to live simply and economically, avoiding much of the unnecessary frippery and Itixury of modem Me. He thought that most people spent entirely too much time making a living and entirely too little in really living. "A man is rich," he said, "in proportion to the number of things he can afford to let alone." If any friend proposed that Thoreau should embark in some enterprise, he was ready to reply that he had already embarked in a permanent business venture, — namely, the living of his own life in his own way. Of course he had to work part of the time to earn the actual means of subsistence, but he accepted Carlyle's doctrine that the chief way to satisfy one's desires was to "reduce the denominator of life's fraction." He estimated that he could earn enough in one day's labor to subsist for a week, and he proportioned his own time in just about this ratio between manual labor and quiet observation, meditation, and loitering in the presence of wild nature. He was by no means idle during these experiences in the fields and forests and on the lakes and streams, for he was continually studying nature and recording his own thoughts and im- pressions. His manual labor was of varied kinds — gardening, carpentry, fence-building, but primarily surveying. He once jocularly quoted Cowper's poem on Alexander Selkirk, "I am monarch of all I survey," and he summarized his occupations by saying thathis steadi- est employment was to .keep himself in the top of condition so as to be ready for anything that might ttu-n up on earth or in heaven. He began to lecture with more or less Henry David Thoreau 327 regularity after the lyceums came into vogue, but he was never a great favorite in this field. Thoreau never married. It is said that in his young manhood he fell in love with a beautiful and vivacious girl who visited in his father's home, but when he saw that his younger brother John was interested in the young lady, he quietly renounced his own claims upon her. The young lady herself, as the sequel showed, did not favor either one of the brothers, but married some one else. Thoreau was too much centered in the development of his own inner life, too coldly self-mastering, too passionless to become en- meshed in the ties of sentiment or domestic life, and it is perhaps well that he did not marry. It is certainly unjust to him, however, to say that he was cold and indifferent in his domestic relations. He was devoted to his brother and sisters and to his parents, he was exceedingly fond of children, and he was, kind and helpful to the oppressed who came under his notice. But he was not personally magnetic, he made few intimate friends, and he did not possess a universal sympathy like that of Walt Whitman, for example. He was rather a man who sought out the secrets of his own nature and mind and made a strict record of the findings, than one who opened his heart to the world arovmd him. Some one suggested that he loved man as he loved all animals, but it is perhaps true that he preferred the companionship of the furred and feathered kinds. Emerson very correctly called him a "Bachelor of Nature." For several years Thoreau was an inmate of Emerson's home at Concord. He was a sort of adopted elder brother and helped to earn his keep by working around the house- hold and in the garden, and by tutoring Emerson's chil- dren in a desultory sort of way. He studied nature and oriental literature, talked philosophy with Emerson, opening the elder writer's eyes to many beauties and revealing secrets of nature hitherto hidden from him, and developed himself normally and naturally in his own way. Many have made the quick deduction that Thoreau owed all his philos- ophy to Emerson, but modem critics are inclined to believe that Emerson gained almost if not quite as much from Thoreau as Thoreau gained from Emerson, and some do not hesitate to affirm that Thoreau is the more original and certainly the more American of the two. The period of his residence with Emerson was an important one in 328 American Literary Readings Thoreau's life, for he was beginning to find himself and to follow implicitly the promptings of his own instincts. It was about this time that he decided to go to the woods and live alone in order to let his genius ripen.- Emerson owned a piece of land on Walden Pond near Concord, and here Thoreau "squatted." He tells us in his book Walden, or Life in the Woods how he borrowed Ellery Channing's axe, cut down the trees for the frame of his house, built his hut at a remarkably low expense, and set up housekeeping in the woods. He planted beans and potatoes, intending to live as far as possible on his own products and the fish he could catch in the ponds and streams. Here he became familiar with the beasts and birds of the forest and even the fishes of the lake. He recorded every item which his keen eye and clear mind observed. He set down day by day and season by season every detail about the plants and .animals and birds and fishes. He was developing his soul (by studying wild life and recording his own minutest thoughts and emotions. He was not very far from the village and he made frequent visits to it. Though he expressly states that he did not intend to cut himself off entirely from organized society, yet his purpose in going to live alone in the woods has been grossly misunderstood and misrepre-, sented. Even Lowell severely criticized the experiment, as it was called, and condemned Thoreau as a poseur; and from his example even Robert Louis Stevenson, though in some respects an admirer of Thoreau, called him a "skulker." But we must give the author the right to make his own defense in stating the purpose of his life in the woods. "My purpose in going to Walden Pond was not to live cheaply nor to live dearly there, but to transact some private business with the fewest obstacles. ... I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine Henry David Thoreau 329 meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion." It is but fair to add that Thoreau found life sublime and that his experiment was a success in every way. He did not go out to prove that a man could live the simple life entirely separated from his fellows; he did not go out to prove that a hermit's life was better than ordinary social life; he did not even want people to imitate his way of living. What he did want to do was to give his soul room to expand, - to find out what he could best do with his endowment of mind and heart and eye, to study wild life closely and on equal and friendly terms, and to make a full and frank personal record of his observations and inner experiences. In all this he succeeded, and his success has given the public a new view of nature, a new inspiration for simple, sincere living. Far more valuable than the social experiment at Brodk Farm is this individual and isolated experiment of Thoreau's. It was his method of working out the trans- cendental impulses of the time, and it may be accounted the most successful of all the experiments of its kind, t- Thoreau went to Walden Pond in 1845 a-^d returned to his father's home in Concord in 1847, but the volume record- ing his experiences there did not appear until 1854. In the meantime he had completed and published in 1849 his first volume, an account of a tour made in a canoe by Thoreau and his brother John some ten years before, and called A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers. It has a thin thread of narrative, but it is made up for the most part of selections from Thoreau's thoughts, poems, and moral observations during the years up to its publication. It is a loose, uneven composition, and has the peculiar quality of works of genius : it is as dry to some readers as it is fascinat- ing to others. Of the thousand copies printed, only about three hundred were disposed of by gift or sale during several years and the publisher finally sent the remainder of the edition to Thoreau's home. He packed the books away and jocularly remarked that he had a library of nine hundred voltunes, seven hundred of which he had written himself. But he kept working along quietly in his own vein, accu- mulating vast stores of notes in his journals, and presently Walden, or Life in the Woods, largely made up of material selected from these journals, was ready for publication. 330 American Literary Readings This volume, from the pecuHar experiment which it recorded, was somewhat more successful, but the public was not yet ready for this sort of nature interpretation, mixed with the sententious wisdom and moral meditations of the poet- naturalist. Thoreau was not enough encouraged to try another volume during his lifetime, but since his death his fame has been steadily growing. No American writer had to wait so long for his audience, but it now seems that none will hold his audience longer. During his lifetime he was highly appreciated by Emerson, Channing, Higginson, and a few others; but the great body of readers and critics, headed by Lowell, condemned him with slight praise, ranking him as a pale imitator of Emerson and as a mere poseur. It took half a century for the world to discover his real genius. Thoreau did his best thinking during his long daily walks. His notes of his walks are delightful records, and some of his best books, published since his death, are the results of his walking tours, as for example, The Maine Woods and Cape Cod, edited by Emerson, and four other books edited by H. G. O. Blake under the title of the four seasons. These posthumous volumes consisted of previously published papers and extracts front the thirty or more manuscript volumes of Thoreau's Journals. Finally in 1 896 the Journals themselves were published in fourteen voltimes, so that now we have a perfect quarry of Thoreau material to dig. in at will. It is a pity that Thoreau did not live to prepare his own books for publication, for he was a minute reviser and a careful workman on his literary style in the proof sheets. Perhaps we may console ourselves with the thought that the unpruned records as we have them give us after all a true picture of the man as he was. About i860 he exposed himself too freely in his long winter walks, and contracted consumption. He went to Minnesota for a time to see if the dry climate might not help him, but he returned not greatly benefited, and became a helpless but patient invalid. He died May 6, 1862, and was buried in the Sleepy Hollow Ceme- tery of his native town. Close by the spot where Thoreau's cabin stood near Walden Pond, a large cairn of loose stones has been gradually raised to his memory by the hundreds of pilgrims who come annually to this literary shrine. (The best life of this author is Thoreau: the Poet- Naturalist by W. E. Channing, revised by F. B. Sanborn. A good short biography is that by Henry S. Salt in the Great Writers Series.) BRUTE NEIGHBORS Chapter XII of Walden, or Life in the Woods Sometimes I had a companion in my fishing, who came through the village to my house from the other side of the town, and the catching of the dinner was as much a social exercise as the eating of it. Hermit. I wonder what the world is doing now. I have s not heard so much as a locust over the sweet-fern these three hours. The pigeons are all asleep upon their roosts, — no flutter from them. Was that a farmer's noon horn which sounded from beyond the woods just now? The hands are coming in to boiled salt beef and cider and Indian bread, lo Why will men worry themselves so? He that does not eat need not work. I wonder how much they have reaped. Who would Hve there where a body can never think for the barking of Bose? And O, the housekeepiag! to keep bright the devil's door-knobs, and scour his tubs this bright day! 15 Better not keep a house. Say, some hollow tree ; and then for morning calls and dinner-parties! Only a woodpecker tap- ping. 0, they swarm; the sun is too warm there; they are bom too far into life for me. I have water from the spring, and a loaf of brown bread on the shelf. — Hark! I hear a rust- 20 Ung of the leaves. Is it some iU-fed village hound yielding to the instinct of the chase? or the lost pig which is said to be in these woods, whose tracks I saw after the rain? It ccmes on apace; my sumachs and sweet-briers tremble. — Eh, Mr. Poet, is it you? How do you like the world to-day? 25 Poet. See those clouds; how they hang! That's the greatest thing I have seen to-day. There's nothing Uke it in old paintings, nothing like it in foreign lands, — unless when we were off the coast of Spain. That's a true Medi- terranean sky. I thought, as I have my living to get, and so [331] 332 American Literary Readings have not eaten to-day, that I might go a-fishing. That's the true industry for poets. -It is the only trade I have learned. Come, let's along. Hermit. I cannot resist. My brown bread will soon be 35 gone. I will go with you gladly soon, but I am just con- cluding a serious meditation. I think that I am near the end of it,. Leave me alone, then, for a while. But that we may not be delayed, you shall be digging the bait meanwhile. Angle-worms are rarely to be met with in these parts, where 40 the soil was never fattened with manure; the race is nearly extinct. The sport of digging the bait is nearly equal to that of catching the fish, when one's appetite is not too keen ; and this you may have all to yourself to-day. I would advise you to set in the spade down yonder among the 45 ground-nuts, where you see the johnswort waving. I think that I may warrant you one worm to every three sods you turn up, if you look well in among the roots of the grass, as if you were weeding. Or, if you choose to go farther, it will not be unwise, for I have found the increase of fair bait 50 to be very nearly as the squares of the distances. Hermit alone. Let me see ; where was I ? Methinks I was nearly in this frame of mind; the world lay about at this angle. Shall I go to heaven or a-fishing? If I should soon bring this meditation to an end, would another so sweet 65 occasion be likely to offer ? I was as near being resolved into the essence of things as ever I was in my life. I fear my thoughts wiU not come back to me. If it would do any good, I would whistle for them. When they make us an offer, is it wise to say. We will think of it? My- thoughts 60 have left no track, and I cannot find the path again. What was it that I was thinking of? It was a very hazy day. I will just try these three sentences of Con-fut-see; they may fetch that state about again. I know not whether it was the dumps or a budding ecstasy. Mem. There never is but one 65 opportunity of a kind. Poet. How now. Hermit, is it too soon? I have got just Brute Neighbors 333 thirteen whole ones, beside several which are imperfect or undersized; but they will do for the smaller fry; they do not cover up the hook so much. Those village worms are quite too large; a shiner may make a meal off one without finding 70 the skewer. Hermit. Well, then, let's be off. Shall we to the Con- cord? There's good sport there if the water be not too high. Why do precisely these objects which we behold make a world? Why has man just these species of animals for his 75 neighbors; as if nothing but a mouse could have fiUed this crevice? I suspect that Pilpay & Co. have put animals to their best use, for they are all beasts of burden, in a sense, made to carry some portion of our thoughts. The mice which haunted my house were not the common so ones, which are said to have been introduced into the coun- try, but a wild native kind not found in the village. I sent one to a distinguished naturalist, and it interested him much. When I was building, one of these had its nest underneath the house, and before I had laid the second floor, and swept 85 out the shavings, would come out regularly at lunch time and pick up the crumbs at my feet. It probably had never seen a man before; and it soon became quite familiar, and would run over my shoes and up my clothes. It could readily ascend the sides of the room by short impulses, Uke a squirrel, so which it resembled in its motions. At length, as I leaned with my elbow on the bench one day, it ran up my clothes, and along my sleeve, and round and round the paper which held my dinner, while I kept the latter close, and dodged and played at bo-peep with it; and when at last I held still a piece 95 of cheese between my thumb and finger, it came and nibbled it, sitting in my hand, and afterward cleaned its face and paws, like a fly, and walked away. A phoebe soon built in my shed, and a robin for protection in a pine which grew against the house. In June the part- 100 fidge, (Tetrao umbellus,) which is so shy a bird, led her 334 American Literary Readings brood past my windows, from the woods in the rear to the front of my house, clucking and calling to them like a hen, and in all her behavior proving herself the hen of the woods. 105 The young suddenly disperse on your approach, at a signal from the mother, as if a whirlwind had swept them away, and they so exactly resemble the dried leaves and twigs that many a traveller has placed his foot in the midst of a brood, and heard the whir of the old bird as she flew off, and her 110 anxious calls and mewing, or seen her trail her wings to attract his attention, without suspecting their neighborhood. The parent will sometimes roll and spin round before you in such a dishabille, that you cannot, for a few moments, detect what kind of creature it is. The young squat still and flat, 115 often running their heads under a leaf, and mind only their mother's directions given from a distance, nor will your approach make them run again and betray themselves. You may even tread on them, or have your eyes on them for a minute, without discovering them. I have held them in 120 my open hand at such a time, and still their only care, obedi- ent to their mother and their instinct, was to squat there without fear or trembling. So perfect is this instinct, that once, when I had laid them on the leaves again, and one accidentally fell on its side^ it was found with the rest in 125 exactly the same position ten minutes afterward. They are not callow like the young of most birds, but more perfectly developed and precocious even than chickens. The remark- ably adult yet innocent expression of their open and serene eyes is very memorable. All intelligence seems -reflected in 130 them. They suggest not merely the purity of infancy, but a wisdom clarified by experience. Such an eye was not bom when the bird was, but is coeval with the sky it reflects. The woods do not yield another such a gem. The traveller does not often look into such a limpid well. The ignorant or 135 reckless sportsman often shoots the parent at such a time, and leaves these innocents to fall a prey to some prowling beast or bird, or gradually mingle with the decaying leaves Brute Neighbors 335 which they so much resemble. It is said that when hatched by a hen they will directly disperse on some alarm, and so are lost, for they never hear the mother's call which gathers 140 them again. These were my hens and chickens. It is remarkable how many creatures live wild and free though, secret in the woods, and still sustain themselves in the neighborhood of towns, suspected by hunters only. How retired the otter manages to live here ! He grows to be us four feet long, as big as a small boy, perhaps without any human being getting a glimpse of him. I formerly saw the raccoon in the woods behind where my house is built, and probably still heard their whinnering at night. CommorJy I rested an hour or two in the shade at noon, after planting, 150 and ate my lunch, and read a little by a spring which was the soiu-ce of a swamp and of a brook, oozing from under Bris- ter's Hill, half a mile from my field. The approach to this was through a succession of descending grassy hollows, full of young pitch-pines, into a larger wood about the 155 swamp. There, in a very secluded and shaded spot, under a spreading white-pine, there was yet a clean firm sward to sit on. I had dug out the spring and made a well of clear gray water, where I could dip up a pailful without roiling it, and thither I went for this purpose almost every day uo in midsummer, when the pond was warmest. Thither too the wood-cock led her brood, to probe the raud for worms, fl5ring but a foot above them down the bank, while they ran in a troop beneath ; but at last, spying me, she would leave her young and circle round and round me, nearer and nearer us till within four or five feet, pretending broken wings and legs, to attract my attention, and get off her young, who would already have taken up their march, with faint wiry peep, single file through the swamp, as she directed. Or I heard the peep of the young when I could not see the parent bird, no There too the turtle-doves sat over the spring, or fluttered from bough to bough of the soft white-pines over my head; or the red squirrel, coursing down the nearest tough, was 336 American Literary Readings particularly familiar and inquisitive. You only need sit still 175 long enough in some attractive spot in the woods that all its inhabitants may exhibit themselves to you by turns. I was witness to events of a less peaceful character. One day when I went out to my wood-pile, or rather my pile of stumps, I observed two large ants, the one red, the other 180 much larger, nearly half an inch long, and black, fiercely contending with one another. Having once got hold they never let go, but struggled and wrestled and rolled on the chips incessantly. Looking farther, I was surprised to find that the chips were covered with such combatants, that it 185 was not a duellum, but a bellum, a war between two races of ants, the red always pitted against the black, and frequently two red ones to one black. The legions of these Myrmidons covered all the hills and vales in my wood-yard, and the ground was already strewn with the dead and dying, both 190 red and black. It was the only battle which I have ever witnessed, the only battle-field I ever trod while the battle was raging; internecine war; the red republicans on the one hand, and the black imperialists on the other. On every side they were engaged in deadly combat, yet without any 195 noise that I cotdd hear, and human soldiers never fought so resolutely. I watched a couple that were fast locked in each other's embraces, in a Uttle sunny valley amid the chips, now at noon-day prepared to fight till the sun went down, or life went out. The smaller red champion had fastened 200 himself like a vice to his adversary's front, and through all the tumbHngs on that field never for an instant ceased to gnaw at one of his feelers near the root, having already caused the other to go by the board; while the stronger black one dashed him from side to side, and, as I saw on 205 looking nearer, had already divested him of several of his members. They fought with more pertinacity than bull- dogs. Neither manifested the least disposition to retreat. It was evident that their battle-cry was Conqueror die. In the mean while there came along a single red ant on the hill-side Brute Neighbors 337 of this valley, evidently full of excitement, who either had 210 despatched his foe, or had not yet taken part in the battle; probably the latter, for he had lost none of his Umbs; whose mother had charged him to return with his shield or upon it. Or perchance he was some Aclulles, who had nourished his wrath apart, and had now come to avenge or rescue his 215 Patroclus. He saw this unequal combat from afar, — ^for the blacks were nearly twice the size of the red, — he drew near with rapid pace till he stood on his guard within half an inch of the combatants; then, watching his opportunity, he sprang upon the black warrior, and commenced his opera- 220 tions near the root of his right fore-leg, leaving the foe to select among his own members; and so there were three tuiited for Hfe, as if a new kind of attraction had been invented which put all other locks and cements to shame. I should not have wondered by this time to find that they 225 had their respective musical bands stationed on some eminent chip, and playing their national airs the while, to excite the slow and cheer the djdng combatants. I was myself excited somewhat even as if they had been men. The more you think of it, the less the difference. And 230 certainly there is not the fight recorded in Concord his- tory, at least, if in the history of America, that will bear a moment's comparison with this, whether for the numbers engaged in it, or for the patriotism and heroism displayed. For numbers and for carnage it was an Austerhtz or Dresden. 235 Concord Fight! Two killed on the patriots' side, and Luther Blanchard wounded! Why, here every ant was a Buttrick, — "Fire! for God's sake fire!" — and thousands shared the fate of Davis and Hosmer. There was not one hireling there. I have no doubt that it was a principle 240 they fought for, as much as our ancestors, and not to avoid a three-penny tax on their tea; and the results of this battle win be as important and memorable to those whom it con- cerns as those of the battle of Bunker Hill, at least. I took up the chip on which the three I have particularly 245 12 338 American Literary Readings described were struggling, carried it into my house, and placed it under a tiimbler on my window-sill, in order to see the issue. Holding a microscope to the first-mentioned red ant, I saw that, though he was assiduously gnawing at the 250 near fore-leg of his enemy, having severed his remaining feeler, his own breast was all torn away, exposing what vitals he had there to the jaws of the black warrior, whose breast-plate was apparently too thick for him to pierce; and the dark carbuncles of the sufferers' eyes shone with ferocity such as 255 war only could excite. They struggled half an hoiir longer tmder the tumbler, and when I looked again the black soldier had severed the heads of his foes from their bodies, and the still living heads were hanging on either side of him Hke ghastly trophies at his saddle-bow, still apparently as firmly 260 fastened as ever, and he was endeavoring with feeble struggles, being without feelers and with only the remnant of a leg, and I know not how many other wounds, to divest himself of them; which at length, after half an hour more, he accomplished. I raised the glass, and he went off over 265 the window-sill in that crippled state. Whether he finally survived that combat, and spent the remainder of his days in some Hotel des Invalides, I do not know; but I thought that his industry would not be worth much thereafter. I never learned which party was victorious, nor the cause of 270 the war; but I felt for the rest of that day as if I had had my feelings excited and harrowed by witnessing the struggle, the ferocity and carnage, of a human battle before my door. Kirby and Spence tell us that the battles of ants have long been celebrated and the date of them recorded, though they 275 say that Huber is the only modem author who appears to have witnessed them, ".i^neas Sylvius," say they, "after giving a very circumstantial account of one contested with great obstinacy by a great and small species on the trunk of a pear tree," adds that " 'This action was fought in the 280 pontificate of Eugenius the Fourth, in the presence of Nicholas Pistoriensis, an eminent lawyer, who related the Brute Neighbors 339 whole history of the battle with the greatest fidelity.' A similar engagement between great and small ants is recorded by Olaus Magnus, in which the small ones, being victorious, are said to have buried the bodies of their own soldiers, but 285 left those of their giant enemies a prey to the birds. This event happened previous to the expulsion of the tjrrant Chris- tiem the Second from Sweden." The battle which I wit- nessed took place in the Presidency of Polk, five years before the passage of Webster's Fugitive-Slave Bill. 290 Many a village Bose, fit only to course a mud-turtle in a victualling cellar, sported his heavy quarters in the woods, without the knowledge of hismaster, and ineffectually smelled at old fox burrows and woodchucks' holes; led perchance by some slight cur which nimbly threaded the wood, and might 295 stiE inspire a natural terror in its denizens; — now far behind his guide, barking like a canine bull toward some small squirrel which had treed itself for scrutiny, then, cantering off, bending the bushes with his weight, imagining that he is on the track of some stray member of the jerbiUa famUy. 300 Once I was surprised to see a cat walking along the stony shore of the pond, for they rarely wander so far from home. The surprise was mutual. Nevertheless the most domestic cat, which has lain on a rug aU her days, appears quite at home in the woods, and, by her sly and stealthy behavior, 305 proves herself more native there than the regular inhabitants. Once, when berrying, I met with a cat with young kittens in the woods, quite wild, and they all, Uke their mother, had their backs up and were fiercely spitting at me. A few years before I Hved in the woods there was what was called a 310 "winged cat" in one of the farm-houses in Lincoln nearest the pond, Mr. GiHan Baker's. When I called to see her in June, 1842, she was gone a-hunting in the woods, as was her wont, (I am not sure whether it was a male or female, and so use the more common pronoun,) but her mistress told me 315 that she came into the neighborhood a little more than a year before, in April, and was finally taken into their house; 34° American Literary Readings that she was of a dark brownish-gray color, with a white spot on her throat, and white feet, and had a large bushy 320 tail like a fox; that in the winter the ftir grew thick and flatted out along her sides, forming strips ten or twelve inches long by two and a half wide, and under her chin Hke a muff, the upper side loose, the under matted like felt, and in the spring these appendages dropped off. They gave me a pair 325 of her "wings," which I keep still. There is no appearance of a membrane about them. Some thought it was part flying-squirrel or some other wild animal, which is not im- possible, for, according to naturalists, prolific hybrids have been produced by the union of the marten and dorrjestic 830 cat. This would have been the right kind of cat for me to keep, if I had kept any; for why should not a poet's cat be winged as well as his horse? In the faU the loon (Colymbus glacialis) came, as usual, to moult and bathe in the pond, making the woods ring with 335 his wild laughter before I had risen. At rumor of his arrival all the Mill-dam sportsmen are on the alert, in gigs and on foot, two by two and three by three, with patent rifles and conical balls and spy-glasses. They come rustling through the woods like autumn leaves, at least ten men to one loon. 340 Some station themselves on this side of the pond, some on that, for the poor bird cannot be omnipresent; if he dive here he must come up there. But now the kind October wind rises, rustling the leaves and rippling the surface of the water, so that no loon can be heard or seen, though his foes . 345 sweep the pond with spy-glasses, and make the woods re- sound with their discharges. The waves generously rise and dash angrily, taking sides with all waterfowl, and our sportsmen must beat a retreat to town and shop and unfin- ished jobs. But they were too often successful. When I 360 went to get a pail of water early in the morning I frequently saw this stately bird sailing out of my cove within a few rods. If I endeavored to overtake him in a boat, in order to see how he would manoeuvre, he would dive and be completely Erute Neighbors 34i lost, so that I did not discover him again, sometimes, till the latter part of the day. But I was more than a match for him 355 on the surface. He commonly went off in a rain. As I was paddling along the north shore one very. calm October afternoon, for such days especially they settle on to the lakes, like the milkweed down, having looked in vain over the pond for a loon, suddenly one, sailing out from the mo shore toward the middle a few rods in front of me, set up his wild laugh and betrayed himself. I pursued with a paddle and he dived, but when he came up again I was nearer than before. He dived again, but I miscalculated the direction he would take, and we were fifty rods apart when he came ses to the surface this time, for I had helped to widen the inter- val; and again he laughed long and loud, and with more reason than before. He manoeuvred so cunningly that I could not get within half a dozen rods of him. Each time, when he came to the surface, turning his head this way and 370 that, he coolly surveyed the water and the land, and appar- ently chose his course so that he might come up where there was the widest expanse of water and. at the greatest distance from the boat. It was surprising how quickly he made up his mind and put his resolve into execution. He led me at once 375 to the widest part of the pond, and could not be driven from it. While he was thinking one thing in his brain, I was endeavoring to divine his thought in mine. It was a pretty game, played on the smooth surface of the pond, a man against a loon. Suddenly your adversary's checker disap- sso pears beneath the board, and the problem is to place yours nearest to where his will appear again. Sometimes he would come up unexpectedly on the opposite side of me, having apparently passed directly under the boat. So long-winded was he and so unweariable, that when he had 335 swiun farthest he would immediately plunge again, never- theless ; and then no wit could divine where in the deep pond, beneath the smooth surface, he might be speeding his way like a fish, for he had time and ability to visit the bottom 34? Afnerican Literary Readings 390 of the pond in its deepest part. It is said that loons have been caught in the New York lakes eighty feet beneath the surface, with hooks set for trout, — though Walden is deeper than .that. How surprised must the fishes be to see this un- gainly visitor from another sphere speeding his way amid 396 their schools ! Yet he appeared to know his course as surely under water as on the surface, and swam much faster there. Once or twice I saw a ripple where he approached the sur- face, just put his head out to reconnoitre, and instantly dived again. I found that it was as well for me to rest on my 400 oars and wait his reappearing as to endeavor to calculate where he would rise ; for again and again, when I was strain- ing my eyes over the surface one way, I would suddenly be startled by his unearthly laugh behind me. But why, after displaying so much cunning, did he invariably betray himself 405 the moment he came up by that loud laugh? Did not his white breast enough betray him? He was indeed a silly loon, I thought. I could commonly hear the plash of the water when he came up, and so also detected him. But after an hour he seemed as fresh as ever, dived as willingly, 410 and swam yet farther than at first. It was surprising to see how serenely he sailed off with unruffled breast when he came to the surface, doing all the work with his webbed feet beneath. His usual note was this demoniac laughter, yet somewhat like that of a water-fowl ; but occasionally, when he 415 had balked me most successfully and come up a long way off, he uttered a long-drawn unearthly howl, probably more like that of a wolf than any bird; as when a beast puts his muzzle to the ground and deliberately howls. This was his looning, — perhaps the wildest sound that is ever heard here, making 420 the woods ring far and wide. I concluded that he laughed in derision of my efforts, confident of his own resources. Though the sky was by this time overcast, the pond was so ' smooth that I could see where he broke the surface when I did not hear him. His white breast, the stillness of the air, 425 and the smoothness of the water were all against him. At Brute Neighbors 343 length, having come up fifty rods off, he uttered one of those prolonged howls, as if calling on the god of loons to aid him, and immediately there came a wind from the east and rippled the surface, and filled the whole air with misty rain, and I was impressed as if it were the prayer of the loon 430 answered, and his god was angry with me; and so I left him disappearing far away on the tumultuous surface. For hours, in fall days, I watched the ducks cunningly tack and veer and hold the middle of the pond, far from the sportsman; tricks which they will have less need to practise 43s in Louisiana bayous. When compelled to rise they would sometimes circle round and round and oyer the pond at a considerable height, from which they could easily see to other ponds and the river, like black motes in the sky; and, when I thought they had gone off thither long since, they 440 would settle down by a slanting flight of a quarter of a mile on to a distant part which was left free; but what beside safety they got by sailing in the middle of Walden I do not know, unless they love its water for the same reason that I do. 445 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 1819-1891 James Russell Lowell is usually designated as our Repre- sentative Man of Letters. His versatility and originality, his successful productions not in one but in many types of literature, and his characteristic literary attitude even in his moral and political efforts and in his diplomatic and other public services, justly entitle him to this designation. Lowell was bom February 22, 1819, at "Elmwood," another famous old Cambridge house not far froin Long- fellow's home, "Craigie House." The old Puritan family of Lowells belonged to what Holmes called "the Brahmins of New England." One member of this family founded the city of Lowell and was among the first to introduce the -manufacture of cotton into this country; another endowed "Lowell Institute" in Boston; and his own father. Reverend Charles Lowell, was a noted pastor of a Congregational church in Boston. It was from his mother, Harriet Sperice, however, that Lowell inherited his poetic instincts. She claimed to be descended from the famous old Scotch sea captain. Sir Patrick Spence, of ballad fame. In his youth Lowell was surrounded by the best cultural influences, and he read deeply in his father's excellent library. He was an imaginative child, often confessing to have seen visions in his youth, and to have been conr stantly accompanied by the medieval characters with whom he had become acquainted by reading Spenser's Faerie Queene and other imaginative poems and romances. He was deeply religious, too. Mr. Ferris Greenslet, his latest biographer, says that the two significant influences of the poet's early life were "his love for the outdoor world at Elmwood, and his equally strong love for the indoor world of literature." Mr. Greenslet also makes much of the mystical element in Lowell's nature. It was but natural for Lowell to go to Harvard when he was ready to enter college, for his father had graduated there before him, and all his native and local inclinations led him to that institution. He did not make a good record, for he read everything, he says, but those, books which would have t344l JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL James KusseU Lowell 34S advanced his academic standing. He was one of the cleverest wits in his class, however, and like Emerson and Holmes, he was chosen class poet. Just two weeks before he was graduated, the authorities of the college, rusticated him as a punishment for his continued neglect of his academic duties. He spent two rather dreary weeks at Concord, and in spite of the facts that he met Emerson and Thoreau here and had time to compose and polish up his class poem, he confessed to a lifelong feeling of dislike for the famous old village. He was allowed to return to Harvard in time for graduation, but not in time to read his class poem. Like several others of our literary men, Lowell first turned to the law for a livelihood. He took the Bachelor of Laws degree at Harvard and went so far as to enter a law office to practice. About this time (1840) he met and became engaged to Maria White, a beautiful and accomplished young woman, and her influence on him finally determined his life career. She was a great lover of poetry and a strong adherent of the cause of abolition. Lowell began now to write stirring articles for the abolition journals and attractive poems for the Southern Literary Messenger and other literary magazines. His first volume of verse, A Year's Life, came out in 1841, the most notable individual poems in it being those addressed to his prospective wife. Encouraged by the reception of his literary efforts, Lowell decided to abandon the law and devote himself to literature. He attempted to form a literary journal, The Pioneer, but this venture failed after a brief career. At the end of 1843 a collected edition of his poems appeared and was received with great favor by the public. In 1844, with the success of this volume and the additional income from his contribu- tions to the magazines and from his popular lectures, Lowell was enabled to marry. He had secured a position, too, as editorial writer for the Pennsylvania Freeman, a journal at one time edited by Whittier. His fame grew, and he gradu- ally became one of the leading literary men of his time. He was continually flashing forth with some fiery lyric on topics of the day, or quietly publishing some exquisite personal or nature poem. For example, in 1844, during the heated discussion of the slavery question in connection with the admission of Texias to the Union, he produced "The Present Crisis," a stirring ode written in the long trochaic meter of Tennyson's "Locksley Hall." It caught the public ear 346 American Literary Readings and was used many times in addresses by men of national fame during the long period of discussion preceding the Civil War. In spite of its topical character, it contains some fine thoughts and notable passages, such as, "Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide. In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side;" "Truth forever on the scaffold. Wrong forever on the throne, — Yet that scaffold sways the future, and behind the dim unknown, Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own;" "New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient Good uncouth; They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast of Truth." This betrays the moralist and the Puritan in Lowell's nature, but in spite of its preaching tone and the local or circum- scribed theme, the noble sincerity and fiery passion of the poem lift it clearly into the realm of art. The year 1848 has been called Lowell's annus mirabilis, or year of wonders. Besides many essays and fugitive poems, he published during this year a new volume of poems, chiefly lyrical, the famous Biglow Papers, First Series, the clever satire "A Fable for Critics," and chief of all "The Vision of Sir Launfal." The Biglow Papers were cast in the homely New England dialect, and for shrewdness, Yankee common-sense, sparkling wit, and keen political satire, we have nothing in our literature to compare with the combined First Series (1848), dealing with the Mexican War, and the Second Series (1866), dealing with the Civil War. These pieces, begun in a spirit of humor as a light newspaper contribution to the political discussion of the time, brought Lowell national and even international fame, and placed him securely in the first rank of American humorists. They are composed partly in prose and partly in verse, and purport to be mainly poetical productions of Hosea Biglow of Jaalam, with introductory letters mainly by Parson Homer Wilbur. The poems were copied and quoted widely, and some of them, notably "What Mr. Robinson Thinks," became almost as popular as a b3rword during the period immediately following their appearance. Of course dialect poems of this character, being chiefly satirical and largely made up of local allusions and topical material, cannot be expected to retain popular favor for many decades; but so sprightly is the humor, so original and fresh the conception James Russell Lowell 347 of both character and incident, and so permanent the under- lying moral truth, that the Biglow Papers will always retain a fresh interest for students of our native language and literature. And at least one poem, "The Courtin'," pro- duced not as an integral part of the Biglow Papers but under the same impulse, is destined, because of its more human and universal appeal, to retain its place much longer in popular esteem as a standard hiimorous lyric. It is needless to speak of "A Fable for Critics" and "The Vision of Sir Launfal" here, since both these are more fully treated in the notes to this volume; but we cannot pass with- out saying that each of these is supreme of its kind. The first is a literary satire, full of racy humor and keen criticism; the second is a narrative poem in ode form, usually con- sidered the masterpiece of Lowell's poetic genius. Among the later poems by Lowell the "Commemoration Ode," read in 1865 at the Harvard services in commemora- tion of her sons who fell in the Civil War, is the most notable. The tribute to Lincoln beginning "And such was he, our Martyr Chief," and the magnificent patriotic conclusion beginning "O Beautiful! my Country!" have been singled out by discerning critics as the high-water mark not only of Lowell's poetry, but of America's. "Under the Willows" (1868), "The Cathedral" (1869), "Agassiz" (1876), and "Under the Old Elm" (1875) are also worthy of special mention among Lowell's longer and more serious poems. The last named poem celebrates the Old Elm under which Washington took command of the Revolutionary Army, and contains a notable tribute to the great soldier and statesman. In 1856 Lowell, who had already for some years been lecturing on literature at Lowell Institute in Boston, suc- ceeded Longfellow in the Smith Professorship of Spanish and Italian at Harvard. He held this position for seventeen years and earned the distinction of being a most charming and inspiring lecturer. He had a sort of conversational style of teaching which his pupils said was delightful. In fact, Lowell was a remarkable conversationalist and letter- writer all his life. It is said that he was the finest talker not only in America but in England during his time, and his two volumes of Letters edited by his friend Charles Eliot Norton are charming in every respect. It was in this year that Lowell, his first wife having been dead several years, married Miss Frances Dunlap, a beautiful young 348 American Literary Readings woman of excellent family who was at this time the governess of his daughter. It was in this year, too, that the Atlantic Monthly was founded with Lowell as its first editor. With the assistance of the principal literary men of New England, Lowell made of this journal what it has since continued to be, — our chief literary magazine. Later (1863) he became editorially connected with the North American Review. During these years Lowell's fame as an essayist and critic was continually growing. His collected volumes of prose include Fireside Travels (1864), Among My Books, First and Second Series (1870, 1876), My Stiidy Windows (1871), Democracy and Other Addresses (1886), and Latest Literary Essays and Addresses (1892). These works unquestionably place Lowell first among our critical essayists. With his keen insight, fine literary judgment and taste, exuberant humor, and scintillating wit, he makes subjects ordinarily dry and uninteresting exceedingly entertaining and enlight- ening. He has something fresh and new to say even when he treats familiar subjects like Shakespeare, Spenser, Chau- cer, Dryden. The best of his outdoor essays are "My Garden Acquaintance" and "A Good Word for Winter"; and his address on "Democracy," delivered at Birmingham, England, in 1884, is a notable analysis of our national ideals. All Lowell's essays, however, are full of subtleties, minute literary allusions, and fanciful and humorous touches, hence are rather difficult for young readers. In 1877 Lowell was appointed foreign minister at Madrid, and in 1880 he was promoted to be minister to England, the most distinguished post in our foreign diplomatic service. It is said that he was up to this time the most popular ambas- sador America had sent to the Court of Saint James. He was called on for all sorts of addresses, and many honors were heaped upon him. He returned to America in 1885, and though his life was now saddened by the loss of his second wife, he continued to write until his death in 1891. He was buried near Longfellow in Mount Auburn Cemetery, Cambridge, almost within sight of the old family home in which he was born. (The standard life of Lowell is that by Horace E. Scudder in two volumes; Ferris Greenslet's life is a delightful shorter study; and The Letters, edited by Charles E. Norton in two volumes, give a still more intimate knowledge of the poet's literary and personal connections.) THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL PART FIRST Prelude Over his keys the musing organist, Beginning doubtfully and far away, First lets his fingers wander as they list. And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay; Then, as the touch of his loved instrument Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, First guessed by faint aiororal flushes sent Along the wavering vista of his dream. Not only around our infancy Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; Daily, with souls that cringe and plot. We Sinais climb, and know it not ; Over our manhood bend the skies; Against our fallen and traitor lives The great winds utter prophecies; With our faint hearts the movtntain strives ; Its arms outstretched, the druid wood Waits with its benedicite ; And -to our age's drowsy blood StiU shouts the inspiring sea. Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us; The beggar is taxed for a comer to die in, The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, We bargain for the graves we lie in ; At the Devil's booth are all things sold. Each otmce of dross costs its ounce of gold; For a cap and bells our lives we pay, [349I 35° American Literary Readings Bubbles we earn with a whole soul's tasking: 'T is heaven alone that is given away, I 'T is only God may be had for the asking; There is no price set on the lavish stumner, And June may be had by the poorest comer. And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays : Whether we look, or whether we listen. We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might. An instinct within, it that reaches and towers, And, grasping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul ia grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowshp startles in meadows green. The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there 's never a leaf or a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace; The httle bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt Hke a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? Now is the high-tide of the year, And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer. Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; The Vision oj Sir Launfal 351 Now the heart is so full that a drop overfiUs it, We are happy now because God so wills it ; No matter how barren the past may have been, 'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green; We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing ; The breeze comes whispering in our ear. That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing. That the river is bluer than the sky. That the robin is plastering his house hard by; And if the breeze kept the good news back. For other couriers we should not lack; We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year. Tells all in his lusty crowing! Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 1 Everything is happy now, Everything is upward striving ; 'T is as easy now for the heart to be true As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,— 'T is the natural, way of living : 1 Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed. The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; The soul partakes the season's youth, 1 And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. What wonder if Sir Launfal now Remembered the keeping of his vow? 1 352 American Literary Readings Part First I " My golden spurs now bring to me. And bring to me my richest mail, For to-morrow I go over land and sea In search of the Holy Grail; ) Shall never a bed for" me be spread, Nor shall a pillow be under my head, Till I begin my vow to keep ; Here on the rushes will I sleep. And perchance there may come a vision true 5 Ere day create the world anew." Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim, Slumber feU like a cloud on him. And into his soul the vision flew. II The crows flapped over by twos and threes, In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees, The little birds sang as if it were The one day of simimer in all the year. And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees: The castle alone in the landscape lay i Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray; 'T was the proudest hall in the North Countree, And never its gates might opened be, Save to lord or lady of high degree; Summer besieged it on every side, ) But the chtirUsh stone her assaults defied; She could not scale the chilly wall,- Though around it for leagues her pavilions tz' Stretched left and right, Over the hills and out of sight; i Green and broad was every tent. And out of each a murmur went Till the breeze fell ofl at night, The Vision of Sir Launfal 353 III The drawbridge dropped with a stirly clang, And through the dark arch a charger sprang, Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight. In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright It seemed the dark castle had gathered all Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall In his siege of three hundred summers long, And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf. Had cast them forth : so, young and strong, And lightsome as a locust-leaf. Sir Laimfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail. To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail. ' IV It was morning on hill and stream and tree. And morning in the yotmg knight's heart; Only the castle moodily Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free. And gloomed by itself apart; The season brimmed all other things up Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup. V As Sir Laxmfal made mom through the darksome gate. He was ware of a leper, crouched by the same. Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate; And a loathing over Sir Launfal came. The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill. The flesh 'neath his armor did shrink and crawl, And midway its leap his heart stood stiU Like a frozen waterfall; For this man, so foul and bent of stature. Rasped harshly against his dainty nature, And seemed the one blot on the summer mom, — So he tossed him a piece of gold in scom, 3 54 American Literary Readings VI The leper raised not the gold from the dust: I " Better to me the poor man's crust, Better the blessing of the poor, Though I turn me empty from his door, That is no true ahns which the hand can hold; He gives nothing but worthless gold i Who gives from a sense of duty; But he who gives but a slender mite, And gives to that which is out of sight, That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty Which runs through all and doth aU unite, — I The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms. The heart outstretches its eager palms. For a god goes with it and makes it store To the soul that was starving in darkness before." PART SECOND Prelude Down swept the chiU wind from the mountain peak, ; From the snow five thousand summers old; On open wold and hill-top bleak It had gathered aU the cold. And whirled it Hke sleet on the wanderer's cheek; It carried a shiver everjrwhere I From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare; The little brook heard it and built a roof 'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof; AU night by the white stars' frosty gleams He groined his arches and matched his beams; i Slender and clear were his crystal spars As the lashes of light that trim the stars; He sculptured every summer delight In his halls and chambers out of sight; Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt I Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt. The Vision of Sir Launfal 3SS Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees Bending to counterfeit a breeze; Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew But silvery mosses that downward grew; Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf; Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear For" the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here He had caught the nodding buhnish-tops And htmg them thickly with diamond drops, i That crystalled the beams of moon and sun, And made a star of every one : No mortal builder's most rare device Could match this winter-palace of ice; 'T was as if every image that mirrored lay ; In his depths serene through the simimer day. Each flitting shadow of earth and sky. Lest the happy rnodel should be lost, Had been mimicked in fairy masonry By the elfin builders of the frost. : Within the hall are song and laughter, The cheeks of Christmas glow red and jolly, And sprouting is every corbel and rafter With hghtsome green of ivy and holly; Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide i Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide; The broad flame-pennons droop and flap And belly and tug as a flag in the wind; Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, Htmted to death in its galleries blind ; And swift little troops of silent sparks. Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear, Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks Like herds of startled deer. 3S6 American Literary Readings i But the wind without was eager and sharp, Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, And rattles and wrings The icy strings, Singing, in dreary monotone, ) A Christmas carol of its own. Whose burden still, as he might guess. Was — "Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!" The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, i And he sat in the gateway and saw all night The great haU-fire, so cheery and bold, Through the window-sUts of the castle old, Build out its piers of ruddy light Against the drift of the cold. Part Second I I There was never a leaf on bush or tree, The bare boughs rattled shudderingly; The river was dumb and could not speak. For the frost's swift shuttles its shroud had spun; A single crow on the tree-top bleak i From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun; Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold. As if her veins were sapless and old, And she rose up decrepitly For a last dim look at earth and sea. II ) Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate. For another heir in his earldom sate; An old, bent man, worn out and frail, He came back from seeking the Holy Grail; Little he recked of his earldom's loss, i No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross, The Vision of Sir Launfal 357 But deep in his soul the sign he wore, The badge of the suffering and the poor. Ill Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare Was idle mail 'gainst the barbM air, For it was just at the Christmas time; So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime. And sought for a shelter from 'cold and snow In the light and warmth of long ago ; He sees the snake-Uke caravan crawl O'er the edge of the desert, black and small. Then nearer and nearer, tiU, one by one. He can count the camels in the sun. As over the red-hot sands they pass To where, in its slender necklace of grass. The Uttle spring laughed and leapt in the shade. And with its own self Uke an infant played, And waved its signal of pahns. IV "For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms"; — The happy camels may reach the spring. But Sir Launfal sees naught save the grewsome thing. The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone, That cowered beside him, a thing as lone And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas In the desolate horror of his disease. And Sir Launfal said, — "I behold in thee An image of Him who died on the tree; Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns, — Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns, — And to thy life were not denied The wounds in the hands and feet and side : 3S8 American Literary Readings Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me; Behold, through him, I give to Thee!" VI Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he Remembered in what a haughtier guise He had flung an alms to leprosie. When he caged his young Ufe up in gilded mail And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. The heart within him was ashes and dust; He parted in twain his single crust, He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink, And gave the leper to eat and drink; 'T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread, 'T was water out of a wooden bowl, — Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed, And 't was red wine he drank with his thirsty soul. VII As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, A light shone round about the place; The leper no longer crouched at his side, But stood before him glorified. Shining and tall and fair and straight As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate, — Himself the Gate whereby men can Enter the temple of God in Man. VIII His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine. And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine. That mingle their softness and quiet in one With the shaggy imrest they float down upon; And the voice that was calmer than silence said, "Lo, it is I, be not afraid! i he- vision of Sir Launfal 359 In many climes, without avail, Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail; Behold, it is here, — this cup which thou Didst fiU at the streamlet for me but now; This crust is my body broken for thee, s This water His blood that died on the tree; The Holy Supper is kept, indeed, In whatso we share with another's need, — Not that which we give, but what we share, — For the gift without the giver is bare; < Who bestows himself with his alms feeds three. Himself, his htmgering neighbor, and me." IX Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound: — "The GraU in my castle here is found! Hang my idle armor up on the wall, i Let it be the spider's banquet-hall; He must be fenced with stronger mail Who wotdd seek and find the Holy Grail." X The castle-gate stands open now. And the wanderer is welcome to the hall s As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough ; No longer scowl the turrets tall. The Summer's long siege at last is o'er; When the first poor outcast went in at the door, ■ She entered with him in. disguise, s And mastered the fortress by surprise; There is no spot she loves so well on ground. She lingers and smiles there the whole year round; The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land Has haU and bower at his command; i And there's no poor man in the North Countree But is lord of the earldom as much as he. 360 American Literary Readings THE COURTIN' God makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur 'z you can look or listen, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all glisten. ; Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru' the winder, An' there sot Htddy all alone, 'ith no one nigh to hender. A fireplace filled the room's one side With half a cord o' wood in — There war n't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'. The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her, An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser. Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, An' in amongst 'em rusted The ole queen's-arm thet.gran'ther Young Fetched back from Concord busted. The very room, coz she was in. Seemed warm from floor to ceilin'. An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'. 'T was kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed cretur, A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter. The Courtin' 361 He was six foot o' man, A i, Clear grit an' human natur' ; None could n't qtucker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighter. He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em. Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — All is, he could n't love 'em. But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple. The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il. She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir; My ! when he made Ole Hunderd ring. She knowed the Lord was nigher. An' she 'd blush s'carlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin'-btinnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair 0' blue eyes sot upon it. Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! She seemed to 've gut a new soul. For she felt sartin-sure he 'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole. She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, A-raspin' on the scraper, — AU ways to once her feelins flew Like sparks in bumt-up paper. He kin' o' I'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle, 362 American Literary Readings His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, 1 But hem went pity Zekle. An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder. i "You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" "Wal .... no ... . I come dasignin' "To see my Ma? She is sprinkUn' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'. " To say why gals acts so or so, I Or don't, 'ould be presumin' ; Mebby to mean yes an' say no Comes nateral to women. He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t' other, i An' on which one he felt the wust He' could n't ha' told ye nuther. Says he, "I'd better call agin"; Says she, "Think likely. Mister"; Thet last word pricked him like a pin, ) An' .... Wal, he up an' kist her. When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes. All kin' o' smily roun' the lips An' teary roun' the lashes. ! For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary. Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary. A Fable for Critics 363 The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin', 90 Tell mother see how matters stood, An' gin 'em both her blessin'. Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay o' Fundy, An' all I know is they was cried u In meetin' come nex' Sunday. A FABLE FOR CRITICS "There comes Emerson first, whose rich .words, every one. Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on. Whose prose is grand verse, while his verse, the Lord knows. Is some of it pr — No, 't is not even prose; I 'm speaking of metres; some poems have welled 5 From those rare depths of soul that have ne'er been excelled; They 're not epics, but that does n't matter a pin, In creating, the only hard thing's to begin; A grass-blade 's no easier to make than an oak; If you've once found the way, you've achieved the grand 10 stroke; In the worst of his poems are mines of rich matter. But thrown in a heap with a crush and a clatter; Now it is not one thing nor another alone Makes a poem, but rather the general tone. The something pervading, uniting the whole, is The before unconceived, unconceivable soul, So that just in removing this trifle or that, you Take away, as it were, a chief limb of the statue; RootSj wood, bark, and leaves singly perfect may be. But, clapt hodge-podge together, they don't make a tree. 20 "But, to come back to Emerson (whom, by the way, I believe we left waiting), — his is, we may say. 364 American Literary Readings A Greek head on right Yankee shoulders, whose range Has Olympus for one pole, for t'other the Exchange; 25 He seems, to my thinking (although I'm afraid The comparison must, long ere this, have been made), A Plotinus-Montaigne, where the Egyptian's gold mist And the Gascon's shrewd wit cheek-by-jowl coexist; All admire, and yet scarcely six converts he 's got 30 To I don't (nor they either) exactly know what; For though he biiilds glorious temples,' 't is odd He leaves never a doorway to get in a god. 'T is refreshing to old-fashioned people like me To meet such a primitive Pagan as he, 35 In whose mind aU creation is duly respected As parts of himself — just a little projected; And who's willing to worship the stars and the sun, A convert to — nothing but Emerson. So perfect a balance there is in his head, 40 That he talks of things sometimes as if they were dead; Life, natitre, love, God, and affairs of that sort, He looks at as merely ideas; in short. As if they were fossils stuck rotmd in a cabinet, Of guch vast extent that our earth's a mere dab in it; 45 Composed just as he is inclined to conjecture her, Namely, one part pure earth, ninety-nine parts pure lecturer; You are filled with delight at his clear demonstration, Each figure, word, gesture, just fits the occasion. With the quiet precision of science he'll sort 'em 60 But you can't help suspecting the whole a post mortem. . . . "There is Bryant, as qtiiet, as cool, and as dignified, As a smooth, silent iceberg, that never is ignified. Save when by reflection 't is kindled o' nights With a semblance of flame by the chill Northern Lights. 55 He may rank (Griswold says so) first bard of your nation (There 's no doubt that he stands in supreme ice-olation), A Fable for Critics 365 Your topmost Parnassus he may set his heel on, But no warm applauses come, peal following peal on, — He 's too smooth and too polished to hang any zeal on: Unqualified merits, I 'U grant, if you choose, he has -em, eo But he lacks the one merit of kindling enthusiasm; If he stir you at all, it is just, on my soul. Like being stirred up with the very North Pole. "He is very nice reading in summer, but inter Nos, we don't want extra freezing in winter; 65 Take him up in the depth of July, my advice is, When you feel an Egyptian devotion to ices. But, deduct all you can, there 's enough that 's right good in him, He has a true soul for field, river, and wood in him; And his heart, in the midst of brick walls, or where'er it is, 70 Glows, softens, and thrills with the tenderest charities — To you mortals that delve in this trade-ridden planet? No, to old Berkshire's hills, with their limestone and granite. If you 're one who in loco (add foco here) desipis, You will get of his outermost heart (as I guess) a piece; 75 But you'd get deeper down if you came as a precipice. And would break the last seal of its inwardest fountain, If you only could pahn yourself off for a mountain. Mr. Quivis, or somebody quite as discerning. Some scholar who's hourly expecting his learning, so Calls B. the American Wordsworth; but Wordsworth May be rated at more than your whole tuneful herd's worth. No, don't be absiu-d, he's an excellent Bryant; But, my friends, you 'U endanger the life of your client, By attempting to stretch him up into a giant: .... as "But, my dear little bardlings, don't prick up your ears Nor suppose I wotdd rank you and Bryant as peers; If I call him an iceberg, I don't mean to say There is nothing in that which is grand in its way; 366 American Literary Readings 90 He is almost the one of your poets that knows How much grace, strength, and dignity lie in Repose; If he sometimes fall short, he is too wise to mar His thought's modest fulness by going too far; •'T would be well if your authors should all make a trial 95 Of what virtue there is in severe self-denial, And measure their writings by Hesiod's staff. Which teaches that all has less value than half. "There is Whittier, whose swelling and vehement heart Strains the strait-breasted drab of the Quaker apart, 100 And reveals the Hve Man, still supreme and erect, Underneath the bemummying wrappers of sect; There was ne'er a man bom who had more of the swing Of the true lyric bard and all that kind of thing; And his failures arise (though he seem not to know it) 105 From the very same cause that has made him a poet, — A fervor of mind which knows no separation 'Twixt simple excitement and ptire inspiration. As my Pythoness erst sometimes erred from. not knowing If 't were I or mere wind through her tripod was blowing; 110 Let his mind once get head in its favorite direction And the torrent of verse bursts the dams of reflection. While, borne with the rush of the metre along. The poet may chance to go right or go wrong. Content with the whirl and delirium of song; 115 Then his grammar's not always correct, nor his rhymes. And he's prone to repeat his own lyrics sometimes. Not his best, though, for those are struck off at white-heats When the heart in his breast like a trip-hammer beats! And can ne'er be repeated again any more 120 Than they could have been carefully plotted before: Like old what's-his-name there at the battle of Hastings (Who, however, gave more than mere rh5d;hmical bastings), Our Quaker leads off metaphorical fights A Fable for Critics 367 For refonn and whatever they call human rights, Both singing and striking in front of the war, And hitting his foes with the maUet of Thor; Anne haec, one exclaims, on beholding his knocks, Vestis filii tui, O leather-clad Fox ? Can that be thy son, in the battle's mid din, Preaching brotherly love and then driving it in To the brain of the tough old Goliath of sin, With the smoothest of pebbles from Castaly's spring Impressed on his hard moral sense with a sling? "AH honor and praise to the right-hearted bard Who was true to The Voice when such service was hard. Who himself was so free he dared sing for the slave When to look but a protest in silence was brave; AU honor and praise to the women and men Who spoke out for the dvunb and the down-trodden then ! . . . ''There is Hawthorne, with genius so shrinking and rare uo That you hardly at first see the strength that is there ; A frame so robust, with a nature so sweet. So earnest, so graceful, so Hthe and so fleet, Is worth a descent from Olympus to meet; 'T is as if a rough oak that for ages had stood, 145 With his gnarled bony branches like ribs of the wood. Should bloom, after cycles of struggle and scathe. With a single anemone trembly and rathe; His strength is so tender, his wildness so meek. That a suitable parallel sets one to seek, — uo" He's a John Bunyan Fouque, a Puritan Tieck; When Nature was shaping him, clay was not granted For making so full-sized a man as she wanted. So, to fill out her model, a little she spared From some finer-grained stuff for a woman prepared, 155 And she could not have hit a more excellent plan For making him fuUy and perfectly man 368 American Literary Readings "Here's Cooper, who's written six volumes to show He's as good as a lord: well, let's grant that he's so; 160 If a person prefer that description of praise, Why, a coronet's certainly cheaper than bays; But he need take no pains to convince us he's not (As his enemies say) the American Scott. Choose any twelve men, and let C. read aloud 165 That one of his novels of which he's most proud, And I 'd lay any bet that, without ever qmtting Their box, they'd be all, to a man, for acquitting. He has drawn you one character, though, that is new. One wUdflower he's plucked that is wet with the dew 170 Of this fresh Western world, and, the thing not to mince. He has done naught but copy it iU ever since; His Indians, with proper respect be it said, Are just Natty Bumpo, daubed over with red. And his very Long Toms are the same useful Nat, 175 Rigged up in. duck pants and a sou'wester hat (Though once in a CofBn, a good chance was found " To have slipped the old fellow away underground) . All his other men-figures are clothes upon sticks. The dernidre chemise of a man in a fix 180 (As a captain besieged, when his garrison's small, Sets up caps upon poles to be seen o'er the wall) ; And the women he draws from one model don't vary. All sappy as maples and fiat as a prairie. When a character's wanted, he goes to the task 185 As a cooper would do in composing a cask; He picks out the staves, of their qualities heedful, Just hoops them together as tight as is needful, And, if the best fortune should crown the attempt, he Has made at the most something wooden and empty. 190 "Don't suppose I would vmderrate Cooper's abilities; If I thought you'd do that, I should feel very ill at ease; The men who have given to one character life A Fable Jor Critics 369 And objective existence are not very rife; You may number them all, both prose-writers and singers, Without overrunning the bounds of your fingers, 195 And Natty won't go to oblivion quicker Than Adams the parson or Primrose the vicar "There comes Poe, with his raven, Kke Bamaby Rudge, Three fifths of him genius and two fifths sheer fudge. Who talks like a book of iambs and pentameters, 200 In a way to make people of common sense damn metres, Who has written some things quite the best of their kind. But the heart somehow seems aU squeezed out by the mind. Who — But hey-day! What 's this? Messieurs Mathews and Poe, You must n't fling mud-balls at Longfellow so, 205 Does it make a man worse that his character 's such As to make his friends love him (as you think) too much? Why, there is not a bard at this moment alive More willing than he that his fellows should thrive; While you are abusing him thus, even now 210 He wotdd help either one of you out of a slough; You may say that he 's smooth and all that tiU you 're hoarse. But remember that elegance also is force; Alter polishing granite as much as you will. The heart keeps its tough old persistency still; 215 Deduct all you can, that still keeps you at bay; Why, he'll live till men weary of Collins and Gray. I'm not over-fond of Greek metres in English, To me rhyme's a gain, so it be not too jinglish. And your modem hexameter verses are no more 220 Like Greek ones than sleek Mr. Pope is Uke Homer; As the roar of the sea to the coo of a pigeon is, So, compared to your modems, sounds old Melesigenes; I may be too partial, the reason, perhaps, o't is That I 've heard the old blind man recite his own rhapsodies, 225 And my ear with that music impregnate may be, 13 370 American Literary Readings Like the poor exiled shell with the soul of the sea, Or as one can't bear Strauss when his nature is cloven To its deeps within deeps by the stroke of Beethoven; 230 But, set that aside, and 't is truth that I speak, Had Theocritus written in English, not Greek, I believe that his exquisite sense would scarce change line In that rare, tender, virgin-like pastoral Evangeline. That's not ancient nor modem, its place is apart 235 Where time has no sway, in the realm of pvire Art, 'T is a shrine of retreat from Earth's hubbub and strife As quiet and chaste as the author's own life "What! Irving? thrice welcome, warm heart and fine brain. You bring back the happiest spirit from Spain, 240 And the gravest sweet humor, that ever were there Since Cervantes met death in his gentle despair; Nay, don't be embarrassed, nor look so beseeching, — I sha 'n't run directly against my own preaching, And, having just laughed at their Raphaels and Dantes, 245 Go to setting you up beside matchless Cervantes; But allow me to speak what I honestly feel, — To a true poet-heart add the ftm of Dick Steele, Throw in all of Addison, minus the chill. With the whole of that partnership's stock and good-wiU, 250 Mix well, and while stirring, hum o'er, as a spell. The fine old English Gentleman, simmer it well. Sweeten just to your own private Hking, then strain. That only the finest and clearest remain. Let it stand out of doors tiU a soul it receives 265 From the warm lazy sun loitering down through green leaves. And you'll find a choice nature, not wholly deserving A name either English or Yankee, — just Irving. . . . A Fable for Critics 371 "There's Holmes, who is matchless among you for wit; A Leyden-jar always full-charged, from which flit The electrical tingles of hit after hit; In long poems 'tis painful sometimes, and invites A thought of the way the new Telegraph writes. Which pricks down its little sharp sentences spitefully As if you got more than you'd title to rightfully, And you find yourself hoping its wild father Lightning Would flame in for a second and give you a fright 'ntng. He has perfect sway of what I call a sham metre. But many admire it, the EngHsh pentameter, And Campbell, I think, wrote most commonly worse, With less nerve, swing, and fire in the same kind of verse, ; Nor e'er achieved aught in't so worthy of praise As the tribute of Holmes to the grand Marseillaise. You went crazy last year over Bulwer's New Timon; — Why, if B., to the day of his djring, shotild rhyme on. Heaping verses on verses and tomes upon tomes, ; He could ne'er reach the best point and vigor of Hohnes. His are just the fine hands, too, to weave you a lyric ¥vl\ of fancy, ftm, feeling, or spiced with satiric In a measure so kindly, you doubt if the toes That are trodden upon are your own or your foes'. : "There is LoweU, who's striving Panlassus to climb With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme. He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders. But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders, The top of the hill he wiU ne'er come nigh reaching 285 Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preaching; His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well. But he'd rather by half make a drum of the shell. And rattle away till he's old as Methusalem, At the head of a march to the last new Jerusalem "290 372 American Ltierary ts-eaam^i "OUR LITERATURE" RESPONSE TO A TOAST AT THE BANQUET IN NEW YORK, APRIL 30, 1889, GIVEN IN COMMEMORATION OF THE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF WASHINGTON'S INAUGURATION. A needful frugality, benignant alike to both the partici- pants in human utterance, has limited the allowance of each speaker this evening to ten minutes. Cut in thicker slices, our little loaf of time would not suffice for all. This seems a 6 meagre ration, but if we give to our life the Psalmist's measure of seventy years, and bear in mind the population of the globe, a little ciphering will show that no single man and brother is entitled even to so large a share of our atten- tion as this. Moreover, how few are the men in any gener- :o ation who could not deliver the message with which their good or evil genius has charged them in less than the sixth part of an hour. On an occasion like this, a speaker lies more than usually open to the temptation of seeking the acceptable rather than 15 the judicial word. And yet it is inevitable that public anniversaries, like those of private persons, should suggest self-criticism as well as self-satisfaction. I shall not listen for such suggestions, though I may not altogether conceal that I am conscious of them. I am to speak for literature, and of 20 our own as forming now a recognized part of it. ' This is not the place for critical balancing of what we have done or left undone in this field. An exaggerated estimate and, that indiscriminateness of praise which implies a fear to speak the truth, would be unworthy of myself or of you. I might 25 indeed read over a list of names now, alas, carven on head- stones, since it would be invidious to speak of the living. But the list would be short, and I could call few of the names great as the impartial years measure greatness. I shall prefer to assume that American literature was not worth 30 speaking for at all if it were not quite able to speak for itself, as all others are expected to do. I think this a commemoration in which it is peculiarly "Our Literature" 373 fitting that literature should take part. For we are cele- brating to-day our true birthday as a nation, the day when our consciousness of wider interests and larger, possi- 35 ^ bilities began. All that went before was birth-throes. The day also recalls us to a sense of something to which we are too indifferent. I mean that historic continuity, which, as a factor in moulding national individuality, is not only power- ful in itself, but cumulative in its operation. In one of these 40 literature finds the soil, and in the other the climate, it needs. Without the stimulus of a national consciousness, no literature could have come into being; under the con- ditions in which we then were, none that was not parasitic and dependent. Without the continuity which slowly incor- 45 porates that consciousness in the general life and thought, no literature could have acquired strength to detach itself and begin a life of its own. And here another thought suggested by the day comes to my mind. Since that pre- cious and persuasive quality, style, may be exemplified as so truly in a life as in a work of art, may not the character of the great man whose memory decorates this and all our days, in its dignity, its strength, its calm of passion restrained, its inviolable reserves, furnish a lesson which our literature may study to great advantage? And not our literature alone. 55 Scarcely had we become a nation when the only part of the Old World whose language we understood began to ask in various tones of despondency where was our literature. We could not improvise Virgils or Miltons, though we made an obliging effort to do it. Failing in this, we thought eo the question partly unfair and wholly disagreeable. And indeed it had never been put to several nations far older than we, and to which a vates sacer had been longer wanting. But, perhaps it was not altogether so ill-natured as it seemed, for, after all, a nation without a literature is imperfectly es represented in the parliament of mankind. It implied, therefore, in our case the obligation of an illustrious blood. With a language in compass and variety inferior to none 374 American Literary Readings that has ever been the instrument of himian thought or 70 passion or sentiment, we had inherited also the forms and precedents of a literature altogether worthy of it. But these forms and precedents we were to adapt suddenly to novel conditions, themselves still in solution, tentative, formless, atom groping after atom, rather through blind 75 instinct than with conscious purpose. Why wonder if our task proved as long as it was difficult? And it was all the more difficult that we were tempted to free ourselves from the form as well as from the spirit. And we had other notable hindrances. Our reading class was small, scattered thinly 80 along the seaboard, and its wants were fully supplied from abroad, either by importation or piracy. Communication was tedious and costly. Our men of letters, or rather our men with a natural impulsion to a life of letters, were few and isolated, and I cannot recollect that isolation has produced 85 anything in literature better than monkish chronicles, except a Latin hymn or two, and one precious book, the treasure of bruised spirits. Criticism there was none, and what assumed its function was half provincial self-conceit, half patriotic resolve to find swans in birds of qmte another 90 species. Above all, we had no capital toward which all the streams of moral and intellectual energy might converge to fill a reservoir on which all could draw. There were many careers open to ambition, all of them more tempting and more gainful than the making of books. Our people were of 95 necessity largely intent on material ends, and our accessions from Europe tended to increase this predisposition. Con- sidering all these things, it is a wonder that in these hundred years we should have produced any literature at all; a still greater wonder that we have produced so much of which we 100 may be honestly proud. Its English descent is and must always be manifest, but it is ever more and more informed with a new spirit, more and more trustful in the guidance of its own thought. But if we would have it become all that we would have it be, we must beware of judging it by a "Our Literature" 375 comparison with its own xinripe self alone. We must not los cuddle it into weakness or wilfulness by over-indulgence. It would be more profitable to think that we have as yet no literature in the highest sense than to insist that what we have should be judged by other than admitted standards, merely because it is ours. In these art matches we must no not only expect but rejoice to be pitted against the doughtiest wrestlers, and the lightest-footed runners of all countries and of all times. Literature has been put somewhat low on the list of toasts, doubtless in deference to necessity of arrangement, put per- us haps the place assigned to it here may be taken as roughly indicating that which it occupies in the general estimation. And yet I venture to claim for it an influence, whether for good or evil, more durable and more widely operative than that exerted by any other form in which human genius has 120 found expression. As the special distinction of man is speech, it should seem that there can be no higher achieve- ment of civilized men, no proof more conclusive that they are civilized men, than the power of moulding words into such fair and noble forms as shall people the human mind 125 forever with images that refine, console, and inspire. It is no vain superstition that has made the name of Homer sacred to all who love a bewitchingly simple and yet ideal picture of our human life in its doing and its suffering. And there are books which have kept alive and transmitted the spark no of soul that has resuscitated nations. It is an old wives' tale that Virgil was a great magician, yet in that tale survives a witness of the influence which made him, through Dante, a main factor in the revival of Italy after the one had been eighteen and the other five centuries in their graves. 135 I am not insensible to the wonder and exhilaration of a material growth without example in rapidity and expansion, but I am also not insensitive to the grave perils latent in any civilization which allows its chief energies and interests to be wholly absorbed in the pursuit of a mundane prosperity, ho 376 American Literary Readings "Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth; and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth: but know thou, that for all these things God will bring thee into judgment." I admire our energy, our enterprise, our inventiveness, our 146 multiplicity of resource, no man more; but it is by less vis- ibly remunerative virtues, I persist in thinking, that nations chiefly live and feel the higher meaning of their lives. Prosperous we may be in other ways, contented with more specious successes, but that nation is a mere horde supply- is o ing figures to the census which does not acknowledge a truer prosperity and a richer contentment in the things of the mind. Railways and telegraphs reckoned by the thousand miles are excellent things in their way, but I doubt whether it be of their poles and sleepers that the rounds are made 155 of that ladder by which men or nations scale the cliffs whose inspiring obstacle interposes itself between them and the fulfillment of their highest purpose and function. The literature of a people should be the record of its joys and sorrows, its aspirations and its shortcomings, its wisdom 160 and its folly, the confidant of its soul. We cannot say that our own as yet suffices us, but I believe that he who stands, a hundred years hence, where I am standing now, conscious that he speaks to the most powerful and prosperous com- munity ever devised or developed by man, will speak of our 165 literature with the assurance of one who beholds what we hope for and aspire after, become a reality and a possession forever. X' Prom a rare Ulhoerapk tortrait made in iSjg by F. J. Fisher, now in possession of the Westmoreland Club, Richmond, Va. EDGAR ALLAN POE EDGAR ALLAN POE 1 809 -1 849 Edgar Allan Poe, though descended on his father's side from a distinguished Maryland family, once called himself a Bostonian because he was bom in the city of Boston; but he was reared in the South, and he usually designated himself as a southerner, and he is generally so regarded. His genius, however, knew no restrictions of territory; in fact, Poe is perhaps the most uniyersally detached of all our poets. His father, David Poe, was educated for the law, but a predilection for the stage led him to join a traveling theatrical troupe before he had built up a practice. In this troupe he met Mrs. C. D. Hopkins, an actress of English extraction, whose maiden name was Elizabeth Arnold. Shortly after the death of Mr. Hopkins, who was manager of the company, David Poe married the widow. Of the three children — two boys and a girl — bom to David and Elizabeth Arnold Poe, Edgar was the second son. The life of these strolling actors was a hard one. The family was forced to travel from city to city in order to earn a livelihood which was at best precarious. It seems that the mother was depended upon to support the family, for David Poe was not a successful actor. Mrs. Poe was filling an engagement in Boston at the time of Edgar's birth, January 19, 1809. Her husband died about 18 10, and in 181 1 she found herself in the city of Richmond, Virginia, helpless and stricken with illness. An appeal in the Richmond newspapers brought such material relief as could be offered: but Mrs. Poe was beyond human aid, and within a few days she died. The children, thus left alone, were cared for by various persons. Edgar had attracted the attention of Mrs. John Allan, the wife of a well-to-do tobacco merchant, and he was taken into her childless home and rechristened Edgar Allan Poe. The boy was an extremely bright and handsome child, and his precocity attracted much attention. Mr. and Mrs. Allan became devotedly attached to their ward and lavished on him all that partiality could suggest or wealth supply. In 1815 Mr. Allan moved temporarily to England, [377I 378 American Literary Readings to establish there a branch house for his firm. Edgar, who accompanied his foster parents, attended an English boarding school near London. In the story of "William Wilson" Poe gives many reminiscences of his school life there. After five years in England the Allans returned to Richmond, and Edgar was placed in a private school. In 1826 he was sent to the University of Virginia. Here he made a brilliant record in the languages and in mathe- matics, but he indulged in drinking and gambling and was removed from the university within a year. Then began the period of wandering and unhappiness brought about by his perverse disposition. Mr. Allan, whose patience had already been sorely tried, took Poe into his office, feeling it would be better for the boy to earn his own living; whereupon Poe, who was now about eighteen years old, left home to seek his fortune in Boston. Here he succeeded in getting a publisher for his first slender volume of verses, Tamerlane and Other Poems, in 1827, but little is known of his movements during the time he was in Boston. The next we hear of Poe, he has enlisted, under the assumed name of Edgar A. Perry, as a private in the United States Army. He remained in the army for nearly two years, being promoted to the post of sergeant major. Part of the time he was stationed at the arsenal of Fort Moultrie, on an island in Charleston Harbor. Here he gained the local color for his famous story, "The Gold Bug," written some years later. Poe now began to feel the foUy of his breach with his foster parents, and on hearing that Mrs. Allan was critically ill he made application for a permit to' visit Richmond, in order that he might see her before her death. A partial reconciliation followed between him and Mr. Allan, who secured Poe's release from the army, and with the aid of influential friends obtained for him an appointment to the United States Mihtary Academy at West Point. But the perversity of the young man's nature again asserted itself, and in less than a year he began to tire of life at West Point. He deliberately neglected his duties until he had accumtdated demerits enough to cause his dismissal. Before he entered West Point, another edition of his poems, containing some new matter, had been published; and in 183 1 still another was brought out. This volume Edgar Allan Poe 37g contained the first draft of some of Poe's most famous poems, notably "To Helen" and "Israfel." Mr. Allan had married again by this time, and Poe, finding that he had no longer any hope of a reconciliation with his foster parent, now turned to his father's relatives for help and S5mipathy. He made various attempts to secure employment, but was unsuccessful. In 1833 he won with his "MS. Found in a Bottle".. the hundred-dollar prize offered by the Baltimore Saturday Visitor for the best short story submitted. Poe sent in several stories and poems, and won two prizes, the second being fifty dollars for the best poem; but the judges refused to give both prizes to one competitor. It was at this period of his life that Poe's love for his cousin, Virginia Clemm, sprang up. She was a beautiful girl twelve or thirteen years of age at the time, and Poe desired even then to make her his wife. In 1835, when he had secured regular employment as editor of the Southern Literary Messenger of Richmond, Mrs. Clemm moved to that city, and Poe and Virginia were married, the latter being then not quite fourteen years old. Poe had a fixed salary now, and his success seemed assured. His articles, stories, and poems were attracting wide notice, and the circulation of the Messenger was rapidly increasing. But in 1837, per- haps on account of his irregular habits, he retired from the editorship which he had so acceptably filled for a year or more. Other editorial schemes were now tried. Poe went first to New York, then to Philadelphia, and did some literary hack work. In 1839 he obtained an editorial posi- tion on Burton's Gentleman's Magazine, but within a year he severed his connection with this periodical. He pub- lished in 1839 a volume of short stories called Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque. This volume brought him no money, but it broadened his fame. In 1841 he became editor of Graham's Magazine, and within a few months the circulation of this periodical increased from five thousand to thirty-seven thousand. Poe was now publishing some of his most original short stories, such as "The Murders in the Rue Morgue," "The Masque of the Red Death," and others. In 1842 the erratic editor of Graham's Magazine was supplanted by R. W. Griswold. The story goes that Poe disappeared for a few days, as was his peculiar custom, 380 American Literary Keadings and when he returned to the office he found Griswold seated in the editorial chair. Without waiting for explana- tions, Poe turned on his heel and left the office. He con- tinued, however, to be a contributor to this periodical, and was on friendly terms with the owner. Other ventures in editorial work and original schemes for founding an independent magazine occupied Poe at this time, but he seems jiever to have been able to put his plans into operation or to get on in the world. He gained wide fame through "The Raven," which was published in 1845, and a new edition of his verses with this poem leading in the title was issued in the fall of the same year. The next year, he took up his residence in the famous cottage at Fordham, near New York. Here he tried to make a living by his contributions to various magazines, but he was continually yielding to his taste for drink and the use of opium. His health failed, and the whole family was for a time dependent upon public charity. In 1847 his young wife died. From this time on to the end of his life, Poe seems to have been a broken-hearted and hopeless man. Once or twice he made a real effort to throw off the terrible gloom and the distressing habits which had gained such a grip on him. His genius had not yet been exhausted, for he produced in these last years some of his most exquisite 15010 poems, such as "Ulalume," "The Bells," and "Annabel Lee." He was unable to make a living, however. He tried to earn something by lecturing, but he failed to attract an audience in New York. He then went South, and here he met with more success. At Richmond his friends rallied to his support, and in a benefit lecture he realized about fifteen hundred dollars. He intended to return to New York, where Mrs. Clemm was anxiously waiting to hear from him and learn his plans, but he never reached that city. Mystery hangs about his last days. No one knows what happened to him after he left Richmond on September 30, 1849. When his friends found him three days later, he was lying unconscious in a saloon which had been used as one of the ward polling places in a city election at Baltimore. The physician who attended him, and had him taken to Washington Hospital, testified that Poe was not drunk but drugged. The theory now generally accepted is that he fell into the hands of a corrupt electioneer- ing gang, was drugged and robbed, and then carried around Edgar Allan Poe 381 from polling place to polling place and made to vote under false names. On Sunday morning, October 7, 1849, the ill-starred poet passed quietly away. Such was the life of the strangest and most unfortunate of all American men of letters. There are those who con- demn Poe as an ingrate, a degenerate, a reprobate; but those more charitably inclined consider him an unfortunate son of genius who was unable, from his very nature, to control his actions. That he was unreliable, erratic, intemperate, his most ardent admirers will not deny. That he was dis- honest, immoral, or licentious, his enemies will hesitate to affirm. That he was his own worst enemy, all will readily admit. His life is one to point a moral. Poe's life story attracts us both because of its mystery and because of its pathos. As to his literary power, there is but one opinion. Abroad he is generally considered the greatest of American poets, and there are many in our own country who accept this judgment without question. His poetry has in it a quality of mystery and illusiveness, a pecu- liar beauty of harmony and rhythm, a haunting weirdness of melody, that make it a distinct and original type; his critical works, though many of them were written as mere "pot-boilers," have won consideration among scholars; he is given credit for creating the modern detective or ratio- cinative story; and as a writer of tales of mystery and horror he is acknowledged to be without a peer. For further selections from Poe, see Southern Literary Readings, in which we have printed and analyzed two tales, "The Gold Bug" and "The Masque of the Red Death"; four poems, "The Haunted Palace," "The Raven," "The Bells," and "Annabel Lee"; and one essay, "The Philosophy of Composition." (There are many books and essays on Poe, but the authoritative biography is that by George E. Woodberry, published in two volumes, in IQ09. An excellent brief treatment with a full Poe bibliography by Dr. Killis Campbell may by found in the Cambridge History of American Literature.) REVIEW OF HAWTHORNE'S TWICE-TOLD TALES We said a few hurried words about Mr. Hawthorne in our last number, with the design of speaking more fully in the present. We are still, however, pressed for room, and must necessarily discuss his volumes more briefly and more at 6 random than their high merits deserve. The book professes to be a collection of tales, yet is, in two respects, misnamed. These pieces are now in their third republication, and, of course, are thrice-told. More- over, they are by no means all tales, either in the ordinary 10 or in the legitimate imderstanding of the term. Many of them are piure essays; for example, "Sights from a Steeple," "Sunday at Home," "Little Annie's Ramble," "A Rill from the Town Pump," "The Toll-Gatherer's Day," "The Haunted Mind," "The Sister Years," "Snow-Flakes," 15 "Night Sketches," and "Foot-Prints on the Sea-Shore." We mention these matters chiefly on account of their dis- crepancy with that marked precision and finish by which the body of the work is distinguished. Of the Essays just named, we must be content to speak in 20 brief. They are each and all beautiful, without being characterized by the polish and adaptation so visible in the tales proper. A painter would at once note their leading or predominant feature, and style it repose. There is no attempt at effect. All is quiet, thoughtful, subdued. Yet 26 this repose may exist simultaneously with high originality of thought; and Mr. Hawthorne has demonstrated the fact. At every turn we meet with novel combinations; yet these combinations never stu-pass the limits of the quiet. We are soothed as we read; and withal is a cakn astonishment 30 that ideas so apparently obvious have never occurred qr been presented to us before. Herein our author differs materially [382] Review of Hawthorne's Twice-told Tales 383 from Lamb or Hunt or Hazlitt — who, with vivid originality of manner and expression, have less of the true novelty of thought than is generally supposed, and whose originality, at best, has an uneasy and meretricious quaintness, replete 35 with startling effects unfounded in nature, and inducing trains of reflection which lead to no satisfactory result. The Essays of Ha;wthome have much of the character of Irving, with more of originality, and less of finish; while, compared with the Spectator, they have a vast superiority at all points. 40 The Spectator, Mr. Irving, and Mr. Hawthorne have in com- mon that tranquil and subdued manner which we have chosen to denominate repose; but, in the case of the two former, this repose is attained rather by the absence of novel combination, or of originality, than otherwise, and consists chiefly in the 45 calm, qviiet, unostentatious expression of commonplace thoughts, in an unambitious unadtdterated Saxon. In them, by strong effort, we are made to conceive the absence of all. In the essays before us the absence of effort is too obvious to be mistaken, and a strong under-current of sug- so gestion runs continuously beneath the upper stream of the tranquil thesis. In short, these effusions of Mr. Haw- thorne are the product of a truly imaginative intellect, restrained, and in some measure repressed, by fastidiousness of taste, by constitutional melancholy and by indolence. 55 But it is of his tales that we desire principally to speak. The tale proper, in our opinion, affords unquestionably the fairest field for the exercise of the loftiest talent, which can be afforded by the wide domains of mere prose. Were we bidden to say how the highest genius could be most advan- eo tageously employed for the best display of its own powers, we should answer, without hesitation — in the composition of a rhymed poem, not to exceed in length what might be perused in an hour. Within this limit alone can the highest order of true poetry exist. We need only here say, upon es this topic, that, in almost all classes of composition, the unity of effect or impression is a point of the greatest 384 American Literary Readings importance. It is clear, moreover, that this unity cannot be thoroughly preserved in productions whose perusal cannot 70 be completed at one sitting. We may continue the reading of a prose composition, from the very nature of prose itself, much longer than we can persevere, to any good purpose, in the perusal of a poem. This latter, if truly fulfilling the demands of the poetic sentiment, induces an exaltation of 75 the soul which cannot be long sustained. All high excite- ments are necessarily transient. Thus a long poem is a paradox. And, without unity of impression, the deepest effects cannot be brought about. Epics were the offspring of an imperfect sense of Art, and their reign is no more. A 80 poem too brief may produce a vivid, but never an intense or enduring impression. Without a certain continuity of effort ^ — without a certain duration or repetition of purpose — the soul is never deeply moved. There must be the dropping of the water upon the rock. De Beranger has wrought bril- 85 liant things — pungent and spirit-stirring — but, like all im- massive bodies, they lack momentum, and thus fail to satisfy the Poetic Sentiment. They sparkle and excite, but, from want of continuity, fail deeply to impress. Extreme brevity will degenerate into epigrammatism; but the sin of extreme 90 length is even more unpardonable. In m^dio tutissimus ibis. Were we called upon, however, to designate that class of composition which, next to such a poem as we have sug- gested, should best fulfil the demands of high genius — 95 should offer it the most advantageous field of exertion — we should unhesitatingly speak of the prose tale, as Mr. Haw- thorne has here exemplified it. We allude to the short prose narrative, requiring from a half-hour to one or two hours in its perusal. The ordinary novel is objectionable, 100 from its length, for reasons already stated in substance. As it cannot be read at one sitting, it deprives itself, of course, of the immense force derivable from totality. Worldly interests intervening during the pauses of perusal, modify, Kemew oj nawinorne's i wice-told Tales 385 annul, or counteract, in a greater or less degree, the impres- sions of the book. But simple cessation in reading would, 105 of itself, be sufficient to destroy the true unity. In the brief tale, however, the author is enabled to carry out the fulness of his intention, be it what it may. During the hour of perusal the soul of the reader is at the writer's control. There are no external or extrinsic influences — resulting from no weariness or interruption. A skilful literary artist has constructed a tale. If wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to accommodate his inci- dents; but having conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single effect to be wrought out, he then invents 115 such incidents — he then combines such events as may best aid him in establishing this preconceived effect. If his very initial sentence tend not to the outbringing of this effect, then he has failed in his first step. In the whole composition there should be no word written, of which the tendency, 120 direct or indirect,, is not to the one pre-established design. And by such means, with such care and skill, a picture is at length painted which leaves in the mind of him who contemplates it with a kindred art, a sense of the fullest sat- isfaction. The idea of the tale has been presented unblem- 125 ished, because undisturbed; and this is an end unattainable by the novel. Undue brevity is just as exceptionable here as in the poem; but undue length is yet more to be avoided. We have said that the tale has a point of superiority even over the poem. In fact, while the rhythm of this latter is an 130 essential aid in the development of the poem's highest idea — the idea of the Beautiful — the artificialities of this rhythm are an inseparable' bar to the development of all points of thought or expression which have their basis in Truth. But Truth is often, and in very great degree, the aim of the 135 tale. Some of the finest tales are tales of ratiocination. Thus the field of this species of composition, if not in so elevated a region on the mountain of Mind, is a table-land of far vaster extent than the domain of the mere poem. Its 386 American Literary Readings 140 products are never so rich, but infinitely more numerous, and more appreciable by the mass of mankind. The writer of the prose tale, in short, may bring to his theme a vast variety of modes or inflections of thought and expression — (the ratiocinative, for example, the sarcastic or the humor- 146 ous) which are not only antagonistical to the nature of the poem, but absolutely forbidden by one of its most peculiar and indispensable adjuncts; we allude, of course, to rhj^thm. It may be added, here, par parenthdse, that the author who aims at the purely beautiful in a prose tale is laboring at 150 great disadvantage. For Beauty can be better treated in the poem. Not so with terror, or passion, or horror, or a multitude of such other points. And here it will be seen how full of prejudice are the usual animadversions against those tales of effect, many fine examples of which were found 155 in the earlier numbers of Blackwood. The impressions produced were wrought in a legitimate sphere of action, and constituted a legitimate although sometimes an exaggerated interest. They were relished by every man of genius: although there were found many men of genius who con- 160 demned them without just grotmd. The true critic will but demand that the design intended be accomplished, to the fullest extent, by the means most advantageously applicable. We have very few American tales of real merit — we may 165 say, indeed, none, with the exception of "The Tales of a Traveller" of Washington Irving, and these "Twice-Told Tales" of Mr. Hawthorne. Some of the pieces of Mr. John Neal abound in vigor and originality; but in general, his compositions of this class are excessively diffuse, extrava- 170 gant, and indicative of an imperfect sentiment of Art. Articles at random are, now and then, met with in our periodicals which might be advantageously compared with the best effusions of the British Magazines; but, upon the whole, we are far behind our progenitors in this department 175 of literature. Review of Hawthorne's Twice-told Tales 387 Of Mr. Hawthorne's Tales we would say, emphatically, that they belong to the highest region of Art — an Art subservient to genius of a very lofty order. We had sup- posed, with good reason for so supposing, that he had been thrust into his present position by one of the impudent iso cliques which beset otu: literature, and whose pretensions it is our full purpose to expose at the earliest opportunity; but we have been most agreeably mistaken. We know of few compositions which the critic can more honestly com- mend than these "Twice-Told Tales." As Americans, we iss feel proud of the book. Mr. Hawthorne's distinctive trait is invention, creation, imagination, originality — a trait which, in the literature of fiction, is positively worth all the rest. But the nature of originality, so far as regards its manifestation in letters, is 190 but imperfectly understood. The inventive or original mind as frequently displays itself in novelty of tone as in novelty of matter. Mr. Hawthorne is original at all poin-ts. It would be a matter of some difficulty to designate the best of these tales; we repeat that, without exception, they 195 are beautiful. "Wakefield" is remarkable for the skill with which an old idea — a well-known incident — is worked up or discussed. A man of whims conceives the purpose of quitting his wife and residing incognito, for twenty years, in her immediate neighborhood. Something of this kind 200 actually happened in London. The force of Mr. Haw- ■fehome's tale lies in the analysis of the motives which must or might have impelled the husband to such folly, in the first instance, with the possible causes of his perseverance. Upon this thesis a sketch of singular power has been con- 205 structed. "The Wedding Knell" is full of the boldest imagination — an imagination fully controlled by taste. The most captious critic could find no flaw in this production. "The Minister's Black Veil" is a masterly composition of 210 which the sole defect is that to the rabble its exquisite skiU 388 American Literary Readings will be caviare. The obvious meaning of this article will be found to smother its insinuated one. The moral put into the mouth' of the dying minister will be supposed to convey 216 the true import of the narrative; and that a crime of dark dye (having reference to the "young lady") has been com- mitted, is a point which only minds congenial with that of the author will perceive. "Mr. Higginbotham's Catastrophe" is vividly original 220 and managed most dexterously. "Dr. Heidegger's Experiment" is exceedingly well imagined, and executed with surpassing ability. The artist breathes in every line of it. "The White Old Maid" is objectionable, even more than 225 the "Minister's Black Veil," on the score of its mysticism. Even with the thoughtful and analytic, there will be much trouble in penetrating its entire import. "The Hollow of the Three Hills" we would quote in full, had we space ; — not as evincing higher talent than any of the 230 other pieces, but as affording an excellent example of the author's pecuHar ability. The subject is commonplace. A witch subjects the Distant and the Past to the view of a motimer. It has been the fashion to describe, in such cases, a mirror in which the images of the absent appear; or a 236 cloud of smoke is made to arise, and thence the figures are gradually unfolded. Mr. Hawthorne has wonderfully heightened his effect by making the ear, in place of the eye, the medium by which the fantasy is conveyed. The head of the mourner is enveloped in the cloak of the witch, and 240 within its magic folds there arise sounds which have an all- sufficient intelligence. Throughout this article also, the artist is conspicuous — 'not more in positive than in negative merits. - Not only is all done that shovdd be done, but (what perhaps is an end with more difficulty attained) there is 245 nothing done which should not be. Every word tells, and there is not a word which does not tell. In "Howe's Masquerade" we observe something which Review of Hawthorne's Twice-told Tales 389 resembles a plagiarism — but which may be a very flat- tering coincidence of thought. We quote the passage in question. 250 "With a dark flush of wrath upon his brow they saw the general draw his sword and advance to meet the figure in the cloak before the latter had stepped on pace upon the floor. " 'Villain, unmuffle yourself,' cried he, 'you pass no farther!' ass "The figure, without blanching a hair's breadth from the sword which was pointed at his breast, made a solemn pause, and lowered the cape of the cloak from his face, yet not sufficiently for the spectators to catch a glimpse of it. But Sir William Howe had evidently seen enough. The stem- 260 ness of his countenance gave place to a look of wild amaze- ment, if not horror, while he recoiled several steps from the figure, and let fall his sword upon the floor." The idea here is, that the figure in the cloak is the phantom or reduplication of Sir William Howe; but in an article called 265 "William Wilson," one of the "Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque," we have not only the same idea, but the same idea similarly presented in several respects. We quote two paragraphs, which our readers may compare with what has been already given. We have italicized, above, the imme- 270 ate particulars of resemblance. "The brief moment in which I averted my eyes had been sufficient to produce, apparently, a material change in the arrangement at the upper or farther end of the room. A large mirror, it appeared to me, now stood where none had 275 been perceptible before : and as I stepped up to it in extremity of terror, mine own image, but with features all pale and dabbled in blood, advanced with a feeble and tottering gait to meet me. "Thus it appeared I say, but was not. It was Wilson, 280 who then stood before me in the agonies of dissolution. Not a line in all the marked and singular lineaments of that face which was not even identically mine own. His mask and cloak lay where he had thrown them, upon the floor." 285 39° American Literary Readings Here it will be observed that, not only are the two gen- eral conceptions identical, but there are various points of similarity. In each case the figttre seen is the wraith or duplication of the beholder. In each case the scene is a 290 masquerade. In each case the figure is cloaked. In each, there is a quarrel — that is to say, angry words pass between the parties. In each the beholder is enraged. In each the cloak and sword fall upon the floor. The "villain, unmufHe yourself," of Mr. H. is precisely paralleled by a passage at 295 page 56 of "William Wilson." In the way of objection we have scarcely a word to say of these tales. There is, perhaps, a somewhat too general or prevalent tone — a tone of melancholy and mysticism. The subjects are insufficiently varied. There is not so much of 300 versatility evinced as we might well be warranted in expect- ing from the high powers of Mr. Hawthorne. But beyond these trivial exceptions we have really none to make. The style is purity itself. Force abounds. High imagination gleams from every page. Mr. Hawthorne is a man of the 305 truest genius. We only regret that the limits of our Maga- zine will not permit us to pay him that full tribute of com- mendation, which, under other circumstances, we should be so eager to pay. THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not sup- pose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At 5 length 1 would be avenged ; this was a point definitively settled — but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved pre- cluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the The Cask of Amontillado 391 avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has 10 done the wrong. It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I con- tinued, as was my wont, to smile in his face; and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his u immolation. He had a weak point — this Fortunato — although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthu- 20 siasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity to practice impostiire upon the British and Austrian millionnaires. In painting and gemmary Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not difEer from him materially; I was 25 skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could. It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme mad- ness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been 30 drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight- fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was stumounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him, that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand. I said to him — "My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. 35 How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts." "How?" said he. "Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival?" 4o "I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be fotmd, and I was fearful of losing a bargain." "Amontillado!" .& 392 American Literary Readings "I have my doubts." "Amontillado!" ^ "And I must satisfy them." "Amontillado!" 50 "As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me — " "Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry." "And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own." S6 "Come, let us go." "Whither?" "To your vaults." " My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchesi — " 60 "I have no engagement; come." " My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are incrusted with nitre." "Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. 65 Amontillado ! You have been imposed upon; and as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado." Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a roquelaure closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my 70 palazzo. There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were 75 sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappear- ance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned. I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving- one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed 80 down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the The Cask of Amontillado 393 descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the cata- combs of the Montresors. The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. ss "The pipe," said he. " It is farther on," said I ; " but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls." He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two fihny orbs that distilled the rheimi of intoxication. 90 "Nitre?" he asked, at length. "Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?" "Ugh! ugh! ugh! — ugh! ugh! ugh! — ugh! ugh! ugh!- — ugh! ugh! ugh! — ugh! ugh! ugh!" 95 My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. "It is nothing," he said, at last. "Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, 100 beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi — " "Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing: it will 105 not kill me. I shall *iot die of a cough." "True — true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily — but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps." 110 Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould. "Drink," I said, presenting him the wine. He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled. 115 "I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us." "And I to your long life." 394 American Literary Readings He again took my arm, and we proceeded. "These vaults," he said, "are extensive." 120 "The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family." "I forget your arms." "A huge himian foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel." 125 "And the motto?" "Nemo me impune lacessit." "Good!" he said. The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed 130 through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow. ' ' The nitre ! " I said ; ' ' see, it increases. It hangs like moss 135 upon the vaults. We are below the river^s bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough ^ — " " It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc." uo I broke and reached him a flacon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand. I looked at him in stuprise. He repeated the move- 143 ment — a grotesque one. "You do not comprehend?" he said. "Not I," I replied. "Then you are not of the brotherhood." "How?" 160 "You are not of the masons." "Yes, yes," I said, "yes, yes." "You? Impossible! A mason?" "A mason," I replied. The Cask of Amontillado 395 "A sign," he said. "It is this," I answered, producing a trowel from beneath 155 the folds of my roquelaure. "You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado." "Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily, leo We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame. us, At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been liaed with human remains piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the 170 fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscu- ously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed m to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite. It was in vain that Fortunate, uplifting his dull torch, iso endeavotued to pry into the depths of the recess. Its termi- nation the feeble light did not enable us to see. "Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi — " "He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as hei85 stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed .immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had 396 American Literary Readings 190 fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much 195 astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess. "Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is very damp. Once more let me m^Zorg you to return. No? Then I must positively 200 leave you. But I must first render you all the little atten- tions in my power." "The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment. "True," I replied; "the Amontillado." 205 As I said these words I busied rriyself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche. 210 I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Portunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obsti- 215 nate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and sat down upon the bones. When at last the 220 clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished with- out interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason- work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within. 225 A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly The Cask of Amontillado 397 from the throat of- the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back . For a brief moment I hesitated — I trembled . Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt 230 satisfied. I reapproached the wall. I sepHed to the yells of him who clamoured. I re-echoed — I aided — I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still. It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. 235 I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low 240 laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was suc- ceeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognising as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said — "Ha! ha! ha! — he! he! — a very good joke indeed^ — an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at 245 the palazzo — he! he! he! — over our wine— he! he! he!" "The Amontillado!" I said. "He! he! he! — he! he! he! — yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be 250 gone." "Yes," I said, "let us be gone." "For the love of God, Montresor!" "Yes," I said, "for the love of God!" But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. 1 255 grew impatient. I called aloud — "Fortunato!" No answer. I called again — "Fortunato!" No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining 260 aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return 398 American Literary Keadtngs only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick — on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position ; I 265 plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat! THE PURLOINED LETTER Nil sapientiae odiosius acumine nimio. Seneca At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the auttimn of 1 8 — , I was enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum, in company with my friend C. Auguste Dupin, in his little back library, or book-closet, au troisidme, No. 33 5 Rue Donot, Faubourg St. Germain. For one hour at least we had maintained a profound silence; while each, to any casual observer, might have seemed intently and exclusively occupied with the curling eddies of smoke that oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber. For myself, however, I 10 was mentally discussing certain topics which had formed matter for conversation between us at an earlier period of the evening; I mean the affair of the Rue Morgue, and the mystery attending the murder of Marie Rog#t. I looked upon it, therefore, as something of a coincidence, when 15 the door of our apartment was thrown open and admitted otir old acquaintance, Monsietir G , the Prefect of the Parisian police. * We gave him a hearty welcome; for there was nearly half as much of the entertaining as of the contemptible about the 20 man, and we had not seen him for several years. We had been sitting in the dark, and Dupin now arose for the purpose of lighting a lamp, but sat down again, without doing so, upon G 's saying that he had called to consult us, or rather to ask the opinion of my friend, about some 25 official business which had occasioned a great deal of trouble. The Purloined Letter 399 "If it is any point requiring reflection," observed Dupin, as he forebore to enkindle the wick, "we shall examine it to better purpose in the dark." "That is another of your odd notions," said the Prefect, who had a fashion of calling everything "odd" that was 30 beyond his comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of "oddities." "Very true," said Dupin, as he supplied his visitor with a pipe, and rolled towards him a comfortable chair. "And what is the difficulty now?" I asked. "Nothing 35 more in the assassination way, I hope?" " Oh no; nothing of that nature. The fact is, the business is very simple indeed, and I make no doubt that we can manage it sufficiently well ourselves; but then I thought Dupin would like to hear the details of it, because it is so 40 excessively odd." "Simple and odd," said Dupin. " Why, yes; and not exactly that either. The fact is, we have all been a good deal puzzled because the affair is so simple, and yet baffles us altogether." 45 "Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing which puts you at fault," said my friend. ' 'What nonsense you do talk!" replied the Prefect, laugh- ing heartily. "Perhaps the mystery is a little too plain," said Dupin. eo "Oh, good heavens! who ever heard of such an idea?" "A little too self-evident." "Ha! ha! ha! — ha! ha! ha! — ho! ho! ho!" roared our visitor, profoundly amused. "Oh, Dupia, you wiU be the death of me yet!" eb "And what, after all, is the matter on hand?" I asked. "Why, I will tell you," replied the Prefect, as he gave a long, steady, and contemplative puff, and settled himself in his chair. "I will tell you in a few words; but, before I begin, let me caution you that this is an affair demanding eo the greatest secrecy, and that I should most probably lose 400 American Literary Readings the position I now hold were it known that I confided it to any one." "Proceed," said I. 66 "Or not," said Dupin. "Well, then; I have received personal information, from a very high quarter, that a certain document of the last importance has been pttrloined from the royal apartments. The individual who purloined it is known; this beyond a 70 doubt; he was seen to take it. It is known, also, that it still remains in his possession." "How is this known?" asked Dupin. "It is clearly inferred," replied the Prefect, "from the nature of the document, and from the non-appearance of 76 certain results which would at once' arise from its passing out of the robber's possession; — that js to say, from his em- ploying it as he must design in the end to employ it." "Be a little more explicit," I said. "Well, I may venture so far as to say that the paper gives 80 its holder a certain power in a certain quarter where such power is immensely valuable." The Prefect was fond of the cant of diplomacy. "Still I do not quite imderstand," said Dupin. "No? Well; the disclosure of the document to a third 86 person who shall be nameless would bring in question the honour of a personage of most exalted station; and this fact gives the holder of the document an ascendency over the illustrious personage whose honor and peace are so jeopard- ized." 90 "But this ascendency, ' ' I interposed, ' ' would depend upon the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber. Who would dare" — "The thief," said G , "is the Minister D , who dares all things, those unbecoming as well as those becoming 95 a man. The method of the theft was not less ingenious than bold. The document in question — a letter, to be frank — had been received by the personage robbed while alone in The Purloined Letter 401 the royal bovdoir. During its perusal she was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of the other exalted personage from whom especially it was her wish to conceal it. After 100 a hurried and vain endeavor to thrust it in a drawer, she was forced to place it, open as it was, upon a table. The address, however, was uppermost, and the contents thus tmexposed, the letter escaped notice. At this juncture enters the Minister D . His lynx eye immediately perceives the 105 paper, recognises the handwriting of the address, observes the confusion of the personage addressed, and fathoms her secret. After some business transactions, hurried through in his ordinary manner, he produces a letter some-, what similar to the one in question, opens it, pretends to read no it, and then places it in close jttxtaposition to the other. Again he converses for some fifteen minutes upon the public affairs. At length, in taking leave, he takes also from the table the letter to which he had no claim. Its rightful owner saw, but of course dared not call attention to the act, us in the presence of the third personage who stood at her elbow. The minister decamped; leaving his own letter — one of no importance — upon the table." "Here, then," said Dupin to me, "you have precisely what you demand to make the ascendency complete — the 120 robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber." " Yes," replied the Prefect; "and the power thus attained has, for some months past, been wielded for political purposes to a very dangerous extent. The personage robbed is more thoroughly convinced every day of the necessity of 125 reclaiming her letter. But this of course caimot be done openly. In fine, driven to despair, she has committed the matter to me." "Than whom," said Dupin, amid a perfect whirlwind of smoke, "no more sagacious agent could, I suppose, be 130 desired, or even imagined." " You flatter me," replied the Prefect; "but it is possible that some such opinion may have been entertained." 14 402 American Literary Readings "It is clear," said I, "as you observe, that the letter is 136 still in possession of the minister; since it is this possession, and not any employment of the letter, which bestows the power. With the employment the power departs." "True," said G ; "and upon this conviction I pro- ceeded. My first care was to make thorough search of the 140 minister's hotel; and here my chief embarrassment lay in the necessity of searching without his knowledge. Beyond all things, I have been warned of the danger which would result from giving him reason to suspect otir design." "But," said I, "you are quite au fait in these investi- 146 gations. The Parisian police have done this thing often before." "Oh, yes; and for this reason I did not despair. The habits of the minister gave me, too, a great advantage. He is frequently absent from home all night. His servants are 160 by no means numerous. They sleep at a distance from their master's apartment, and, being chiefly Neapolitans, are readily made drunk. I have keys, as you know, with which I can open any chamber or cabinet in Paris. For three months a night has not passed, during the greater part of 155 which I have not been engaged, personally, in ransacking the D Hotel. My honour is interested, and, to mention a great secret, the reward is enormous. So I did not abandon the search until I had become ftiUy satisfied that the thief is a more astute man than myself. I fancy that I have 160 investigated every nook and comer of the premises in which it is possible that the paper can be concealed." "But is it not possible," I suggested, "that although the letter may be in possession of the minister, as it unquestion- ably is, he may have concealed it elsewhere than upon his 165 own premises?" "This is barely possible," said Dupin. "The present peculiar condition of affairs at court, and especially of those intrigues in which D is known to be involved, would render the instant availability of the document — its The Furloined Letter 403 susceptibility of being produced at a moment's notice — a no point of nearly equal importance with its possession." "Its susceptibility of being produced?" said I. "That is to say of being destroyed," said Dupin. "True," I observed; "the paper is clearly then upon the premises. As for its being upon the person of the minister, 175 we may consider that as out of the question." "Entirely," said the Prefect. "He has been twice way- laid, as if by footpads, and his person rigorously searched imder my own inspection." "You might have spared yourself this trouble," said 1 so Dupin. " D , I presume, is not altogether a fool, and^ if not, must have anticipated these waylayings as a matter of course." "Not altogether a fool," said G ; "but then he 's a poet, which I take to be only one remove from a fool." iss "True," said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful whiff from his meerschaum, "although I have been guilty of certain doggerel myself." "Suppose you detail," said I, "the particulars of your search." 190 "Why, the fact is, we took our time, and we searched everywhere. I have had long experience in these affairs. I took the entire buUding, room by room; devoting the nights of a whole week to each. We examined, first, the furniture of each apartment. We opened every possible 195 drawer; and I presume you know that, to a properly trained police-agent, such a thing as a secret drawer is impossible. Any man is a dolt who permits a ' secret ' drawer to escape him in a search of this kind. The thing is 50 plain. There is a certain amount of bulk — of space — to be accounted for 200 in every cabinet. Then we have accurate rules. The fiftieth part of a line covdd not escape us. After the cabinets we took the chairs. The cushions we probed with the fine long needles you have seen me employ. From the tables we removed the tops." 206 404 American Literary Readings "Why so?" "Sometimes the top of a table, or other similarly arranged piece of fiorhittire, is removed by the person wishing to con- ceal an article; then the leg is excavated, the article deposited 210 within 'the cavity, and the top replaced. The bottoms and tops of bedposts are employed in the same way." "But could not the cavity be detected by sounding?" I asked. " By no means, if, when the article is deposited, a sufficient 215 wadding of cotton be placed around it. Besides, in our case, we were obliged to proceed without noise." "But you could not have removed — you could not have taken to pieces all articles of furniture in which it would have been possible to make a deposit in the manner you mention. 220 A letter may be compressed into a thin spiral roll, not differing much in shape or bulk from a large knitting- needle, and in this form it might be inserted into the rung of a chair, for example. You did not take to pieces aU the chairs?" 225 "Certainly not; but we did better — we examined the rungs of every chair in the hotel, and indeed, the jointings of every description of furniture, by the aid of a most powerful microscope. Had there been any traces of recent disturb- ance we should not have failed to detect it instantly. A 230 single grain of gimlet-dust, for example, would have been as obvious as an apple. Any disorder in the glueing — any unusual gaping in the joints — would have sufficed to insure detection." " I presume you looked to the mirrors, between the boards 235 and the plates, and you probed the beds and the bedclothes, as well as the curtains and carpets?" "That, of course; and when we had absolutely completed every particle of the furniture in this way, then we examined the house itself. We divided its entire surface into com- 240 partments, which we numbered, so that none might be missed; then we scrutinised each individual square inch The Purloined Letter 40S throughout the premises, including the two houses imme- diately adjoining, with the microscope, as before." "The two houses adjoining?" I exclaimed; "you must have had a great deal of trouble." ~ 245 "We had; but the reward offered is prodigious." "You include the grounds about the houses?" "AU the grounds are paved with brick. They gave us comparatively little trouble. We examined the moss between the bricks, and found it undistttrbed." 250 "You looked among D 's papers, of coiirse, and into the books of the library?" "Certainly; we opened every package and parcel; we not only opened every book, but we turned over every leaf in each volume, not contenting ourselves with a mere zss shake, according to the fashion of some of our poHce-officers. We also measured the thickness of every hook-cover, with the most accurate admeasurement, and applied to each the most jealous scrutiny of the microscope. Had any of the bladings been recently meddled with, it would have been aso utterly impossible that the fact should have escaped obser- vation. Some five or six volumes, just from the hands of the binder, we carefully probed, longitudinally, with the needles." "You explored the floors beneath the carpets?" 205 ' ' Beyond doubt. We removed every carpet, and examined the boards with the microscope." "And the paper on the walls?" "Yes." "You looked into the cellars?" 270 "We did." "Then," I said, "you have been making a miscalctalation, and the letter is not upon the premises, as you suppose." " I fear you are right there," said the Prefect. "And now, Dupin, what wotild you advise me to do?" 275 "To make a thorough re-search of the premises." "That is absolutely needless," replied G . "I am 4o6 American Literary Readings not more sure that I breathe than I am that the letter is not at the hotel." 280 "Ihavenobetter advice to give you," said Dupin. "You have, of course, an accurate description of the letter?" "Oh yes!" — ^And here the Prefect, producing a memo- randum-book, proceeded to read aloud a minute account of the internal, and especially of the external, appearance of the 285 missing document. Soon after finishing the perusal of this description, he took his departtu-e, more entirely depressed in spirits than I had ever known the good gentleman before. In about a month afterwards he paid us another visit, and 29ofotmd us occupied very nearly as before. He took a pipe and a chair and entered into some ordinary conversation. At length I said, "Well, but G , what of the purloined letter? I pre- sume you have at last made up your mind that there is no 296 such thing as overreaching the minister?" "Confound him, say I — yes; I made the re-examination, however, as Dupin suggested — but it was all labour lost, as I knew it would be." "How much was the reward offered, did you say?" asked 300 Dupin. "Why, a very great deal — a very liberal reward — I don't like to say how much, precisely; but one thing I udll say, that I would n't mind giving my individual cheque for fifty thousand francs to any one who could obtain me that letter. 306 The fact is, it is becoming of more and more importance every day; and the reward has been lately doubled. If it were trebled, however, I could do no more than I have done." "Why, yes," said Dupin, drawlingly, between the whiffs 310 of his meerschaum, "I really — think, G , you have not exerted yourself — to the utmost in this matter. You might — do a little more, I think, eh?" "How? — in what way?" The Purloined Letter 4°? "Why— puff, puff— you might— puff, puff — employ counsel in the matter, eh? — puff, puff, puff. Do yousie remember the story they teU of Abemethy?" "No; hang Abemethy!" "To be sure! hang him and welcome. But, once upon a time, a certain rich miser conceived the design of sponging upon this Abemethy for a medical opinion. Getting up, 320 for this purpose, an ordinary conversation in a private com- pany, he insinuated his case to the physician as that of an imaginary individual. " 'We wiU suppose,' said the miser, 'that his symptoms are such and such; now, doctor, what would you have 325 directed him to take?' " 'Take!' said Abemethy, 'why, take advice, to be svire.' " "But," said the Prefect, a little discomposed, "I am perfectly wiUing to take advice, and to pay for it. I would really give fifty thousand francs to anybody who would aid 330 me in the matter." "In that case," repUed Dupin, opening a drawer, and producing a cheque-book, "you may as well fill me up a cheque for the amount mentioned. When you have signed it, I wiU hand you the letter." 336 I was astotmded. The Prefect appeared absolutely thun- der-stricken. For some minutes he remained speechless and motionless, looking incredulously at my friend with open mouth, and eyes that seemed starting from their sockets; then, apparently recovering himself in some measure, he 310 seized a pen, and after several pauses and vacant stares, finally filled up and signed a cheque for fifty thousand francs and handed it across the table to Dupin. The latter exam- ined it carefully and deposited it in his pocket-book; then, unlocking an escritoire, took thence a letter and gave it to the 345 Prefect. This functionary grasped it in a perfect agony of joy, opened it with a trembling hand, cast a rapid glance at its contents, and then scrambling and struggling to the door, rushed at length unceremoniously from the room and from 4o8 American Literary Readings 360 the house, without having uttered a syllable since Dupin had requested him to fill up the cheque. When he had gone my friend entered into some explana- tions. "The Parisian police," he said, "are exceedingly able in 865 their way. They are persevering, ingenious, cunning, and thoroughly versed in the knowledge which their duties seem chiefly to demand. Thus, when G detailed to us his mode of searching the premises at the Hotel D , I felt entire confidence in his having made a satisfactory investi- 360 gation— ^so far as his labours extended." "So far as his labours extended?" said I. "Yes," said Dupin. "The measures adopted were not only the best of their kind, but carried out to absolute perfection. Had the letter been deposited within the range 365 of their search, these fellows would, beyond question, have found it." I merely laughed, but he seemed quite serious in all that he said. "The measures, then," he continued, "were good in their 370 kind, and well executed; their defect lay in their being inap- plicable to the case, and to the man. A certain set of highly ingenious resources are with the Prefect a sort of Pro- crustean bed, to which he forcibly adapts his designs. But he perpetually errs by being too deep or too shallow for the 376 matter in hand, and many a schoolboy is a better reasoner than he. I knew one about eight years of age, whose suc- cess at guessing in the game of 'even and odd' attracted universal admiration. This game is simple, and is played with marbles. One player holds in his hand a number of 380 these toys, and demands of another whether that number is even or odd. If the guess is right the guesser wins one; if wrong, he loses one. The boy to whom I allude won all the marbles of the school. Of course he had some principle of guessing, and this lay in mere observation and admeasvire- 385ment of the astuteness of his opponents. For example. The Purloined Letter 409 an arrant simpleton is his opponent, and holding up his closed hand asks, 'are they even or odd?' Our schoolboy replies 'Odd,' and loses, but upon the second trial he wins, for he then says to himself, 'the simpleton ■ had them even upon the first trial, and his amount of cunning is just suffi- 390 cient to make him have them odd upon the second. I will therefore guess odd'; he guesses odd, and wins. Now with a simpleton a degree above the first he woiild have reasoned thus: 'This fellow finds that in the first instance I guessed odd, and in the second he will propose to himself 395 upon the first impulse, a simple variation from even to odd, as did the first simpleton, but then a second thought will suggest that this is too simple a variation, and finally he will decide upon putting it even as before. I will therefore guess • even' ; he guesses even, and wins. Now this iriode of reason- 400 ing in the schoolboy, whom his fellows termed ' lucky, ' what in its last analysis is it?" "It is merely," I said, "an identification of the reasoner's intellect with that of his opponent." "It is," said Dupin, "and upon inquiring of the boy by 405 what means he effected the thorough identification in which his success consisted, I received answer as follows: 'When I wish to find out how wise, or how stupid, or how good, or how wicked is any one, or what are his thoughts at the moment, I fashion the expression of my face as accurately 410 as possible in accordance with the expression of his, and- then wait to see what thoughts or sentiments arise in my mind or heart, as if to match or correspond with the expres- sion.' This response of the schoolboy lies at the bottom of aU the spurious profundity which has been attributed to 415 Rochefoucauld, to La Bruyere, to Machiavelli, and to Campanella."" "And the identification," I Said, " of the reasoner's intellect with that of his opponents depends, if I understand you aright, upon the accuracy with which the opponent's intellect 420 is admeasured." 4IO American Literary Readings "For its practical value it depends upon this," replied Dupin, "and, the Prefect and his cohort fail so frequently, first, by default of this identification, and secondly, by 426 ill-admeasurement, or rather through non-admeasurement of the intellect with which they are engaged. They con- sider only their own ideas of ingenuity; and, in searching for anything hidden, advert only to the modes in which they would have hidden it. They are right in this much — 430 that their own ingenuity is a faithful representative of that of the mass; but when the ctmning of the individual felon is diverse in character from their own, the felon foils them of course. This always happens when it is above their own, and very usually when it is below. They have no variation , 435 of principle in their investigations; at best, when urged by some unusual emergency, by some extraordinary reward, they extend or exaggerate their old modes of practice, without touching their principles. What, for example, in this case of D has been done to vary the principle of action? 440 What is all this boring, and probing, and sounding, and scrutinising with the microscope, and dividing the surface of the building into registered square inches — what is it all but an exaggeration of the application of the one principle or set of principles of search, which are based upon the one 445 set of notions regarding himian ingenuity, to which the Prefect in the long routine of his duty has been accustomed? . Do you not see he has taken it for granted that all men proceed to conceal a letter — not exactly in a gitnlet-hole bored in a chair-leg — but, at least, in some out-of-the-way 450 hole or comer suggested by the same tenor of thought which would urge a man to secrete a letter in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg? And do you not see also that such rechercMs nooks for concealment are adapted only for ordinary occa- sions, and would be adopted only by ordinary intellects, 456 for, in all cases of concealment, a disposal of the article concealed, a disposal of it in this recherchi manner, is in the very first instance presumable and presumed, and thus The Purloined Letter 411 its discovery depends, not at all upon the acumen, but altogether upon the mere care, patience, and determination of the seekers, and where the case is of importance, or what 46o amounts to the same thing in the poUcial eyes, when the reward is 'of magnitude, the qualities in question have never been known to fail? You will now tmderstand what I meant in suggesting that had the purloined letter been hidden anywhere within the Umits of the Prefect's examina- iu tion — in other words, had the principle of its concealment been comprehended within the principles of the Prefect, its discovery would have been a matter altogether beyond question. This functionary, however, has been thoroughly mystified, and the remote source of his defeat Ues in the 470 supposition that the minister is a fool because he has acquired renown as a poet. AU fools are poets, this the Prefect feels, and he is merely guilty of a non distributio medii in thence inferring that all poets are fools." " "But is this really the poet?" I asked. "There are two 175 brothers, I know, and both have attained reputation in letters. The minister, I believe, has written learnedly on the Differential Calculus. He is a mathematician and no poet." "You are mistaken; I know him well; he is both. As poet and mathematician he would reason weU; as mere iso mathematician he could not have reasoned at all, and thus would have been at the mercy of the Prefect." "You surprise me," I said, "by these opinions, which have been contradicted by the voice of the world. You do not mean to set at jiaught the well-digested idea of 455 centuries. The mathematical reason has long been regarded as the reason par excellence." " 'II y a a parier,' '-' replied Dupin, quoting from Cham- fort, " 'que toute idie publique, toute convention recue, est une sottise, car elle a convenu au plus grand nombre.' The 400 mathematicians, I grant you, have done their best to promvil- gate the popular error to which you allude, and which is none the less an error for its promulgation as truth. With an art 412 American Literary Keadmgs worthy a better cause, for example, they have insinuated 495 the term .'analysis ' into application to algebra. The French are the originators of this particular deception, but if a term is of any importance, if words derive any value from applicability, then 'analysis' conveys 'algebra' about as much as, in Latin, 'ambitus' implies 'ambition,' 'religio' 500 'religion,' or 'homines honesti' a set of honourable men." "You have a quarrel on hand, I see," said I, "with some of the algebraists of Paris — but proceed." "I dispute the availability, and thus the value of that reason which is cultivated in any especial form other than 505 the abstractly logical. I dispute in particular the reason educed by mathematical study. The mathematics are the science of form and quantity, mathematical reasoning is merely logic applied to observation upon form and quantity. The great error Ues in supposing that even the truths of 510 what is called pure algebra are abstract or general truths. And this error is so egregious that I am confoimded at the universality with which it has been received. Mathe- matical axioms are not axioms of general truth. What is true of relation — -of form and quantity — is of ten grossly false 516 in regard to morals, for example. In this latter science it is very usually untme that the aggregated parts are equal to the whole.. In chemistry also the axiom fails. In the consideration of motive it fails, for two motives, each of a given value, have not necessarily a value when united equal 520 to the sum of their values apart. There are numerous other mathematical truths which are, only truths within the limits of relation. But the mathematician argues from his finite truths, through habit, as if they were of an absolutely general applicability — as the world indeed imagines them 626 to be; Bryant, in his very learned Mythology, mentions an analogous source of error, when he says that 'although the Pagan fables are not believed, yet we forget ourselves continually, and make inferences from them as existing realities.' With the algebraists, however, who are Pagans The Purloined Letter 413 themselves, the ' Pagan fables ' are believed, and the inferences 530 are made, not so much through lapse of memory as through an tinaccountable addling of the brains. In short, I never yet encountered the mere mathematician who could be trusted out of equal roots, or one who did not clandestinely hold it as a point of his faith that x^+px was absolutely and 535 unconditionally equal to q. Say to one of these gentlemen, by way of experiment, if you please, that you beUeve occa- sions may occur where x'^+px is not altogether equal to q, and having made him understand what you mean, get out of his reach as speedily as convenient, for beyond doubt he sio will endeavor to knock you down. " I mean to say," continued Dupin, while I merely laughed at his last observations, "that if the minister had ,been no more than a mathematician, the Prefect would have been vinder no necessity of giving me this cheque. I knew him, 545 however, as both mathematician and poet, and my measures were adapted to his capacity, with reference to the circum- stances by which he was surrounded. I knew him as courtier, too, and as a bold intrigant. Such a man, I con- sidered, could not fail to be aware of the ordinary policial 55 modes of action. He cotild not have failed to anticipate — and events have proved that he did not fail to anticipate — the waylayings to which he was subjected. He must have foreseen, I reflected, the secret investigations of his premises. His frequent absences from home at night, which were hailed sss by the Prefect as certain aids to his success, I regarded only as ruses, to afford opportunity for thorough search to the police, and thus the sooner to impress them with the con- viction to which G , in fact, did finally arrive — the conviction that the letter was not upon the premises. I seo felt, also, that the whole train of thought which I was at some pains in detailing to you just now, concerning the invariable principle of policial action in searches for articles concealed — I felt that this whole train of thought would necessarily pass through the mind of the minister. It 555 414 American Literary Readings would imperatively lead him to despise all the ordinary nooks of concealment. He could not, I reflected, be so weak as not to see that the most intricate and remote recess of his hotel would be as open as his commonest closets to the eyes, 570 to the probes, to the gimlets, and to the microscopes of the Prefect. I saw, in fine, that he would be driven, as a matter of coiu-se, to simplicity, if not deliberately induced to it as a matter of choice. You will remember, perhaps, how desperately the Prefect laughed when I suggested, upon our 575 first interview, that it was just possible this mystery troubled him so much on accoimt of its being so very self-evident." "Yes," said I, "I remember his merriment well. I really thought he would have fallen into convulsions." "The material world," continued Dupin, "abounds with 680 very strict analogies to the immaterial; and thus some colour of truth has been given to the rhetorical dogma that meta- phor or simile may be made to strengthen an argument, as well as to embellish a description. The principle of the vis inerticB, for example, seems to be identical in physics and 585 metaphysics. It is not more true in the former that a large body is with more difficulty set in motion than a smaller one, and that its subsequent momentum is com- mensurate with this difficulty, than it is, in the latter, that intellects of the vaster capacity, while more forcible, more 590 constant, and more eventful in their movements than those of inferior grade, are yet the less readily moved, and more embarrassed and full of hesitation in the first few steps of their progress. Again; have you ever noticed which of the street signs over the shop-doors are the most attractive of 595 attention?" "I have never given the matter a thought," I said. "There is a game of puzzles," he resumed, "which is played upon a map. One party playing requires another to find a given word — the name of town, river, state, or 600 empire — any word, in short, upon the motley and perplexed surface of the chart. A novice in the game generally seeks The Purloined Letter 415 to embarrass his opponents by giving them the most minutely lettered names, but the adept selects such words as stretch, in large characters, from one end of the chart to the other. These, like the over-largely lettered signs and eos placards of the street, escape observation by dint of being excessively obvious; and here the physical oversight is precisely analogous with the moral inapprehension by which the intellect suffers to pass imnoticed those considerations which are too obtrusively and too palpably self-evident, eio But this is a point, it appears, somewhat above or beneath the understanding of the Prefect. He never once thought it probable, or possible, that the. minister had deposited the letter immediately beneath the nose of the whole world, by way of best preventing any portion of that world from per- 615 ceiving it. "But the more I reflected upon the daring, dashing, and discriminating ingenviity of D ; upon the fact that the document must always have been at hand if he iatended to use it to good purpose; and upon the decisive evidence, 620 obtained by the Prefect, that it was not hidden within the limits of that dignitary's ordinary search — the more satisfied I became that, to conceal this letter, the minister had resorted to the comprehensive and sagacious expedient of not attempting to conceal it at all. ' 625 " Full of these ideas, I prepared myself with a pair of green spectacles, and caUed one fine morning, quite by accident, at the ministerial hotel. I found D at home, yawning, lounging, and dawdling, as usual, and pretending to be in the last extremity of ennui. He is, perhaps, the most really sao energetic human being now alive — but that is only when nobody sees him. "To be even with him, I complained of my weak eyes, and lamented the necessity of the spectacles, under cover of which I cautiously and thoroughly surveyed the whole ess apartment, while seemingly intent only upon the conversa- tion of my host. 4i6 American Literary Readings "I paid especial attention to a large writing-table near wHch he sat, and upon which lay confusedly some miscel- 64olaneous letters and other papers, with one or two musical instruments' and a few books. Here, however, after a long and very deliberate scrutiny, I saw nothing to excite particular suspicion. "At length my eyes, in going the circuit of the room, feU 645UpQe,a trumpery filigree card-rack of paste-board that hung dangling by a dirty blue ribbon from a little brass knob just beneath th'e middle of the mantelpiece. In this rack, which had three or four compartments, were five or six visiting cards and a solitary letter. This last was much 660 soiled and crumpled. It was torn nearly in two, across the middle — as if a design, in the first instance, to tear it entirely up as worthless, had been altered, or stayed, in the second. It had a large black seal, bearing the D cipher very conspicuously, and was addressed, in a dindnutive female 656 hand, to D , the minister, himself. It was thrust care- lessly, and even, as it seemed, contemptuously, into one of the uppermost divisions of the rack. "No sooner had I glanced at this letter than I concluded it to be that of which I was in search. To be sure, it was 660 to all appearance radically different from the one of which the Prefect" had read us so minute a description. Here the seal was large and black, with the D cipher; there it was small and red, with the ducal anns of the S family. Here the address, to the minister, was diminutive and 665 femitiine; there the superscription, to a certain royal person- age, was markedly bold and decided : the size alone formed a point of correspondence. But, then, the radicalness of these differences, which was excessive ; the dirt ; the soiled and torn condition of the paper, so inconsistent with the trvie 670 methodical habits of D , and so suggestive of a design to delude the beholder into an idea of the worthlessness of the document; these things, together with the hjrper-obtrusive situation of this docimient, full in the view of every visitor, I he FurLomed Letter 417 and thus exactly in accordance with the conclusions to which I had previously arrived: these things, I say, were strongly 675 corroborative of suspicion ia one who came with the intention to suspect. "I protracted my visit as long as possible, and while I maintained a most animated discussion with the minister, upon a topic which I knew well had never failed to interest eso and excite him, I kept my attention really riveted upon the letter. In this examination I committed to memory its external appearance and aiTangement in the rack; and also fell, at length, upon a discovery which set at rest whatever trivial doubt I might have entertained. In scrutinizing the ess edges of the paper I observed them to be more chafed than seemed necessary. They presented the broken appearance which is manifested when a stiff paper, having been once folded and pressed with a folder, is refolded in a reversed direction, in the same creases or edges which had formed the soo original fold. This discovery was sufficient. It was clear to me tha:t the letter had been turned as a glove, inside out, re- directed and re-sealed. I bade the minister good morning and took my departtu"e at once, leaving a gold snuff-box upon the table. 695 "The next morning I called for the snuff-box, when we resumed quite eagerly the conversation of the preceding day. While thus engaged, however, a loud report as if of a pistol, was heard immediately beneath the wiadows of the hotel, and was succeeded by a series of fearful screams, and 700 the shoutings of a terrified mob. D rushed to a case- ment, threw it open and looked out. In the meantime I stepped to the card-rack, took the letter, put it in my pocket, and replaced it by a facsimile (so far as regards externals), which I had carefully prepared at my lodgings — imitating 705 the D cipher very readily by means of a seal formed of bread. "The disturbance in the street had been occasioned by the frantic behaviour of a man with a musket. He had fired it 4i8 American Literary Readings 710 among a crowd of women and children. It proved, however, to have been without ball, and the fellow was suffered to go his way as a lunatic or a drunkard. When he had gone, D came from the window, whither I had followed him immediately upon securing the object in view. Soon 715 afterwards I bade him farewell. The pretended lunatic was a man in my own pay." "But what purpose had you," I asked, "in replacing the letter by a facsimile f Wotdd it not have been better at the first visit to have seized it openly, and departed?" 720 " D ," replied Dupin, "is a desperate man and a man of nerve. His hotel, too, is not without attendants devoted to his interests. Had I made the wild attempt you suggest I might never have left the ministerial presence alive. The good people of Paris might have heard of me no more. But 725 1 had an object apart from these considerations. You know my political prepossessions. In this matter, I act as a partisan of the lady concerned. For eighteen months the minister has had her in his power. She has now him in hers — since, being unaware that the letter is not in his posses- 730 sion, he will proceed with his exactions as if it was. Thus will he inevitably commit himself at once to his political destruction. His downfall, too, will not be more precipitate than awkward. It is all very well to talk about the facilis descensus Averni, but in all kinds of climbing, as Catalani 735 said of sin^g, it is far more easy to get up than to come down. In the present instance I have no sympathy — at least no pity — for him who descends. He is that monstrum horrendum, an unprincipled man of genius. I confess, however, that I should Hke very well to know the precise 740 character of his thoughts, when, being defied by her whom the Prefect terms 'a certain personage,' he is reduced to opening the letter which I left for him in the card-rack." "How? did you put anything partictdar in it?" "Why — it did not seem altogether right to leave the 745 interior blank — that would have been insulting. D , at To Helen 4^9 Vienna, once did me an evil turn, which I told him, quite good-humoredly, that I should remember. So, as I knew he would feel some curiosity in regard to the identity of the person who had outwitted him, I thought it a pity not to give him a clue. He is well acquainted with my MS., and I just 750 copied into the middle of the blank sheet the words — ' — Un dessein si funeste, S'il n'est digne d' Atr^e, est digne de Thyeste.' They are to be found in Cr6billon's Atr6e." TO SCIENCE A PROLOGUE TO "AL AARAAF " Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art, Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart, Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise, Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jeweled skies. Albeit he soared with an undaimted wing? Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car. And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star? Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood. The Elfin from the green grass, and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree ? TO HELEN Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore. That gently, o'er a perfumed sea. The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore. 420 American Literary Readings On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face. Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece ) And the grandeur that was Rome. Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand ! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which 5 Are Holy Land ! ISRAFEL And the angel Israfel, whose heartstrings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures. Koran In Heaven a spirit doth dwell Whose heart-strings are a lute; None sing so wildly well As the angel Israfel, s And the giddy stars (so legends tell), Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice, all mute. Tottering above In her highest noon, The enamoured moon Blushes with love. While, to listen, the red levin (With the rapid Pleiads, even, Which were seven), 5 Pauses in Heaven. And they say (the starry choir And the other listening things) That IsrafeH's fire Is owing to that lyre Israfel 421 By which he sits and sings, The trembling living wire Of those unusual strings. But the skies that angel trod, Where deep thoughts are a duty, Where Love 's a grown-up God, Where the Hotui glances are Imbued with all the beauty Which we worship in a star. Therefore thou art not wrong, Israfeli, who despisest An unimpassioned song; To thee the laurels belong. Best bard, because the wisest : Merrily live, and long! The ecstasies above With thy burning measures suit : Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervor of thy lute: Well may the stars be mute ! Yes, Heaven is thine; but this Is a world of sweets and sovirs; Ova flowers are merely — flowers. And the shadow of thy perfect bliss Is the sunshine of ours. If I could dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody. While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky. 422 American Literary Readings ULALUME The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crisped and sere, The leaves they were withering and sere; It was night in the lonesome October 6 Of my most immemorial year; It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, In the misty mid region of Weir: It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, In the ghoxil-haimted woodland of Weir. 10 Here once, through an alley Titanic Of cypress, I roarhed with my Soul — Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. These were days when my heart was volcanic As the scoriae rivers that roll, 15 As the lavas that restlessly roll Their sulphxirous cvirrents down Yaanek In the ultimate climes of the pole. That groan as they roll down Motmt Yaanek In the realms of the boreal pole. 20 Our talk had been serious and sober. But our thoughts they were palsied and sere. Our memories were treacherous and sere, .•For we knew not the month was October, And we marked not the night of the year, 25 (Ah, night of all nights in the year!) We noted not the dim lake of Auber, (Though once we had journeyed down here), Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 30 And now, as the night was senescent And star-dials pointed to mom. Ulalume 423 As the star-dials hinted of mom, At the end of oxor path a Uquescent And nebulous lustre was bom, Out of which a miraculous crescent Arose with a dupUcate horn, Astarte's bediamonded crescent Distinct with its duplicate horn. And I said — "She is warmer than Dian: She roUs through an ether of sighs. She revels in. a region of sighs : She has seen that the tears are not dry on These cheeks, where the worm never dies. And has come past the stars of the Lion To point us the path to the skies, To the Lethean peace of the skies: Come up, in. despite of the Lion, To shine on us with her bright eyes : Come up through the lair of the Lion, With love in her luminous eyes." But Psyche, uplifting her finger. Said — "Sadly this star I mistrust. Her pallor I strangely mistrust: Oh, hasten! — oh, let us not linger! Oh, fly! — let us fly! — for we must." In terror she spoke, letting sink her Wings tmtil they trailed in the dust; In agony sobbed, letting sink her Plumes tin they trailed in the dust. Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. I replied — "This is nothing but dreaming: Let us on by this tremulous Ught ! Let us bathe in this crystalline Hght ! 424 American Literary Readings Its Sibyllic splendor is beaming i With hope and in beauty to-night :- See, — it flickers up the sky through the night! Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming. And be sure it will lead us aright: We safely may trust to a gleaming ) That cannot but guide us aright. Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night." Thus opacified Psyche and kissed her, And tempted her out of her gloom. And conquered her scruples and gloom; i And we passed to the. end of the vista. But were stopped by the door of a tomb. By the door of a legended tomb ; And I said — "What is written, sweet sister, On the door of this legended tomb?" ) She replied — ' ' Ulalume — Ulaltime — 'T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume!" Then my heart it grew ashen and sober As the leaves that were crisped and sere. As the leaves that were withering and sere, s And I cried — " It was surely October On this very night of last year That I jovimeyed — I journeyed down here, That I brought a dread burden down here: On this night of all nights in the year, ) Ah, what demon has tempted me here? Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber, This misty mid region of Weir: Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." Eldorado 425 ELDORADO Gaily bedight, A gallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado. But he grew old, This knight so bold. And o'er his heart a shadow Fell as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado. And, as his strength Failed him at length. He met a pilgrim shadow; "Shadow," said he, "Where can it be. This land of Eldorado?" "Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow, Ride, boldly ride," The shade replied, — "If you seek for Eldorado ! " HENRY TIMROD 1829-1867 Time has dealt both harshly and kindly with Henry Timrod. During his life this young. South Carolinian suffered perhaps more than any one of his long-suffering fellow poets of the Civil War and Reconstruction periods, but gradually his fame has expanded until now he is vmi- versally recognized as one of the four or five major poets of the South, being placed second only to Lanier and Poe. His work at times undoubtedly reaches a higher level than that of his lifelong friend, Paul Hamilton Hayne, and the actual product of his thirty-seven years of ill-starred, poverty-stricken, disease-haunted life, though but an indication of what he might have accomplished under more favorable circumstances, yet gives him the right to an honorable place among the song-crowned sons of America'. Like Paul Ha}Tie, Henry Timrod came of an excellent family, who in Revolutionary times had settled in the aristocratic and cultured city of Charleston, South Caro- lina. There was less than a month's difference between the natal days of the two poets, Timrod being bom on December 8, 1829, and Hayne on January i, 1830. The boys became acquainted while attending the same private school in Charleston, where they sat together for a time and became intimate cronies. Although Timrod is described as a shy and timid youth, slow of speech while quick to learn, he was a thoroughly likable lad, and was a general favorite among his play- mates. He took an active part in all outdoor sports and games, even in fighting, and he was fond of getting away from the city to take long rambles in the woods. When he was about seventeen years old Timrod entered the University of Georgia with bright prospects. He made a fairly good record as a student, especially in the literary and classic branches, but he spent much of his time in verse- niaking. His education was cut short through lack of financial means, however, and he left college without a degree. This was the first great disappointment of his life. [426] From a portrait in the possession of the Charleston Library Society. Couftesy of the trustees HENRY TIMROD Henry Timrod 427 Returning to Charleston, he entered the office of the Honorable J. L. Petigru, one of the best-known lawyers of the city, to prepare for a professional career; but he soon found law work distasteful and his preceptor tuicon- genial, and so he went out to earn his livelihood by tutor- ing in private families. Aspiring to a professorship in the classics, Timrod read diligently to prepare himself for this work. But he was bom under an unlucky star, it seems, for he was always approaching very near to, but never quite realizing, his most cherished desires. He found no suitable opening for a successful teaching career, and so for about ten years he toiled on at private tutoring here and there, wherever he found work. All this time poetry was his constant companion and consolation. He contributed both prose and verse to southern Uterary journals, such as Russell's Magazine and the Southern Literary Messenger. He published a small volume of poems in i860, and as Hajme said, "a better first volume of the kind has seldom appeared any- where." In this voltime were "The Lily Confidante," "A Vision of Poesy," and other worthy efforts. The book was well received by the reviewers, but there could not have been in the whole history of our country, perhaps, a more unpropitious moment for the publication of a volimie of purely nature and personal lyrics. The people were in no mood to read love songs or disquisitions on the nature of poesy. Again we find disappointment and failure Timrod's portion, for there were few buyers of his modest volume, and consequently no material returns to the impecimious young author. But hope smiled anew, and Timrod threw himself with intense zeal into the approaching struggle between the sections. He was too frail physically to bear arms or undergo the hardships of military life, but he went to the front as a war correspondent for the Charleston Mercury, and was continually helping the southern cause by com- posing the fiery war songs which gave him such wide fame in those years of struggle and which won for him a place in the foremost rank of our war poets. His ' ' Ethnogenesis, ' ' written in February, 1861, on the birth of the Southern Confederacy at Montgomery, Alabama, is a magnificent ode, and except for the fact that it celebrates a "lost cause" there is no doubt that long ago it would have been 428 American Literary Readings crowned as one of the supreme productions of our nation in this kind of poetry. By far the best-known and most highly praised of Timrod's longer poems, " The Cotton Boll," was written about the same time. Though more strictly a nature poem, it concludes with a strong patriotic appeal, and is sometimes classed as a war poem. His "Carolina" and "A Cry to Arms "are stirring war songs. These poems, and many others like them, were widely circulated and enthu- siastically received all over the South. So prominent had Timrod become as a representative southern poet that in 1862 his friends proposed to bring out an illustrated edition of his. poems in England, the artist Vizetelli, then war cor- respondent of the London Illustrated News, promising to supply the engravings. But in the stress of the war period the project fell through, and again, on the very verge of apparent success, our poet met his old foes, misfortune and disappointment . Early in 1864 Timrod accepted an editorial position on the South Carolinian of Colvimbia, South Carolina, and with this prospect for permanent employment he married Miss Kate Goodwin, an English girl. This lady was the ideal of many of his -poetic fancies and the heroine of some of his best love poems. The long poem "Katie," which celebrates the beauty and charm of Miss Goodwin, is full of exquisite imagery and fine descriptive passages. Little more than a year of happiness was vouchsafed him. On December 24, 1864, was bonj to him a son, the "Little Willie" whom he mourns in a pathetic lyric in less than a year after the child's birth. After the death of his son the poet lost much of his hopefulness and buoyancy. General Sherman's army had destroyed the beautiful city of Columbia almost exactly one year after the date of Timrod's marriage, and there was nothing left to him but poverty and distress from that tinie on to the end of his life. He tried to bear up bravely, and in a letter to his friend Hayne in 1866 he humorously refers to the gradual sale of what little furniture and silverware that had been saved from the wreck, to meet the bare necessities of existence. "We have — let me see — yes, we have eaten two silver pitchers, one or two dozen silver forks, several sofas, innumerable chairs, and a huge bedstead." He continued his work on the Carolinian, — the paper had now been moved to Charleston, — but in a letter to Hayne he tienry itmrod 429 stated that for four months he had not received a dollar of his promised salary. One brief respite came before the end, when in the summer of 1867 Timrod, by the advice of his physicians and at the urgent solicitation of his old friend, went for two visits of about one month each to Copse Hill, the home of Paul Hamilton Hayne, who was now living in the pine barrens of Georgia about sixteen miles from Augusta. Hayne writes sympathetically of their comradeship dur- ing these visits, both in his introductory memoir in the 1873 edition of Timrod's poems and in his beautiful reminis- cences of the poet in "Under the Pine" and "By the Grave of Henry Timrod." From this visit, though greatly revived in spirits and apparently in health also, Timrod returned home to die. On September thirteenth he wrote to Hayne that he had suffered a severe hemorrhage from the lungs, and this was speedily followed by others, still more severe. He died October 7, 1867. Since the publication, by the Timrod Memorial Society, of his poems (in 1889), Timrod's grave in Trinity Church Cemetery, Columbia, which for many years remained unmarked, and for many more was marked only by a small shaft erected by a few of his admirers, has been crowned with a huge bowlder of gray-granite. Historians of American literature have been drawn to give more prominence to Timrod's work, and what is quite as gratifjnng, his poetry is being read and studied more and more every year. (For appreciations of Timrod see the Introduction to the Memorial Volume of his Poems and the essay in the Library of Southern Liter- ature, Vol. XII.) 20 SPRING Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air Which dwells with all things fair, Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain. Is with us once again. Out in the lonely woods the jasmine bums Its fragrant lamps, and turns Into a royal court with green festoons The banks of dark lagoons. In the deep heart of every forest tree The blood is all aglee. And there's a look about the leafless bowers As if they dreamed of flowers. Yet still on every side we trace the hand Of Winter in the land. Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, Flushed by the season's dawn; Or where, like those strange semblances we find That age to childhood bind, The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn. The brown of autumn com. As yet the turf is dark, although you know That, not a span below, A thousand germs are groping through the gloom And soon will burst their tomb. Already, here and there, on frailest stems Appear some azure gems, [430] ) V :iprmg 43 1 Small as might deck, upon a gala day, The forehead of a fay. In gardens you may note, amid the dearth, The crocus breaking earth; And, near the snowdrop's tender white and green The violet in its screen. But many gleams and shadows need must pass Along the budding grass. And weeks go by, before the enamored South Shall kiss the rose's mouth. StUl there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn In the sweat airs of mom; One almost looks to see the very street Grow purple at his feet. At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, And brings, you know not why, A feeling as when eager crowds await. Before a palace gate Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start If from a beech's heart A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say "Behold me! I am May!" Ah ! who would couple thoughts of war and crime With such a blessed time ! Who in the west wind's aromatic breath Could hear the call of Death ! Yet not more surely shall the Spring awake The voice of wood and brake Than she shall rouse, for aU her tranquil charms, A million men to arms. 432 American Literary Readings There shall be deeper hues upon her plains Than all her sunht rains, And every gladdening influence around, ) Can summon from the groimd. Oh! standing on this desecrated mold, Methinks that I behold, Lifting her bloody daisies up to God, Spring kneeling on the sod, i And calling, with the voice of all her rills. Upon the ancient hills To fall and crush the tyrants and the slaves Who turn her meads to graves. ODE SUNG ON THE OCCASION OF DECORATING THE GRAVES OF THE CONFEDERATE DEAD AT MAGNOLIA CEMETERY, CHARLESTON, S.C, 1867 I Sleep sweetly in your humble graves. Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause; Though yet no marble column craves The pilgrim here to pause II In seeds of laurel in the earth The blossom of your fame is blown, And somewhere, waiting for its birth, The shaft is in the stone ! Ill Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years Which keep in trust your storied tombs, Ode 433 Behold ! your sisters bring their tears, And these memorial blooms. IV Small tributes ! but your shades wiU smile More proudly on these wreaths to-day, Than when some cannon-moulded pile Shall overlook this bay. V Stoop, angels, hither from the sides ! There is no hoHer spot of ground Than where defeated valor Ues, By mourning beauty crowned! 15 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 1830-1886 Paul Hamilton Hayne, a grandson of the distinguished statesman and orator Robert Young Hayne, was bom in Charleston, South Carolina, on New Year's Day, in 1830. His father. Lieutenant Paul Hamilton Hayne of the United States Navy, died when Paul was a mere infant, and the boy was brought up amid the wealth and luxury of his grandfather's home. He received careful training in the best schools of Charleston, and was graduated from Charleston College in 1850. Like many young southerners of good family, Hayne prepared himself for the bar, but the call of poetry was stronger than that of the law. He became an associate editor of the Southern Literary Gazette, and later co-founder and editor of Russell's Magazine, which he made a decided success. He published a volume of poems in 1855, and three other volumes followed — Sonnets and Other Poems (1857), Avolio and Other Poems (i860), Legends and Lyrics (1872), and a complete edition of his poems, arranged by himself and published with an introductory biographical sketch by his friend and fellow poet, Margaret J. Preston, about fotu- years before his death on July 6, 1886. The Civil War came on just in time to interfere seri- ously with the development of his genius and the spread of his fame. True, he threw himself whole-heartedly into the struggle, writing a number of good war poems; but his muse was better suited to the home, the winter fireside, and the summer forest retreat than to the battle field, the march, and the camp. In spite of his delicate constitution and frail physique he voluntereed his services to the Con- federate cause, becoming an aide on Governor Pickens's staff. Home, library, wealth, all were swept away by the war. When peace came, Hayne moved with his devoted wife and only son, William Hamilton (who is himself a poet of no mean ability), into the pine barrens of Georgia, and settled in a little cottage^or, rather, log cabin — near Augusta. [434] From a photograph. Courtesy of the poet's son, William Hamilton Hayne PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE Paul Hamilton Hayne 43 S In this primitive home, which he named "Copse Hill," he spent the remainder of his life, striving to build up his health, and devoting himself exclusively to literattire for a livelihood. His poems and prose articles found a ready reception in the magazines and periodicals of the North as well as in those of the South, but the remunera- tion was small and the family was forced to live under the severest economy. Hayne's lyric genius has been highly praised, but he is still little more than a name to many readers North and South. He wrote a large amount of poetry of a singularly uniform excellence, but no single poem so far superior to the great mass of his work as to make itself particularly noteworthy or noticeable. Poets of far less literary merit are more generally known, through some single popular work, while Hayne, for the very reason of his uniform excellence, is neglected. He was not strikingly original in his poetry, but he had an individual note, and his art was rarely at fault. He deserves a more generous and general recognition than he has received. His longer narrative poems and his dramatic pieces are not without merit, but his best work is undoubtedly in the purer lyric and descriptive types. Especially noteworthy are his sonnets, of which he wrote considerably more than one hundred. Maurice Thompson said: "As a sonneteer, Hayne was strong, ranking well with the best in America"; and again, "I can pick twenty of Hayne's sonnets to equal almost any in the language"; and Professor Painter adds, "It is hardly too much to claim that Hayne is the prince of American sonneteers." Paul Hamilton Hayne lived as he wrote — simply, purely, bravely. The latter part of his life was marked by struggle and heartache, privation and disease; yet he kept up his courage and maintained a calm, sweet temper to the end, making of his own life, perhaps, a more beautiful poem than any he ever penned. (Perhaps ths best essays on Hayne are those by Margaret Junkin Preston in the latest edition of his poems [1882] and by William Hamilton Hayne in lAppincoit's Magazine for December, 1892.) ASPECTS OF THE PINES Tall, somber, grim, against the morning sky They rise, scarce touched by melancholy airs. Which stir the fadel^s foliage dreamfully. As if from realms of mystical despairs. Tall, somber, grim, they stand with dusky gleams Brightening to gold within the woodland's core, Beneath the gracious noontide's tranqtdl beams — But the weird winds of morning sigh no more. A stillness, strange, divine, ineffable. Broods round and o'er them in the wind's surcease, And on each tinted copse and shimmering dell Rests the mute raptiure of deep-hearted peace. Last, sunset comes — the solemn joy and might Borne from the west when cloudless day declines — Low, fluteHke breezes sweep the waves of light, And Ufting dark green tresses of the pines, Till every lock is luminous — gently float. Fraught with hale odors up the heavens afar To faint when twilight on her virginal throat Wears for a gem the trenaulous vesper star. [436] Composed in Autumn 437 COMPOSED IN AUTUMN With these dead leaves stripped from a witherea tree, And slowly fluttering round us, gentle friend. Some faithless soul a sad presage might blend; To me they bring a happier augiuy; Lives that shall bloom ia genial sunshine free, Nursed by the spell Love's dews and breezes send. And when a kkidly Fate shall speak the end, Down dropping in Time's autumn silently; All hopes fulfilled, all passions duly blessed, Life's cup of gladness drained, except the lees, No more to fear or long for, but the rest Which crowns existence with its dreamless ease; Thus when our days are ripe, oh ! let us fall Into that perfect Peace which waits for aU! SIDNEY LANIER 1842-1881 In one of his earlier poems, called "Life and Song," Sidney Lanier says that none of the poets has ever yet so perfectly united the ideal of his minstrelsy with the reality of his daily life as to cause the world in wonder to exclaim: "His song was only living aloud. His work, a singing with his hand!" But so nearly did Lanier himself come to a realization of his ideal of "a perfect life in perfect labor writ," that the ever- growing circle of his admirers is ready to place him among that very small number of the gifted sons of genius who have nobly conceived and nobly striven toward the ideal. Outwardly his life was a hard one. The story of his struggle against poverty, disease, and adversity often has been told, but not too often, for it is as inspiring as it is pathetic. It is the old, old story of genius making its way in spite of all obstructions. Sidney Lanier was bom at Macon, Georgia, February 3, 1842. His father, Robert S. Lanier, was a fairly successful lawyer who was able to keep his family in that moderate degree of comfort which seems conducive to the highest happiness in home life. The house in which Sidney was bom was the home at that time of his grandfather Sterling Lanier, and when this first grandson was a few months old, his parents moved to GrifSn, Georgia, returning to Macon a year or two later. Here their parlor was later the scene of many a hospitable gathering of friends and neighbors in impromptu family musical entertainments. The two boys, as well as the mother, were talented in music, and each contributed to the home concerts. The Laniers had in pre- vious generations been distinguished for their attainments in various kinds of artistic expression, particularly in paint- ing and in music. Sidney early showed his remarkable musical talent, becoming a performer on almost all kinds of instruments at an early age, learning with that ease and rapidity which come only from natural genius. He was so I438] SIDNEY LANIER Maney Lanier 439 fascinated by the music of the violin that he would some- times fall into deep reveries or trances as he played. His father, fearing the power of the instrument over the boy and not wishing him to become a professional musician, forbade him to practice on it; and Sidney turned to the instrument which after the violin most appealed to him, the fiute. On this he produced marvelous effects, not only fascinating his schoolmates at Oglethorpe College and his fellow soldiers during the Civil War, but later earning as a professional the distinction of being the greatest flute-player in the world. The sweetness, mellowness, and passionate appeal of the tones of his flute are said to have held all hearers spellbound. He could imitate bird notes with ease, and was also able to obtain in his extemporized variations and embellish- ments tones suggestive of those of the violin. He was not merely a virtuoso, but a composer as well. But later on we find the conviction taking possession of Lanier that he must be a poet. -He writes to his father, " Gradually I find that my whole soul is merging itself into this business of writing." He had begun while at college to test his powers as a writer. He was ambitious to prepare himself by study in Germany for a college professorsliip, but the .war came on, and like many another talented yovmg southerner, he threw himself with great enthusiasm into the cause of the Confederacy. He entered the army as a private, and rather than accept promotion which would separate him from his brother Clifford, he remained such. Near the close of the war, when both he and Clifford were put in charge of blockade-running vessels, Sidney was captured and confined for five months in the Federal prison at Point Lookout. During the war, Lanier did not neglect his mental develop- ment. He read all the books he could lay hands on, studied German, translated a few poems from foreign languages, and played on his beloved flute whenever he had an oppor- tunity to do so. He began work on a novel in which he made use of some of the experiences and aspirations of this period. This immature production was published shortly after the war, under the title of Tiger Lilies. Returning home from prison just in time to see his mother before her death, he sadly set to work to make a living for himself and thus to help retrieve the broken fortunes of the family. He began teaching as a tutor on a plantation near Macon, and then he became a clerk in the 44° American Literary Readings old Exchange Hotel at Montgomery, Alabama. In 1867 he accepted the principalship of the village school at Pratt- ville, Alabama, and it was while he was occupying this position that he married Miss Mary Day of Macon, Georgia. Dviring the first year of his married life Lanier suffered his first prostration from hemorrhage of the lungs. To this dis- tressful period belong several Reconstruction outcries, of which only two, "Tjranny" and "The Raven Days," were included in the 1884 edition of his poems, but several others, notably "Our Hills," are included in the latest edition of his complete Poems (19 16). Some years later the rich emotions incident to his love, courtship, and marriage blossomed forth into many beautiful tributes to the object of his lifelong devotion. No more exquisite love poem, no finer tribute to a wife, is to be found in our literature than "My Springs." After his marriage, Lanier decided to become a lawyer in order to be able to provide more adequately for his family. He went to Macon to study with the firm of which his father was a member, and he was shortly afterwards admitted to the bar. Though his success was remarkable and immediate, he did not practice long, for the demands of the legal pro- fession were destructive of his now feeble vitality, a public address being likely to induce hemorrhage, and prolonged desk work a steady lowering of his strength at all points. And yet he felt chained by moral obligation to consent to his father's urgency to continue in his law work forthe sake of insuring his family's support. At last, after five years of painful sacrifice, disease freed him to devote himself to his beloved arts, music and poetry. He said he had in his heart a thousand songs that were oppressing him because they remained unsung. Relinquishing his law practice, he sought health by rest and travel. He spent some time in San Antonio, Texas, in the winter of 1872, and here he made the first notable public display of his remarkable talent for flute playing. He wrote some for publication, but the best products of this period are his tender love letters to his wife. In fact, Lanier was one of the finest letter writers of the nineteenth century. The charm and fuUness with which the poet expressed himself by means of the delicate art of personal correspondence have rarely been equaled and never surpassed. The next year he determined to go to the North or East, Sidney Lanier ■ 44 ^ where he could find encouragement and opportunity to devote himself to the twin arts of music and poetry. He was engaged as first flute in the Peabody Symphony Concerts in Baltimore, and for the remaining nine years of his life he reveled in the musical and scholarly atmosphere of this and other eastern cities. He soon made warm friends of many notable persons, such as Bayard Taylor, Charlotte Cushman, Gibson Peacock of Philadelphia, Leopold Damro^ch, Presi- dent Oilman, and others. Again he was under the necessity of being separated from his family; but while these enforced periods of separation were extremely painful to the poet and his wife, the general public may count them fortunate, in that they were the occasion for some of the most beautiful of his letters on music and kindred arts. The later years of the poet's life, while consciously devoted to art, were a struggle against poverty and disease. In the summer of 1876-1877 his health became so greatly impaired that his physicians and friends prevailed on him to go to Tampa, Florida, to recuperate. In the leisure of this visit Lanier produced many notable poems, among them being "Tampa Robins," "Beethoven," "The Waving of the Corn," "The Song of the Chattahoochee," "The Stirrup Cup," "An Evening Song," "The Mocking-Bird." On his return to Baltimore in the spring, he tried to find some employment to supplement the meager income from his posi- tion in the Peabody Symphony Orchestra. AU the efforts of himself and his friends seemed of no avail. It was at this time that what Professor Mims calls "perhaps the most pathetic words in all his letters" were written by the poet: "Altogether, it seems as if there was n't any place for me in the world, and if it were not for May [his wife] I should certainly quit it, in mortification at being so useless." Finally a friend hit upon the idea of organizing a private class for a series of lectures on English poetry. Lanier had been taking every advantage of the excellent libraries and opportunities for culture in Baltimore, and he had developed rapidly under the inspiration of the literary and artistic life of that city. He was reading deeply into the Old and Middle English and the Elizabethan writers. His sympathetic interpretations attracted a goodly number of students to his first class, and the success of these private lectures soon gave him an opportunity to present the results of his inves- tigations in a regular series of lectures in Johns Hopkins 442 American Literary Readings University. It was in 1879 that President Oilman appointed him to a -lectureship in English literature. During all this time Lanier was turning out many excellent works, both creative and editorial. His Boy's Froissart, Boy's King Arthur, Boy's Percy, Boy's Mabinogion are still standard juvenile books. He was gradually working out in concrete examples of .poetic composition his theories of the interrelationship of music and poetry. Poems like "The Symphony," "The Song of the Chattahoochee," "The Marshes of Glynn," "Sunrise," almost justify these theories, though later critics, while acknowledging the fascination and suggestiveness of The Science of English Verse, have generally refuted the extremes to which the author presses his theories of the interrelationship between the two arts. In 1880 Lanier faithfully filled his engagements at the uni- versity, but it is said that his hearers were in constant dread lest each hour should be his last. It was only by the con- quering power of his will that he kept himsefi alive at all. He rode to the haU in a closed carriage, and sat during the hour, being unable to stand to deliver his lectures. In 1881 he sought relief in the mountains near- Asheville in North Carolina. His father and his brother Clifford were with him for several weeks, but only his wife was there when the end came. Mr. William Hayes Ward, in his memorial essay, which is attached as introduction to the volume of Lanier's Poems, quotes Mrs. Lanier's own words: "We are left alone with one another. On the last night of the summer comes a change. His_ love and immortal will hold off the destroyer of our summer yet one more week, until the forenoon of September 7th, and then falls the frost, and that unfaltering -will renders its supreme submission to the adored will of Ood." He was buried in Oreenmount Cemetery in Baltimore, the beloved city of his adoption. The present editor's volume. Southern Literary Readings, Rand McNally & Company, Chicago, contains, in addition to "Song of the Chattahoochee," three other poetical selections, "The Ballad of Trees and the Master," "My Springs," and a part of "Corn." (The most satisfactory life of Lanier is that by Edwin Mims. Other noteworthy studies are those by Morgan Callaway, Jr., in his Select Poems of Sidney Lanier, and by Henry Nelson Snyder in his volume on the spiritual message of Lanier.) SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE Out of the hills of Habersham, Down the valleys of Hall, I hurry amain to reach the plain, Run the rapid and leap the fall. Split at the rock and together again. Accept my bed, or narrow or wide. And flee from folly on every side With a lover's pain to attain the plain Far from the hills of Habersham, Far from the valleys of Hall. All down the hills of Habersham, All through the valleys of Hall, The rushes cried Abide, abide, The willful waterweeds held me thrall, The laving laurel turned my tide, The ferns and the fondling grass said Stay, The dewberry dipped for to work delay. And the little reeds sighed Abide, abide, Here in the hills of Habersham, Here in the valleys of Hall. High o'er the hills of Habersham, Veiling the valleys of Hall, The hickory told me manifold Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall Wrought- me her shadowy self to hold, The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign. Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold ■ Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, These glades in the valleys of Hall. [443] 444 American Literary Readings And oft in the hills of Habersham, And oft in the valleys of Hall, The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, i And many a limiinous jewel lone — Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist, Ruby, garnet and amethyst — Made lures with the lights of streaming stone In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, I In the beds of the valleys of Hall. But oh, not the hills of Habersham, And oh, not the valleys of Hall Avail : I am fain for to water the plain. Dov^ward the voices of Duty call — i Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main, The dry fields bum, and the mills are to turn, And a myriad flowers mortally yearn. And the lordly main from beyond the plain Calls o'er the liills of Habersham, I Calls through the valleys of Hall. From a photograph by Paul Thompson, N.Y. O. HENRY 0. HENRY 1862-1910 William Sydney Porter, known to the general public almost entirely by his pen name of O. Henry, was born in Greens- boro, North Carolina, September 11, 1862. He grew up in the typical fashion of the moderately well-to-do people of the post-bellum period in the Carolinas. He attended the ele- mentary private school conducted by his aunt. Miss Evelina Porter, to whose training he attributes his love for story- telling. He became a voracious reader, especially between the ages of thirteen and nineteen. At sixteen he left school and became a clerk in a Greensboro drugstore. In 1881 he set out to Texas in company with Dr. J. H. Hall, eagerly seizing the opportunity to get a touch of western life on a sheep ranch in La Salle County, Texas. Here he remained about two years, lounging around, working with the sheep, and amusing his friends through his gift at sketching, and by his inexhaustible fund of stories. It is said that in these leisurely days he read Webster's Unabridged Dictionary so assiduously that he could spell and define practically every word in it. About 1883 Will Porter, as he was familiarly called, moved to Austin, and became an intimate member of the family of Mr. Joe Harrell, whose sons recall many humorous car- toons, remarkable exhibitions of spelling and defining words, and one or two local love stories which Porter wrote at this time. He held several clerical positions, one among them being a draftsman's place in the Texas State Land Ofifice. Presently he fell in love with, and was married to. Miss Athol Estes. After four years in the Land Office he became paying and receiving teller in an Austin bank, a position which eventually led to entanglements which put him under a cloud for several years. O. Henry's biographer. Professor C. Alphonso Smith, emphatically declares that Porter was guiltless of the charges made against him and was clearly the victim of circumstances. At any rate his experi- ences during this period gave him an insight into the life of the underworld which he made good use of in his later stories. [445] 446 American Literary Readings O. Henry was inevitably to become a writer. The whole trend of his life seemed to lead unerringly to humorous caricature and short-story writing. While he was working for the bank he became editor-owner and chief contributor and illustrator of a breezy weekly paper called The Rolling Stone. This paper "rolled" for nearly a year, as O. Henry expressed it, and then stopped because it had begun to gather moss. Porter was forced to resign from the bank, and he removed to Houston, where he obtained a position as reporter on the Daily Post. A little later, to avoid em- barrassment, he went away to Central America. But when he learned that his wife was hopelessly ill with tuberculosis, he returned to Austin and faced a charge of embezzlement. It was while he was in New Orleans on his return from Central America that he began to write under the pen name of O. Henry. During a prison life of three years he wrote a number of stories which were accepted and published by good magazines. When he was released, he went to Pittsburgh, where his daughter Margaret was living with her grandmother. Here he continued to write, and presently was selUng his stories regularly at one hundred dollars apiece to Ainslee's Magazine. It was in 1902 that he removed to New York to devote himself to authorship. In 1904 he undertook to furnish to the New York World a story a week for an entire year, and he renewed the contract in 1905. The success of his first volume, Cabbages and Kings (1904), a loosely connected series of stories based on his Central American experiences, had already made his name well known, and from this period on to his death on June s, 1910, O. Henry was, so far as popularity goes, the foremost short-story writer of America. His stories were collected in twelve volumes between 1906 and 191 1 ; Rolling Stones, a supplemental volume of fugitive material, some of it of biographic interest, being collected in 19 1 2 by his friend and literary executor, Harry P. Steger. The remaining titles of his books are The Four Millions (1906), being stories of New York life; Heart of the West (1907), being largely stories of life in Texas; The Gentle Grafter (1908), being mostly stories of the underworld; The Trimmed Lamp (1907); The Voice of the City (1908); Strictly Business (1908); Roads of Destiny (1909); Options (1909); Whirligigs (19 10) and Sixes and Sevens (191 1), being collections of stories of miscellaneous types and u. Henry 447 localities, but dealing mainly with life in N w York City. The chief qualities of 0. Henry's stories are realism touched with the glamour of romance, piquancy and clever- ness of style and plot, a raciness of language with a large intermixture of slang, a real sympathy and true compre- hension of the varied types of our democratic life, especially of the middle and lower classes, arid an unfailing sense for the humorous and pathetic in every conceivable situation. He broke most of the conventional canons for correct writing, and yet he was a remarkably good technician in his own type of story. He says that the first rule in writing stories is to write to please yourself, and there is no second rule. The most striking individual characteristic of his stories as a whole is the surprise ending. Guess, prepare for it, watch for it as you may, you will inevitably be brought up with a laugh and a surprised feeling at the close of nearly every one of his more than one hundred and fifty short stories. Mr. Hyder E. Rollins in writing of this characteristic of 0. Henry's makes a happy comparison. "Children play ' crack-the-whip ' not for the fun of the long preliminary run, but for the excitement of the final sharp twist that throws them off their feet. So adults read O. Henry, impatiently glancing at the swiftly moving details in pleased expectancy of a surprise ending." But 0. Henry's stories have more in them than the mere cleverness of their surprise endings. They are drawn from real life, and there is in them a breath of actuality and truth, an interpretative power, a charm, a breadth of sympathy which lifts them into the realm of art. There is no longer any question of the security of this writer's place among the short-story writers of the world. If Poe said the first v/ord on the modern short story, O. Henry has said the latest. As Professor Smith admirably summarizes, "0. Henry has humanized the short story;" (0. Henry Biography by C. Alphonso Smith has just been published.) THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF It looked like a good thing: but wait till I tell you. We were down South, in Alabama — Bill DriscoU and myself — when this kidnapping idea stnick us. It was, as Bill after- ward expressed it, "during a moment of temporary mental 5 apparition" ; but we didn't find that out till later. There was a town down there, as flat as a flannel-cake, and called Summit, of course. It contained inhabitants of as undeleterious and self-satisfied a class of peasantry as ever clustered aroimd a Maypole. 10 Bill and me had a joint capital of about six hundred dol- lars, and we needed just two thousand dollars more to pull off a fraudulent town-lot scheme in Western Illinois with. We talked it over on the front steps of the hotel. Philopro- genitiveness, says we, is strong in semi-rural communities; 15 therefore, and for other reasons, a kidnapping project ought to do better there than in the radius of newspapers that send reporters out in plain clothes to stir up talk about such things. We knew that Summit couldn't get after us with anything stronger than constables and, maybe, some lacka- 20 daisical bloodhounds and a diatribe or two in the Weekly Farmers' Budget. So, it looked good. We selected for our victim the only child of a prominent citizen named Ebenezer Dorset. The father was respectable and tight, a mortgage fancier and a stem, upright coUection- 25 plate passer and forecloser. The kid was a boy of ten, with bas-relief freckles, and hair the colour of the cover of the magazine you buy at the news-stand when you want to catch a train. Bill and me figured that Ebenezer would melt down for a ransom of two thousand dollars to a cent. But wait 30 till I tell you. About two miles from Summit was a little mountain, [448] The Ransom of Red Chief 449 covered with a dense cedar brake. On the rear elevation of this mountain was a cave. There we stored provisions. One evening after sundown, we drove in a buggy past old Dorset's house. The kid was in the street, throwing rocks 35 at a kitten on the opposite fence. "Hey, little "boy!" says Bill, "would you like to have a bag of candy and a nice ride?" The boy catches Bill neatly in the eye with a piece of brick. " That will cost the old man an extra five hundred dollars," 40 says Bill, climbing over the wheel. That boy put up a fight like a welter-weight cinnamon bear; but, at last, we got him down in the bottom of the buggy and drove away. We took him up to the cave, and I hitched the horse in the cedar brake. After dark I drove 45 the buggy to the little village, three miles away, where we had hired it, and walked back to the mountain. Bill was pasting court-plaster over the scratches and bruises on his features. There was a fire burning behind the big rock at the entrance of the cave, and the boy was 50 watching a pot of boiling coffee, -with two buzzard tailfeathers stuck in his red hair. He points a stick at me when I come up, and says: "Ha! cursed paleface, do you dare to enter the camp of Red Chief, the terror of the plains?" n "He's all right now," says Bill, rolling up his trousers and examining some bruises on his shins. "We're playing Indian. We're making Buffalo Bill's show look like magic- lantern views of Palestine in the town hall. I 'm Old Hank, the^ Trapper, Red Chief's captive, and I'm to be scalped at so daybreak. By Geronimo! that kid can kick hard." Yes, sir, that boy seemed to be having the time of his life. The fun of camping out in a cave had made him forget that he was a captive himself. He immediately christened me Snake-eye, the Spy, and announced that, when his braves ss returned from the warpath, I was to be broiled at the stake at the rising of the svin. 45° American Literary Readings Then we had supper; and he filled his mouth full of bacon and bread and gravy, and began to talk. He made a during- 70 dinner speech something like this: "I like this fine. I never camped out before; but I had a pet 'possum once, and I was nine last birthday. I hate to go to school. Rats ate up sixteen of Jimmy Talbot's aunt's speckled hen's eggs. Are there any real Indians in these 76 woods? I want some more gravy. Does the trees moving make the wind blow? We had five puppies. What makes your nose so red. Hank ? My father has lots of money. Are the stars hot? I whipped Ed Walker twice, Saturday. I don't like girls. You dassent catch toads unless with a 80 string. Do oxen make any noise? Why are oranges round? Have you got beds to sleep on in this cave? Amos Murray has got six toes. A parrot can talk, but a monkey or a fish can't. How many does it take to make twelve?" Every few minutes he would remember that he was a pesky 85 redskin, and pick up his .stick rifle and tiptoe to the mouth of the cave to rubber for the scouts of the hated paleface. Now and then he would let out a warwhoop that made Old Hank the Trapper, shiver. That boy had Bill terrorized from the start. 90 "Red Chief," says I to the kid, "wottld you like to go home?" "Aw, what for ? " says he. "I don't have any fun at home. I hate to go to school. I like to camp out. You won't take me back home again. Snake-eye, will you?" 95 "Not right away," says I. "We'll stay here in the cave a while." "All right ! " says he. " That'll be fine. I never had such fun in all my life." We went to bed about eleven o'clock. We spread down 100 some wide blankets and quilts and put Red Chief between us. We weren't afraid he'd run away. He kept us awake for three hours, jumping up and reaching for his rifle and screeching: "Hist! pard," in mine and Bill's ears, as the The Ransom of Red Chief 45 1 fancied crackle of a twig or the rustle of a leaf revealed to his young imagination the stealthy approach of the outlaw 105 band. At last, I fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamed that I had been kidnapped and chained to a tree by a ferocious pirate with red hair. Just at daybreak, I was awakened by a series of awful screams from BiU. They weren't yells, or howls, or shouts, no or whoops, or yawps, such as you'd expect from a manly set of vocal organs — they were simply indecent, terrifying, humiliating screams, such as women emit when they see ghosts or caterpillars. It's an awful thing to hear a strong, desperate, fat man scream incontinently in a cave at day- us break. I jumped up to see what the matter was. Red Chief was sitting on BUl's chest, with one hand twined in BiU's hair. In the other he had the sharp case-knife we used for slicing bacon; and he was industriously and reaUstically trying to 120 take Bill's scalp, according to the sentence that had been pronounced upon him the evening before. I got the knife away from the kid and made him Ue down again. But, from that moment. Bill's spirit was broken. He laid down on his side of the bed, but he never closed an 125 eye again in sleep as long as that boy was with us. I dozed off for a while, but along toward sun-up I remembered that Red Chief had said I was to be burned at the stake at the rising of the sun. I wasn't nervous or afraid; but I sat up and Ut my pipe and leaned against a rock. 130 "What you getting up so soon for, Sam?" asked Bill. "Me?" says I. "Oh, I got a kind of a pain in my shoulder. I thought sitting up would rest it." "You're a liar!" says Bill. "You're afraid. You was to be burned at sunrise, and you was afraid he'd do it. And us he woiild, too, if he could find a match. Ain't it awful, Sam? Do you think anybody will pay out money to get a little imp like that back home?" "Sure," said I. "A rowdy kid like that is just the kind 452 American Literary Readings 140 that parents dote on. Now, you and the Chief get up and cook breakfast, while I go up on the top of this mountain and reconnoitre." I went up on the peak of the Httle mountain and ran my eye over the contiguous vicinity. Over toward Simimit I 146 expected to see the sturdy yeomanry of the village armed with scythes and pitchforks beating the countryside for the dastardly kidnappers. But what I saw was a peaceful landscape dotted with one man ploughing with a dun mule. Nobody was dragging the creek; no couriers dashed hither 150 and yon, bringing tidings of no news to the distracted parents. There was a sylvan attitude of somnolent sleepi- ness pervading that section of the external outward surface of Alabama that lay exposed to my view. "Perhaps," says I to myself, "it has not yet been discovered that the wolves 155 have borne away the tender lambkin from the fold. Heaven help the wolves!" says I, and I went down the mountain to breakfast. When I got to the cave I found Bill backed up against the side of it, breathing hard, and the boy threatening to smash 160 him with a rock half as big as a cocoanut. "He put a red-hot boiled potato down my back," explained Bill, "and then mashed it with his foot; and I boxed his ears. Have you got a gun about you, Sam?" I took the rock away from the boy and kind of patched up 165 the argument. "I'll fix you," says the kid to Bill. "No man ever yet struck the Red Chief but what he got paid for it. You better beware!" After breakfast the kid takes a piece of leather with strings wrapped around it out of his pocket and goes out- no side the cave unwinding it. "What's he up to now?" says Bill, anxiously. "You don't think he '11 run away, do you, Sam? " "No fear of it," says I. "He don't seem to be much of a home body. But we've got to fix up some plan about the 176 ransom. There don't seem to be much excitement around The Ransom of Red Chief 453 Summit on account of his disappearance; but maybe they have n't realized yet that he's gone. His folks may think he's spending the night with Aunt Jane or one of the neighbours. Anyhow, he'll be missed to-day. To-night we must get a message to his father demanding the two thousand dollars iso for his return." Just then we heard a kind of war-whoop, such as David might have emitted when he knocked out ' the champion Goliath. It was a sling that Red Chief had pulled out of his pocket, and he was whirling it around his head. us I dodged, and heard a heavy thud and a kind of a sigh from Bill, like a horse gives out when you take his saddle off. A niggerhead rock the size of an egg had caught Bill just behind his left ear. He loosened himself all over and fell in the fire across the frying pan of hot water for washing the 190 dishes. I dragged him out and poured cold water on his head for half an hour. By and by, Bill sits up and feels behind his ear and says : ' ' Sam, do you know who my favourite Biblical character is ? " "Take it 'easy,'' says I. "You'll come to your senses 1 as presently." "King Herod," says he. "You won't go away and leave me here alone, will you, Sam?" I went out and caught that boy and shook him imtil his freckles rattled. 200 " If you don't behave," says I, " I 'U take you straight home. Now, are you going to be good, or not?" "I was only funning," says he sullenly. "I didn't mean to hurt Old Hank. But what did he hit me for? I '11 behave. Snake-eye, if you won't send me home, and if you '11 let me 205 play the Black Scout to-day." » "I don't know the game," says I. "That's for you and Mr. BiU to decide. He's yoTor playmate for the day. I'm going away for a while, on business. Now, you come in and make friends with him and say you are sorry for hurting him, 210 or home you go, at once." 454 American Literary Readings I made him and Bill shake hands, and then I took Bill aside and told him I was going to Poplar Cove, a little village three miles from the cave, and find out what I could about 216 how the kidnapping had been regarded in Summit. Also, I thought it best to send a peremptory letter to old man Dorset that day, demanding the ransom and dictating how it should be paid. "You know; Sam," says Bill, "I've stood by you without 220 batting an eye in earthquakes, fire and flood -^ in poker games, dynamite outrages, police raids, train robberies and cyclones. I never lost my nerve yet till we kidnapped that two-legged skyrocket of a Idd. He's got me going. You won't leave me long with him, will you, Sam?" 225 "I'll be back some time this afternoon," says I. "You must keep the boy amused and quiet till I return. And now we'll write the letter to old Dorset." Bill and I got paper and pencil and worked on the letter while Red Chief, with a blanket wrapped aroiind him, 230 strutted up and down, guarding the mouth of the cave. BUI begged me tearfully to make the ransom fifteen himdred dollars instead of two thousand. "I ain't attempting," says he, "to decry the celebrated moral aspect of parental affection, but we're dealing with himians, and it ain't human 235 for anybody to give up two thousand dollars for that forty- pound chunk of freckled wildcat. I'm willing to take a chance at fifteen hundred dollars. You can charge the difference up to me." So, to relieve Bill, I acceded, and we collaborated a letter 240 that ran this way: Ebenezer Dorset, Esq.: We have your boy concealed in a place far from Summit. It is useless for you or the most skilful detectives to attempt to find him. Absolutely, the only terms on which you can 246 have him restored to you are these: We demand fifteen hundred dollars in large bills for his return; the money to be left at midnight to-night at the same spot and in the same box as your reply — as hereinafter described. If you agree to these The Ransom of Red Chief 45 S terms, send yotir answer in writing by a solitary messenger to-night at half-past eight o'clock. After crossing Owl Creek, 2so on the road to Poplar Cove, there are three large trees about a hundred yards apart, close to the fence of the wheat field on the right-hand side. At the bottom of the fence-post, opposite the third tree, will be found a small pasteboard box. The messenger will place the answer in this box and return 265 immediately to Summit. If you attempt any treachery or fail to comply with our demand as stated, you will never see your boy again. If you pay the money as demanded, he will be returned to you safe and well within three hours. These terms are final, 200 and if you do not accede to them no further communication will be attempted. Two Desperate Men. I addressed this letter to Dorset, and put it in my pocket. As I was about to start, the kid comes up to me and says: aes "Aw, Snake-eye, you said I could play the Black Scout while you was gone." " Play it, of course," says I. "Mr. BUI will play with you. What kind of a game is it?" "I'm the Black Scout," says Red Chief, "and I have to 270 ride to the stockade to warn the settlers that the Indians are coming. I 'm tired of playing Indian myself. I want to be the Black Scout." "All right," says I. " It sounds harmless to me. I guess Mr. BiU will help you foil the pesky savages." 27s "What am I to do?" asks Bill, looking at the kid sus- piciously. "You are the hoss," says Black Scout. "Get down on your hands and knees. How can I ride to the stockade without a hoss?" 280 "You'd better keep him interested," said I, "tUl we get the scheme going. Loosen up." Bill gets down on his all fours, and a look comes in his eye like a rabbit's when you catch it in a trap. "How far is it to the stockade, kid?" he asks, in a husky 285 maimer of voice. 4s6 American Literary Readings "Ninety miles," says the Black Scout. "And you have to hump yourself to get there on time. Whoa, now!" The Black Scout jumps on Bill's back and digs his heels 290 in his side. "For Heaven's sake," says Bill, "hurry back, Sam, as soon as you can. I wish we hadn't made the ransom more than a thousand. Say, you quit kicking me or I 'U get up and warm you good." 295 I walked over to Poplar Cove an^ sat around the post- office and store, talking with the chawbacons that came in to trade. One whiskerando says that he hears Summit is all upset on account of Elder Ebenezer Dorset's boy having been lost or stolen. That was all I wanted to know. I 300 bought some smoking tobacco, referred casually to the price of black-eyed peas, posted my letter surreptitiously and came away. The postmaster said the mail-carrier would come by in an hour to take the mail on to Summit. When I got back to the cave Bill and the boy were not to 305 be found. I explored the vicinity of the cave, and risked a yodel or two, but there was no response. So I lighted my pipe and sat down on a mossy bank to await developments. In about half an hour I heard the bushes rustle, and Bill 310 wabbled out into the little glade in front of the cave. Behind him was the kid, stepping softly like a scout, with a broad grin on his face. Bill stopped, took off his hat and wiped his face with a red handkerchief. The kid stopped about eight feet behind him. 315 "Sam," says Bill, " I suppose you '11 think I'm a renegade, but I couldn't help it. I 'm a grown person with mascuhne proclivities and habits of self-defense, but there is a time when all systems of egotism and predominance fail. The boy is gone. I have sent him home. All is off. There was 32omart5^s in old times," goes on Bill, "that suffered death rather than give up the particular graft they enjoyed. None of 'em ever was subjugated to such supernatural tortures The Ransom oj Red Chief 457 as I have been. I tried to be faithful to oitr articles of depredation; but there came a Umit." "What's the trouble, Bill?" I asks him. 325 "I was rode," says Bill, "the ninety miles to the stockade, not barring an inch. Then, when the settlers was rescued, I was given oats. Sand ain't a palatable substitute. And then, for an hour I had to try to explain to him why there was nothin' in holes, how a road can run both ways and 330 what makes the grass green. I tell you, Sam, a human can only stand so much. I takes him by the neck of his clothes and drags him down the mountain. On the way he kicks my legs black-and-blue from the knees down; and I've got two or three bites on my thumb and hand cauterized. 335 ' ' But he's gone' ' — continues Bill — ' ' gone home. I showed him the road to Summit and kicked him about eight feet nearer there at one kick. I'm. sorry we lose the ransom; but it was either that or Bill Driscoll to the madhouse." BUI is piififing and blowing, but there is a look of ineffable 340 peace and growing content on his rose-pink features. " Bill, " says I, " there is n't any heart disease in yoiu" family, is there?" "No," says BUI, "nothing chronic except malaria and accidents. Why?" 345 "Then you might turn around," says I, "and have a look behind you." BUI turns and sees the boy, and loses his complexion and sits down plump on the ground and begins to pluck aimlessly at grass and little sticks. For an hour I was afraid for his 350 mind. And then I told him that my scheme was to put the whole job through immediately and that we would get the ransom and be off with it by midnight if old Dorset fell in with owe proposition. So Bill braced up enough to give the kid a weak sort of a smile and a promise to play 355 the Russian in a Japanese war with him as soon as he felt a little better. I had a scheme for collecting that ransom without danger 4S8 American Literary Readings of being caught by counterplots that ought to commend 360 itself to professional kidnappers. The tree under which the answer was to be left — and the money later on — was close to the road fence with big, bare fields on all sides. If a gang of constables should be watching for any one to come for the note they could see him a long way off crossing the fields or 365 in the road. But no, sirree! At half-past eight I was up in that tree as well hidden as a tree toad, waiting for the messenger to arrive. Exactly on time, a half-grown boy rides up the road on a bicycle, locates the pasteboard box at the foot of the fence- 370 post, slips a folded piece of paper into it and pedals away again back toward Summit. I waited an hotu- and then concluded the thing was square. I slid down the tree, got the note, slipped along the fence till I struck the woods, and was back at the cave in another half 375 an hour. I opened the note, got near the lantern and read it to Bill. It was written with a pen in a crabbed hand, and the sum and substance of it was this : Two Desperate Men. Gentlemen: 1 received your letter to-day by post, in regard 380 to the ransom you ask for the return of my son. I think you are a little high in your demands, and I hereby make you a counter-proposition, which I am inclined to believe you will accept. You bring Johnny home and pay me two hundred and fifty dollars in cash, and I agree to take him off your 385 hands. You had better come at night, for the neighbours believe he is lost, and I couldn't be responsible for what they would do to anybody they saw bringing him back. Very respectfully, Ebenezer Dorset. 390 "Great pirates of Penzance!" says I; "of all the impu- dent—" But I glanced at Bill, and hesitated. He had the most appealing look in his eyes I ever saw on the face of a dumb or a talking brute. 395 "Sam," says he, "what's two hundred and fifty dollars, The Ransom of Red Chief 459 after all? We've got the money. One more night of this kid will send me to a bed in Bedlam. Besides being a thorough gentleman, I think Mr. Dorset is a spendthrift for making us such a liberal offer. You ain't going to let the chance go, are you?" 400 "Tell you the truth, BiU," says I, "this little he ewe lamb has somewhat got on my nerves too. We '11 take him home, pay the ransom and make our get-away." We took him home that night. We got him to go by tell- ing him that his father had bought a silver-mounted rifle 405 and a pair of moccasins for him, and we were going to hunt bears the next day. It was just twelve o'clock when we knocked at Ebenezer's front door. Just at the moment when I should have been abstracting the fifteen hundred dollars from the box tmder 410 the tree, according to the original proposition, Bill was counting out two hundred and fifty dollars into Dorset's hand. When the kid found out we were going to leave him at home he started up a howl like a calliope and fastened him- 416 self as tight as a leech to Bill's leg. His father peeled him away gradually, like a porous plaster. "How long can you hold him?" asks Bill. "I'm not as strong as I used to be," says old Dorset, "but I think I can promise you ten minutes." 420 "Enough," says Bill. "In ten minutes I shall cross the Central, Southern and Middle Western States, and be legging it trippingly for the Canadian border." And, as dark as it was, and as fat as Bill was, and as good a runner as I am, he was a good mile and a half out of 425 Summit before I could catch up with him. THE LAST LEAP In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places." These "places" make strange angles and curves. One street crosses itself a time or two. An artist 5 once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Sup- pose a collector with a bill for paints, paper, and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account! So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon 10 came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth- centtiry gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth avenue, and became a "colony." At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and 1 5 Johnsy had their studio. ' ' Johnsy ' ' was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d'hote of an Eighth street " Deknonico's," and found their tastes in art, chicory salad, and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted. 20 That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze 25 of the narrow and moss-grown "places." Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red- fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and 30 she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, look- ing through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house. [460] The Last Leaf 461 One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hall- way with a shaggy, gray eyebrow. "She has one chance in — let us say, ten," he said; as he 35 shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. "And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-up on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she any- 40 thing on her mind?" "She — she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day," said Sue. "Paint? — bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking about twice — a man, for instance?" 45 "A man?" said Sue, with a jew's-harp twang in her voice. "Is a man worth — but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind." "Well, it is the weakness, then," said the doctor. "I will do all that science, so far as it may filter through my 50 efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract fifty per cent, from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five 55 chance for her, instead of one in ten." After the doctor had gone. Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy's room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime. so Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bed- clothes, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep. She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave es their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature. As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horse-show riding 462 American Literary Readings trousers and a monocle on the figure of the hero, an Idaho 70 cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside. Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting — counting backward. "Twelve," she said, and a little later "eleven"; and then 75 "ten," and "nine"; and then "eight" and "seven," almost together. Sue looked solicitously out the window. What was there to cotint ? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An 80 old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks. "What is it, dear?" asked Sue. 85 "Six," said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hun- dred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it 's easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now." "Five what, dear? Tell your Sudie." 90 "Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?" "Oh, I never heard of such nonsense," complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. "What have old ivy leaves to do 95 with your getting well? And you used to love that viae so, you naughty girl. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were — let's see exactly what he said — he said the chances were ten to one! Why, that's almost as good a [00 chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Try to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port vy^ine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self." The Last Leaf 463 "You need n't get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping 105 her eyes fixed out the window. " There goes another. No, I don't want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll go, too." "Johnsy, dear," said Sue, bending over her, "will you promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out the no window until I am done working? I must hand those draw- ings in by to-morrow. I need the light, or I would draw the shade down." "Could n't you draw in the other room? " asked Johnsy, coldly. 115 "I'd rather be here by you," said Sue. "Besides, I don't want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves." "Tell me as soon as you have finished," said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as a fallen statue, "because I want to see the last one fall. I 'm tired of wait- 120 ing. I 'm tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just Uke one of those poor, tired leaves." "Try to sleep," said Sue. "I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I'll not be gone 125 a minute. Don't try to move till I come back." Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. no Forty years he had wielded the, brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress's robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or 135 advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in any one, ho 464 American Literary Readings and who regarded himself as especial mastif£-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above. Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one comer was a blank 145 canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty- five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy's fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker. 150 Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings. "Vass!" he cried. "Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a con- founded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I vill 155 not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der prain of her? Ach, dot poor leetle Miss Johrisy." "She is very ill and weak," said Sue, "and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very 160 well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me^ you need n't. But I think you are a horrid old — old flibberti- gibbet." "You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman. "Who said I vill not bose ? Goon. I come mit you. For half an 165 hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott ! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go avay. Gott ! yes." Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue 170 pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in 1 75 his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit-miner on an upturned kettle for a rock. The Last Leaf 4^5 When Sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade. "Pull it up; I want to see," she ordered, in a whisper, iso Wearily Sue obeyed. But, lo ! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, but with its serrated iss edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from a branch some twenty feet above the grovind. "It is the last one," said Johnsy. "I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall i9o to-day, and I shall die at the same time." "Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think of me, if you won't think of yourself. What would I do?" But Johnsy did not answer. The'lonesomest thing in all 195 the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed. The day wore away, and even through the twilight they 200 could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the win- dows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves. When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, com- 205 manded that the shade be raised. The ivy leaf was still there. Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove. 210 " I 've been a bad girl, Sudie, "said Johnsy. " Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked 16 466 American Literary Readings I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and — no; 215 bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook." An hour later she said, "Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples." The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse 220 to go into the hallway as he left. "Even chances," said the doctor, taking Sue's thin, shak- ing hand in his. " With good nursing you '11 win. And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is — some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, 225 too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable." The next day the doctor said to Sue: "She's out of danger. You've won. Nutrition and care now — that's 230 all. And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woolen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all. 235 "I have something to tell you, white mouse," she said. "Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him on the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. 240 They could n't imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and. some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colors mixed on it, and — look out the window, dear, at the last ivy 245 leaf on the wall. Did n't you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew ? Ah, darling, it 's Behrman's masterpiece — he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell." From a photograph taken by Alexander Hester, Chicago ABRAHAM LINCOLN ABRAHAM LINCOLN 1809-1865 We do not ordinarily think of Abraham Lincoln as a literary man, but as a wise statesman and leader, a clear thinker, and a forceful speaker. In the critical historical period through which he was called to lead our nation, 'however, the events all seemed to converge to a focus in the dramatic moment when he - delivered the one supremely great literary utter- ance of his life, the celebrated "Address at the Dedication of the Gettysburg National Cemetery." The facts of Lincoln's life are well known. He was bom near Hodgenville, Kentucky, February 12, 1809, moved with his parents into Indiana when he was seven years old, and on into Illinois just as he reached his twenty-first year. He had little or no school advantages, but by private study he succeeded in educating himself. Early in life he began to discipline himself to a strict habit of expressing his thought in the clearest and simplest language he could command, using always familiar and homely illustrations to make his meaning still clearer. He became a successful lawyer and an able debater. He was repeatedly sent to the Illinois House of Representatives, and finally he was elected to Congress. When he met Stephen A. Douglas, then a ■most powerful figure in national politics, in a joint debate in the national campaign for United States senator in ,1858, he overmatched this distinguished debater, though he failed to win from him his seat in the United States Senate. This campaign made Lincoln a powerful force in national ^'oliticS, and in i860 he was nominated by the Republican party for the presidency. Every child knows of the terrible conflict which followed his inaugiuration in 1861, and every American now honors Abraham Lincoln along with Washington as, one of the two greatest presidents our country has had. His tragic death at the hands of an assassin in Washington City, April 15, 1865, plunged the whole country. North and South, into grief. No more unfortunate thing could have happened — especially to the South, facing as it did the trying period of reconstruction which was to follow — than to lose at this critical juncture the influence of the great-brained, justice- loving, tender-hearted Lincoln. [467] ADDRESS AT THE DEDICATION OF THE GETTYSBURG NATIONAL CEMETERY Foiirscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing^whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, s can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. lo But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate — we cannot consecrate — we cannot hallow — this ground. The brave men, Hving and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will Uttle note nor long remember what we say here, but it can u never forget what they did here. It is for us, the Hving, rather, to be dedicated here to the imfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remain- ing before us — that from these honored dead we take 20 increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation under God shall have a new birth of freedom; and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall 25 not perish from the earth. [468] SAMUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS (Mark Twain) SAMUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS— MARK TWAIN 1835-1910 Mark Twain is not merely our greatest hiunorist; he is also one of oiir greatest creative geniuses, and he is undoubt- edly our one writer who is most thoroughly representative of the genuine American spirit and life. For a long time he was looked upon as a mere jester, and his works were not accepted as belonging at all to the best class of Uterature; but from the first he was accepted at his real worth by a few discerning ones, and during the past two decades the critics and the public alike have come to realize that Mark Twain is one of the few creative giants that have sprung out of our democratic soil. He shares with Walt Whitman the distinction of coming up directly from the common demo- cratic masses, and with him, too, he shares the almost unani- mous approval and applause of European critics. Samuel Langhome Clemens, the son of John Clemens and Jane Lampton, both of unpretentious but sterling southern families, was bom November 30, 1835, in the hamlet of Florida, Missouri, some fifty miles west of the Mississippi River. Four years later the family moved to Hannibal, a typical river town about a hundred miles north of St. Louis, and here grew up in all the freedom of that border life the boy who was to make the town famous by enshrining its life in those immortal books Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. It was almost impossible to keep Sam in the village school or to make him study his lessons, but the effort was kept up until he reached his twelfth year. He was then apprenticed to learn the printer's trade, a fortimate choice, since it brought him into contact with type and printer's ink and thus helped to complete the desultory education he had received in the village school. He worked for six years as a printer's devil on the local news- papers, and as one of his companions remarked, he was rightly named in this position. Then he took a sort of jour- neyman's trip to the East to complete his training as a printer. He remained for a year or more in Philadelphia and New York, but he was not satisfied to become a mere [469] 47° American Literary Readings typesetting machine, and so he turned his face westward once more to seek fame and fortune in the land of his birth. For about two years he was Horace Bixby's cub, or assistant on a steamboat, learning the business of a pilot on the Miss- issippi River, and for about two years more he was himself a master pilot on that treacherous river. He was proud of his profession, and later in life he declared that he loved it far better than any other business he had tried. The Civil War brought to a close this period of his career, but we have a f aithful - portrayal of the vanished past of Mississippi pilotage in his reminiscent treatment in Life on the Missis- sippi (1883). His next experience carried him to the Far West. He joined a troop preparatory to enlisting in the Confederate Army, but a few weeks of camp life convinced him that soldiering was not the sort of occupation that suited him. He was led by his southern ancestry and his environment (for he was reared in a slave-holding community) to espouse the southern cause, but deep down in his heart there was little enthusiasm for it. His eldest brother hkd just been appointed territorial secretary of .Nevada, and young Clemens was offered the opportunity of going along as his assistant. So during the years from 1861 to 1867 he was again enlarging his education by looking on and taking part in those wild and stirring activities of the newly opened West. He soon felt the call of the gold and struck out for fortune in the mining districts. He did not succeed in finding much gold, though he came perilously near to it on several occasions, but he did succeed in storing his mind with all those wonderful experiences out of which he was to mint the golden romance of some of his later books, such as The Celebrated Jumping Frog (1867) and Roughing It (1872). Discouraged in his fruitless mining operations, young Clemens turned to his old occupation and became local reporter on the Enterprise, a rather distinctive paper pub- lished at Virginia City, a thriving mining town that had sprung up like magic around the great silver mines known as the Comstock lode. Many were the practical jokes and startling schemes indulged in by the lively group of news- paper men engaged on this paper, and the rampant imagi- nation of the young local reporter usually led in these esca- pades. Presently he was sent to Carson City to report the doings of the newly formed legislature, and as was expected Mark Twain 47 1 of him, he sent back a series of exceedingly breezy letters. These were unsigned at first, but they were being widely copied, and he felt that he ought to choose a pen name so as to conserve and center his reputation around it. He hit upon the happy combination Mark Twain, an old river term meaning the mark registering two (twain) fathoms, or twelve feet, of water. He said it had a comforting sound, for whenever a pilot heard that reading called out, he knew that he was in a safe depth of water. His reputation was spreading rapidly now, and so the call to the wider world led him to San Francisco. It must be confessed, however, that the immediate cause of his leaving Carson City was to avoid prosecution for accepting a challenge to a duel which never came off, a story which he has recorded in full in Roughing It. At San Francisco he met Bret Harte and other men of local fame as journalists, poets, lecturers, and artists of one sort or another, and under the influence of this new environment his style developed rapidly from what he called an awkward and grotesque sort of natural utterance, into a more facile literary type of prose. His vigorous news letters which he still sent back to his old employers on the Virginia City Enterprise soon got him into trouble with the police of San Francisco, for he did not hesi- tate to attack some of their corrupt practices, and he was forced to leave the city for a while. With his pal, Jim GilHs, who was the original of Bret Harte's "Truthful James," he went to the mountains of east California and engaged in the fascinating game of pocket mining. The partners were just on the verge of uncovering a rich treasure of nuggets, when they deserted their claim and allowed some more fortunate miners to come along and imcover a rich pocket just a few feet from where they stopped. But the real chance of Mark Twain's life came from this experience, for here he ran across the droll story of " The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County." It was early in 1865 that he first heard the story, and by the end of this year, upon the pubKcation of the story in the East, Mark Twain was well on his way to fame. After the publication of this early volume of sketches in 1867, he continued his newspaper work in San Francisco, making one very successful trip to the Hawaiian Islands. He also won some fame as a lecturer at this time. But. the first really great success came when he got a commission to 472 American Literary Readings / travel through Europe and the Holy Land with a group of Americans who were to make the voyage in the Quaker City. By skillful persuasions he convinced the editors of the AUa Calif ornian that he could send them a series of letters that would be worth the price of the trip, some- thing over $1200. He wrote fifty-odd letters of his experi- ences on this trip, and these were later collected in a book which took the public by storm — namely, The Innocents Abroad (1869). Other books of travel and impressions from abroad had been written by Irving, Longfellow, Hawthorne, and Bayard Taylor, but this was an entirely new type. It was extravagantly himiorous, boisterously funny, and yet filled with wonderful passages of description and comment on the really impressive scenes of the old world. The book was at bottom a severe satire on the sentimental and gushy type of description that was found in the guide books and travel letters of the day. Mark Twain went abroad with his eyes open, and he laughed to scorn those American innocents who were ever ready to gulp down with rolling eyes and ecstatic exclamations every fossilized legend that the sentimental guide books or the stereot3rped talk of their paid guides gave them. The breezy, original, humorous, human, and frankly American revelations of this new writer who saw things with his own eyes and reported them as he saw them met with immediate and widespread approval. It was on this tour that Mark Twain met Charlie Langdon and saw for the first time the beautiful miniature of Langdon's sister Olivia, the woman who was to become his wife and the most profoundly formative influence on his character and on his later attitude toward his art. She was a wealthy girl, and it seemed almost unthinkable that an unknown westerner without money, formal culture, or social position should aspire to her hand. But by persist- ence and patience Mark Twain overcame all obstacles, and he was in every sense of the word happily mated with this charming woman. She called him always by the suggestive pet name of "Youth," and all through her life, by his own confession, she was his most helpful and sympathetic critic, and aided him to realize himself to the fullest extent in the more serious and lasting products of his art. Upon their marriage in 1870, they went to Buffalo, where through the help of Mr. Langdon, Mark Twain had become part owner and associate editor of the Buffalo Express. But the Mark Twain 473 venture was not a fortunate one; sorrows due to death and sickness followed, and presently the young couple sold their property in Buffalo and retired to Elmira, New York, for the summer, and then moved to Hartford, Connecticut, where they made their home for a number of years. After giving up his journalistic position, Clemens arranged to go on the lecture platform to recoup his fortunes. He had succeeded from the very first as a lecturer in California, and had captivated audiences in the East and in the Middle West just after his return from his first trip abroad; so he undertook his second tour with fuU confidence. He won his audiences by his slow, drawling speech and by his narrative and dramatic powers, as well as by his inimitable dry humor and flashes of pure wit. He was acclaimed the most popular lecturer and reader in America, but he never Uked this work and resorted to the -platform only when it was necessary to recover from some financial difficulty. Roughing It appeared in 1872, and was almost or quite as popular as The Innocents Abroad had been. This new book was based on his experiences in the West, and to many readers it is more entertaining than The Innocents Abroad, mainly because it is more thoroughly American in subject- matter and treatment. To protect his rights of publication in this new volume, Mark Twain made a trip to England. He had some notion also of gathering material for a new book on the English people; but when he was treated so cordially and honored so signally by them, he confessed that he could not bring himself to dishonor their hospitality by exploiting them in a humorous book. On his return to America he collaborated with Charles Dudley Warner in the production of a novel called The Gilded Age. In this book Mr. Warner did the romance, and Mark Twain drew the characters, modeling them mostly from the members of his own family. The charac- ter of Colonel Mulberry Sellers, the dreamer and idealist, drawn from James Lampton, his maternal uncle, is one of the most magnetic and original of all Mark Twain's crea- tions. Colonel Sellers was later made the central figure in a successful play. _ After another trip to London in which he registered a signal triumph as a lecturer, Mark Twain began the com- position of a new book which was to surpass in popularity anything he had yet done. This was the wonderful story 474 American Literary Readings of boy life on the Mississippi, based on his own experiences and those of several of his companions in the old days at Hannibal, Missouri. Other work interrupted him before he completed the task, however, and it was not until 1876 that Tom Sawyer made its appearance. This book, together with The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884), with which it is usually bracketed, though the two are entirely different types of stories, is undoubtedly the finest creative achievement of Mark Twain's genius. Tom is the typical American boy, bad and yet not too bad to be likable, rough and ready, shrewd, courageous, sincere, genuine. His story is so realistically told that many persons believe that the hero actually lived through the adventures described. Huckle- berry Finn is a poor outcast from the very lowest stratum of society, but with a tender heart and a pure soul wrapped in his unkempt and hardened little body. The book is one of the finest pieces of realism in modern literature. It gives us a faithful presentation of the mid-century life on the Mississippi, the scenes coming on in rapid succession like a vivid panorama moving before our very eyes. There is nothing final, nothing fortuitous, nothing romantic, but all appears to be just as it is in real life. This book, together with Tom Sawyer and Life on the Mississippi, gives us the truest historical values of the vanished life on the great inland waterway. Huckleberry Finn has been singled out not only as Mark Twain's masterpiece, but as one of the world's great books. Among his many other volumes, two or three at least must be mentioned. The romantic extravaganza A Con- necticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (1889) is a humorous presentation of the new democratic ideals as opposed to the ancient aristocracies and monarchial forms of govern- ment. The Prince and the Pauper (1881), a delightful juvenile romance, had previously set forth something of the same teaching in the plot whereby a prince and a pauper are made to interchange places in order that each may see how the other half of the world lives. Together with Pudd'nhead Wilson (1894), a searching study of negro slavery punctuated with the keen and exhilarating epigrams or maxims of Mark Twain through the mouth of the title character, and Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc (1896), a historical study cast in memoir form, a powerful piece of writing and the one of all his works that Mark Twain liked mam iwatn 47 S best, — these make up the more valuable of his later pro- ductions. In most of his other works, particularly in the field- of literary criticism, he displays more courage than good judgment. The story of Mark Twain's debts is to be placed with Sir Walter Scott's very similar struggle as one of the two most inspiring examples of business integrity recorded in modem literary history. Being himSelf somewhat of a dreamer, he allowed many impractical enthusiasts to enlist his aid in their wild financial speculations, and he lost heavily in most of these investments. Finally he became involved in large losses through a publishing house with which he was con- nected as a partner. When an assignment was forced upon the firm, Mark Twain gave up all his own property, and his wife also generously put her patrimony in to satisfy the creditors; but there was still found to be owing a large sum. Through the bankruptcy laws he might have settled legally by simply giving up all the assets of the company, but he asked for time, saying that he would pay dollar for dollar if he lived to earn it. In his sixtieth year he set himself resolutely to the task of molding his talents into cash through his writings and his lectures. In 1895 he began the memorable lecture tour around the world, beginning in America and moving westward to Australia, New Zealand, India, Ceylon, and South Africa, landing finally in Vienna, Austria. This marvelous lecture tour, perhaps the most marvelous on record, netted him a large sum; and with the additional income from his books, within two and a half- years he had paid every dollar of the debts of his firm and was again a free man with untarnished business honor. From a humble beginning Mark Twain had reached a dizzy height in the affectionate regard of his own people and of the world. He was not spoiled by this adulation, how- ever, and he refused to compromise himself by exploiting his popularity or appearing before the public for personal gain. He gave himself freely for public good, but he had a competency for himself, and there was no longer need for him to pile up money. He was greater than kings and potentates, for he commanded the affectionate regard of millions of men through the magnetism, sincerity, and geniality of his own personality. Missouri, through the State University, honored her son with the degree of LL.D., and some years later even the conservative old-world 476 American Literary Readings University of Oxford conferred upon him her coveted degree of Litt. D. He made other voyages abroad for his wife's and his own health, but' the strong constitution was gradu- ally weakening. His wife died in 1903 in Florence, Italy, and the blow was a severe one to Mark Twain. He took up his residence in New York City with his one surviving daughter, and fought bravely but ineffectually against a growing sense of remorse, bitterness, and pessimism. On his seventieth birthday a great dinner was given in his honor in New York, and on this occasion he delivered perhaps the greatest of all his speeches.' In his last years he retired to, Stormfield, a beautiJful home that had been built for him at Redding, Connecticut, and here he died, April 21, 19 10, in his seventy-fifth year. He was buried beside the bodies of his wife and three of his children in Eknira, New York. (Mark Twain, A Biography (1912) by Albert Bigelow Paine is the authoritative life of this author. Mr. Paine's The Boy's Life of Mark Twain (19 16) is a briefer and simpler story based on the larger work.) THE CELEBRATED JUMPING FROG Of Calaveras County . In compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote me from the East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and inquired after my friend's friend, Leonidas W. Smiley, as requested to do, and I hereunto append the result. I have a lurking suspicion that Leonidas W. Smiley is a myth; that my friend never knew such a personage; and that he only conjectured that, if I asked old Wheeler about him, it would remind him of his infamous Jim Smiley, and he would go to work and bore me nearly to death with some infernal reminiscence of him as long and tedious as it should be useless to me. If that was the design, it certainly succeeded. I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the bar- room stove of the old, dilapidated tavern in the ancient mining camp of Angel's, and I noticed that he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of winning gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance. He roused up and gave me good-day. I told him a friend of mine had commissioned me to make some inquiries about a cherished companion of his boyhood named Leonidas W. Smiley — Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley— a young minister of the Gospel, who he had heard was at one time a resident of Angel's Camp. I added that, if Mr. Wheeler could tell me any thing about this Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel under many obligations to him. Simqn Wheeler backed me into a comer and blockaded me there with his chair, and then sat me down and reeled off the monotonous narrative which follows this paragraph. He never smiled, he never frowned, he never changed his voice from the gentle-flowing key to which he tuned the initial [477] 478 American Literary Readings sentence, he never betrayed the slightest suspicion of enthu- siasm; but all through the interminable narrative there ran a vein of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed me plainly that, so far from his imagining that there was 35 any thing ridiculous or funny about his story, he regarded it as a really important matter, and admired its two heroes as men of transcendent genius m finesse. To me, the spectacle of a man drifting serenely along through such a queer yam without ever smiling, was exquisitely absurd. As I said 40 before, I asked him to tell me what he knew of Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, and he replied as follows. I let him go on in his own way, and never interrupted him once: There was a feller here once by the name of Jim Smiley, in the winter of '49 — or may be it was the spring of '50 — I don't 46 recollect exactly, somehow, though what makes me think it was one or the other is because I remember the big flume was n't finished when he first came to the camp ; but any way, he was the curiosest man about always betting on any thing that turned up you ever see, if he could get any body 60 to bet on the other side; and if he couldn't, he'd change sides. Any way that suited the other man would suit him — any way just so's he got a bet, he was satisfied. But still he was lucky, uncommon lucky; he most always come put winner. He was always ready and laying for a chance; there could n't 56 be no solitry thing mentioned but that feller'd offer to bet on it, and take any side you please, as I was just telling you. If there was a horse-race, you'd find him flush, or you'd find him busted at the end of it; if there was a dog-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a cat-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a 60 chicken-fight, he'd bet on it; why, if there was two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you which one would fly first; or if there was a camp-meeting, he wotdd be there reg'lar, to bet on Parson Walker, which he judged to be the best exhorter about here, and so he was, too, and a good man. 65 If he even seen a straddle-bug start to go anywheres, he The Celebrated Jumping Frog 479 would bet you how long it would take him to get to wherever he was going to, and if you took him up, he would foller that straddle-bug to Mexico but what he would find out where he was bound for and how long he was on the road. Lots of the boys here has seen that Smiley, and can tell you about 70 him. Why, it never made no difference to him—h.& would bet on any thing — the dangdest feUer. Parson Walker's wife laid very sick once, for a good while, and it seemed as if they war n't going to save her ; but one morning he come in, and Smiley asked how she was, and he said she was con- 75 siderable better — thank the Lord for his inf 'nit mercy — and coming on so smart that, with the blessing of Pfov'dence, she'd get well yet; and Smiley, before he thought, says, "Well, I'll risk two-and-a-half that she don't, any way." Thish-yer Snuley had a mare — the boys called her the so fifteen-minute nag, but that was only in fun, you know, because, of course, she was faster than that— and he used to win money on that horse, for all she was so slow and always had the asthma, or the distemper, or the consumption, or something of that kind. They used to give her two or three 85 hundred yards start, and then pass her under way; but always at the fag-end of the race she'd get excited and desperate-hke, and come cavorting and straddling up, and scattering her legs around limber, sometimes in the air, and sometimes out to one side amongst the fences, and kicking 90 up m-o-r-e dust, and raising m-o-r-e racket with her coughing and sneezing and blowing her nose — and always fetch up at the stand just about a neck ahead, as near as you could cipher it down. And he had a little small bull pup, that to look at him 95 you'd think he wan't worth a cent, but to set around and look ornery, and lay for a chance to steal something. But as soon as money was up on him, he was a different dog; his un- derjaw'd begin to stick out like the fo'castle of a steamboat, and his teeth would imcover, and shine savage like the 100 furnaces. And a dog might tackle him, and bully-rag him, 480 American Literary Readings and bite him, and throw him over his shotdder two or three times, and Andrew Jackson — which was the name of the pup — Andrew Jackson would never let on but what he was 106 satisfied, and hadn't expected nothing else — and the bets being doubled and doubled on the other side all the time, till the money was all up; and then all of a sudden he woidd grab that other dog jest by the j'int of his hind leg and freeze to it — not chaw, you understand, but only jest grip no and hang on till they throwed up the sponge, if it was a year. Smiley always come out winner on that pup, tUl he harnessed a dog once that did n't have no hind legs, because they'd been sawed off by a circular saw, and when the thing had gone along far enough, and the money was all up, and he come 115 to make a snatch for his pet holt, he saw in a minute how he'd been imposed on, and how the other dog had been in the door, so to speak, and he 'peared surprised, and then he looked sorter discouraged-like, and did n't try no more to win the fight, and so he got shucked out bad. He give Smiley 120 a look, as much as to say his heart was broke, and it was his fault, for putting up a dog than had n't no hind legs for him to take holt of, which was his main dependence in a fight, and then he limped off a piece and laid down and died. It was a good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would have 125 made a name for hisself if he'd Uved, for the stuff was in him, and he had genius — I know it, because he had n't had no opportunities to speak of, and it don't stand to reason that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them circumstances, if he had n't no talent. It always makes 130 me feel sorry when I think of that last fight of his'n, and the way it turned out. Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken cocks, and tom-cats, and aU them kind of things, till you could n't rest, and you could n't fetch nothing for him to bet 136 on but he'd match you. He ketched a frog one day, and took him home, and said he cal'klated to edercate him; and so he never done nothing for three months but set in his back The Celebrated Jumping Frog 481 yard and learn that frog to jump. And you bet you he did learn him, too. He'd give him a little punch behind, and the next minute you'd see that frog whirling in the air like no a doughnut — see him turn one summerset, or may be a couple, if he got a good start, and come down flat-footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up so in the matter of catching flies, and kept him in practice so constant, that he'd nail a fly every time as far as he could see him. Smiley 145 said all a frog wanted was education, -and he could do most any thing — and I believe him. Why, I've seen him set Dan'l Webster down here on this floor — Dan'l Webster was the name of the frog — and sing out, "Flies, Dan'l, flies!" and quicker'n you could wink, he'd spring straight up, and snake iso a'fly off'n the counter there, and flop down on the floor again as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn't no idea he'd been doin' any more'n any frog might do. You never see a frog so modest and straightfor'ard as he was; for all he 155 was so gifted. And when it come to fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get over more ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see. Jump- ing on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand; and when it come to that, Smiley would ante up money on leo him as long as he had a red. Smiley was monstrous proud of that frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had traveled and been everywheres, all said he laid over any frog that ever they see. Well, Smiley kept the beast in a little lattice box, and he 155 used to fetch him down town sometimes and lay for a bet. One day a feller — a stranger in the camp, he was — come across him with his box, and says: "What might it be that you've got in the box?" And Smiley says, sorter indifferent like, "It might be no a parrot, or it might be a canary, may be, but it an't — it's only just a frog." And the feller took it and looked at it careful, and turned 482 American Literary Readings it round this way and that, and says, "H'm — so 'tis. Well, 175 what's he good for?" "Well," Smiley says, easy and careless, " He's good enough for one thing, I should judge — he can outJTimp ary frog in Calaveras county." The feller took the box again, and took another long, 180 particular look, and give it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, "Well, I don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog." "May be you don't," Smiley says. "May be you under- stand frogs, and may be you don't understand 'em; may be 185 you've had experience, and may be you an't only a amature, as it were. An3rways, I've got my opinion, and I'll risk forty dollars that he can outjitmp any frog in Calaveras county." And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad 190 like, "Well, I'm only a stranger here, and I ain't got no frog; but if I had a frog, I'd bet you." And then Smiley says, "That's all right — that's all right — if you'll hold my box a minute, I'll go and get you a frog." And so the feller took the box, and put up his forty dollars 195 along with Smiley's, and set down to wait. So he set there a good while thinking and thinking to hisself, and then he got the frog out and prized his mouth operi and took a teaspoon and filled him full of quail shot — filled him pretty near up to his chin — and set him on the 200 floor. Smiley he went to the swamp and slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog, and fetched him in, and give him to this feller, and says: "Now, if you're ready, set him alongside of Dan'l, with his forepaws just even with Dan'l, and I'll give the word." 205 Then he says, "One — two — three — jump ! ' ' and him and the feller touched up the frogs from behind, and the new frog Hopped off, but Dan'l give a heave, and hysted up his shoulders — so — like a Frenchman, but it wan't no use — he couldn't budge; he was planted as solid as an anvil, and he The Celebrated ■ Jumping Frog 483 cotddn't no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley 210 was a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, but he didn't have no idea what the matter was, of course. The feller took the money and started away; and when he was going out at the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulders — this, way — at Dan'l, and says again, 215 very deliberate, "Well, I don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'h any other frog." Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan'l a long time, and at last he says, "I do wonder what in the nation that frog throw'd off for — I wonder if there 220 an't something the matter with him — he 'pears to look mighty baggy, somehow." And he ketched Dan'l by the nap of the neck, and lifted him up and says, "Why, blame my cats,- if he don't weigh five pound!" and turned him upside down, and he belched out a double handful of 'shot. 226 And then he see how it was, and he was the maddest man — he set the frog down and took out after that feller, but he never ketched him. And — [Here Simon Wheeler heard his name called from the front yard, and got up to see what was wanted.] And 230 turning to me as he moved away, he said, "Just set where you are, stranger, and rest easy — I an't going to be gone a second." But, by your leave, I did not think that a continuation of the history of the enterprising vagabond Jim Smiley would 235 be likely to afford me much information concerning the Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, and so I started away. At the door I met the sociable Wheeler returning, and he buttonholed me and recommenced: "Well,"thish-yer Smiley had a yaller one-eyed cow that 240 didn't have no tail, only jest a short sttmip like a bannanner, and — " "Oh, hang Smiley and his afiflicted cow!" I muttered, good-naturedly, and bidding the old gentleman good-day, I departed. 245 BRET HARTE 1839-1902 Francis Bret Harte was by birth and training an easterner, being born in Albany, New York, August 25, 1839; but he earned his reputation by writing poems and stories dealing with the wild scenery, conglomerate life, and odd characters of the mining districts of California, and so he is always thought of as belonging to the western group of writers. He received a common-school education, but the principal source of his Hterary training was through his parents. His father, a professor of Greek in Albany CoUege, was. a lin- gtiist of considerable attainments, and his mother a cviltured woman who directed her son's reading with such judicious care _that by the time he was grown he was exceedingly well read. In 1854 he went to CaUfomia and there tried to earn a living through several small clerical and teaching posi- tions. He finally entered a newspaper printing office as a compositor, and by dint of steady purpose and persistent effort at writing he rose to successful editorial positions, first on the Golden Era and then on the Calif ornian, a weekly paper to which he contributed his "Condensed Novels," being parodies on popular works of fiction of that time.. The Overland Monthly was founded in 1868, with Bret Harte as its editor. The first number appeared without any matter of a distinctly local character, so for the second number the young editor supplied the deficiency himself by writing his first story of mining life, "The Luck of Roar- ing Camp . ' ' The proprietor of the magazine became dubious as to the wisdom of printing such a frank and novel presen- tation of a situation so unusual, characters so rough and uncouth, and life in such a questionable stratum of society. But when the editor-author of the story threatened to resign unless allowed to exercise his own judgment unhampered in selecting matter for the magazine, the proprietor yielded and the story appeared in its original form. It provoked a good deal of protest at home, being characterized as inde- cent, immodest, improper, and unfaithftd in its portrayal of life in the West at its best; but it was warmly welcomed in the East as the work of an original writer of great promise. [484] FRANCIS BRET HARTE Bret Harte 485 The editor of the Atlantic Monthly begged for a similar con- tribution, and a number of letters of commendation came to the author of this new type of story. "The Outcasts of Poker Flat," "Miggles," and "Tennessee's Partner" followed, and presently Bret Harte had enough stories in this vein to make up a volvime. These stories together with a catchy, humorous Idnd of dialect verse, of which "The Heathen Chinee" or "Plain Language from Truthful James," and "Jim" are typical, . made Harte famous not only in America but in England as well. In 1870, being flattered by the applause of the East, Harte went to New York to engage in writing for the magazines. The Atlantic Monthly paid him the munificent sum of, $10,000 for all his work for a year, and he was probably the best paid short-story writer in the country at that time. But in spite of his large earnings he became involved in debt. To escape from his difficulties he accepted an appoint- ment in the consular service and went to Germany and then to Glasgow, Scotland. Finally he settled in England, where he was even more popular than he was in America. He became estranged from his family and remained in England vintil his death in 1902. He wrote many stories and poems, unitative of his first successful work, but the promise of his early output was not realized in his later productions. He did not seem to love the country which he had so successfully exploited in his stories. He was not a great interpreter of the real American spirit, as was his early contemporary and col- league, Mark Twain, but he caught the spirit of the Cali- fomia mining camp in the gold-fever days as nobody else was able to do, and he has preserved for future generations this small but interesting and now completely vanished phase of American life. He was confessedly a lover and follower of Dickens, and Hke him did not hesitate to portray all sorts of low characters, rough miners, gamblers, adven- turers, desperadoes, and unchaste women, and in each of these he discovered that element of the human, that touch of nattu-e, which after all makes the whole world kin. His range was narrow, but he did good work in the local short story, in which genre his influence has been by no means insignificant. (The [fullest life of Bret Harte is that by H. C, Merwin. The shorter study by H. W. Boynton is more judicious if less eulogistic.) THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP There was commotion in Roaring Camp. It could not have been a fight, for in 1850 that was not novel enough to have called together the entire settlement. The ditches and claims were not only deserted, but "Tuttle's grocery" 5 had contributed its gamblers, who, it will be remembered, calmly continued their game the day that French Pete and Kanaka Joe shot each other to death over the bar in the front room. The whole camp was collected before a rude cabin on the outer edge of the clearing. Conversation was carried 10 on in a low tone, but the name of a woman was frequently repeated. It was a name familiar enough in the camp, — "Cherokee Sal." Perhaps the less said of her the better. She was a coarse, and, it is to be feared, a very sinftd woman. But at that 15 time she was the only woman in Roaring Camp, and was just then lying in sore extremity, when she most needed the ministration of her own sex. Dissolute, abandoned, and irreclaimable, she was yet suffering a martyrdom hard enough to bear even when veiled by sympathising woman- 20 hood, but now terrible in her loneliness. The primal curse had come to her in that original isolation which must have made the punishment of the first transgression so dreadful. It was, perhaps, part of the expiation of her sin, that, at a moment when she most lacked her sex's intuitive 25 tenderness and care, she met only the half -contemptuous faces of her masculine associates. Yet a few of the spec- tators were, I think, touched by her sufferings. Sandy Tipton thought it was "rough on Sal," and, in the con- templation of her condition, for a moment rose superior to 30 the fact that he had an ace and two bowers in his sleeve. It win be seen, also, that the situation was novel. Deaths [486] The Luck of Roaring Camp 487 were by no means uncommon in Roaring Camp, but a birth was a new thing. People had been dismissed the camp eifectively, finally, and with no possibility of return'; but this was the first time that anybody had been introduced ah as initio. Hence the excitement. "You go in there. Stumpy," said a prominent citizen known as " Kentuck," addressing one of the loungers. "Go in there, and see what you kin do. You 've had experience in them things." 40 Perhaps there was a fitness in the selection. Stumpy, in other climes, had been the putative head of two families; in fact, it was owing to some legal informality in these pro- ceedings that Roaring Camp — a city of refuge — was indebted to his company. The crowd approved the choice, and 45 Stumpy was wise enough to bow to the majority. The door closed on the extempore surgeon and midwife, and Roaring Camp sat down outside, smoked its pipe, and awaited the issue. The assemblage numbered about a hundred men. One or 50 two of these were actual fugitives from justice, some were criminal, and all were reckless. Physically, they exhibited no indication of their past lives and character. The great- est scamp had a Raphael face, with a profusion of blonde hair; Oakhurst, a gambler, had the melancholy air and 55 intellectual abstraction of a Hamlet; the coolest and most courageous man was scarcely over five feet in height, with a soft voice and an embarrassed, timid manner. The term "roughs" applied to them was a distinction rather than a definition. Perhaps in the minor details of fingers, toes, bo ears, etc., the camp may have been deficient, but these slight omissions did not detract from their aggregate forces The strongest man had but three fingers on his right hand; the best shot had but one eye. Such was the physical aspect of the men that were dis- ss persed around the cabin. The camp lay in a triangular valley between two hiUs and a river. The only outlet was 488 American Literary Readings a steep trail over the summit of a hill that faced the cabin, now illuminated by the rising moon. The suffering woman 70 might have seen it from the rude bunk whereon she lay, — seen it winding like a silver thread until it was lost in the stars above. A fire of withered pine-boughs added sociability to the gathering. By degrees the natural levity of Roaring Camp 76 returned. Bets were freely offered and taken regarding the result. Three to five that ' ' Sal would get through with it " ; even that the child would stirvive; side bets as to, the sex and complexion of the coming stranger. In the midst of an excited discussion an exclamation came from those nearest 80 the door, and the camp stopped to listen. Above the swaying and moaning of the pines, the swift rush of the river, and the crackling of the fire, rose a sharp, querulous cry, — a cry unlike anything heard before in the camp. The pines stopped moaning, the river ceased to rush, and the 89 fire to crackle. It seemed as if Nature had stopped to Usten too. The camp rose to its feet as one man! It was proposed to explode a barrel of gunpowder, but, in consideration of the situation of the mother, better counsels prevailed, and 90 only a few revolvers were discharged; for, whether owing to the rude surgery of the camp, or some other reason, Cherokee Sal was sinking fast. Within an hour she had climbed, as it were, that rugged road that led to the stars, and so passed out of Roaring Camp, its sin and shame for- 95 ever. I do not think that the annoToncement disturbed them much, except in speculation as to the fate of the child. "Can he' live now?" was asked of Stumpy. The answer was doubtful. The only other being of Cherokee Sal's sex and maternal condition in the settlement was an ass. There 100 was some conjecture as to fitness, but the experiment was tried. It was less problematical than the ancient treat- ment of Romulus and Remus, and apparently as successful. When these details were completed, which exhausted The Luck of Roaring Camp 489 another hour, the door was. opened, and the anxious crowd of men, who had already formed themselves into a queue, 105 entered in single file. Beside the low bunk or shelf, on which the figure of the mother was starkly outlined below the blankets, stood a pine table. On this a candle-box was placed, and within it, swathed in staring red flannel, lay the last arrival at Roaring Camp. Beside the candle-box was no placed a hat. Its use was soon indicated. ".Gentlemen," said Stumpy, with a singular mixture of authority and ex officio complacency, — "Gentlemen will please pass in at the front door, round the table, and out at the back door. Them as wishes to contribute anything toward the orphan 115 will find 'a hat handy." The first man entered with his hat on; he uncovered, however, as he looked about him, and so unconsciously set an example to the next. In such com- mvinities good and bad actions are catching. As the procession filed in, comments were audible, — criticisms 120 a'ddressed, perhaps, rather to Stumpy, in the character of showman: — "Is that him?" "mighty small specimen"; " hasn't mor'n got the color"; "ain't bigger nor a derringer." The contributions were as characteristic: A silver tobacco box; a doubloon; a navy revolver, silver motmted; a gold 125 specimen; a very beautifully embroidered lady's handker- chief (from Oakhurst the gambler); a diamond breastpin; a diamond ring (suggested by the pin, with the remark from the giver that he "saw that pin and went two diamonds better") ; a slung shot; a Bible (contributor not detected) ; a 130 golden spur; a silver teaspoon (the initials, I regret to say, were not the giver's); a pair of surgeon's shears; a lancet; a Bank of England note for £5; and about $200 in loose gold and silver coin. During these proceedings Stimipy maintained a silence as impassive as the, dead on his left, a 135 gravity as inscrutable as that of the newly-born on his right. Only one incident occurred to break the monotony of the curious procession. As Kentuck bent over the candle-box half cviriously; the child turned, and, in a spasm of pain. 49° American Literary Headings 140 caught at his groping finger, and held it fast for a moment. Kentuck looked foolish and embarrassed. Something like a blush tried to assert itself in his weather-beaten cheek. "The d — d little cuss!" he said, as he extricated his finger, with, perhaps, more tenderness and care than he might have ^ H5 been deemed capable of showing. He held that finger a little apart from its fellows as he went out, and examined it curi- ously. The examination provoked the same original remark in regard to the child. In fact, he seemed to enjoy repeating it. "He rastled with my finger," he remarked to Tipton, 150 holding up the member, "the d — d little cuss!" It was foiu- o'clock before the camp sought repose. A light burnt in the cabin where the watchers sat, for Stumpy did not go to bed that night. Nor did Kentuck. He drank quite freely, and related with great gusto his experience, 165 invariably ending with his characteristic condemnation of the newcomer. It seemed to relieve him of any unjust im- plication of sentiment, and Kentuck had the weaknesses of the nobler sex. When everybody else had gone to bed, he walked down to the river and whistled reflectingly. Then 160 he walked up the gulch past the cabin, still whistUng with demonstrative unconcern. At a large redwood tree he paused and retraced his steps, and again passed the cabin. Half-way down to the river's bank he again paused, and then returned and knocked at the door. It was opened by 165 Stumpy. "How goes it?" said Kentuck, looking past Stumpy toward the candle-box. "All serene!" replied Stumpy. "Anything up?" "Nothing." There was a pause — an embarrassing one — Stumpy still holding the door. Then Kentuck had recourse to his finger, which he 170 held up to Stumpy. "Rastled with it, — the d — d little cuss," he said, and retired. The next day Cherokee Sal had such rude sepulture as Roaring Camp afforded. After her body had been com- mitted to the hillside, there was a formal meeting of the 176 camp to discuss what should be done with her infant. The Luck oj Koaring Camp 491 A resolution to adopt it was unanimous and enthusiastic. But an animated discussion in regard to the manner and feasibility of providing for its wants at once sprung up. It was remarkable that the argument partook of none of those fierce personalities with which discussions were iso usually conducted at Roaring Camp. Tipton proposed that they should send the child to Red Dog, — a distance of forty miles, — where female attention could be procured. But the tinlucky suggestion met with- fierce and unani- mous opposition. It was evident that no plan which entailed iss parting from their new acqtiisition would for a moment be entertained. "Besides," said Tom Ryder, "them fellows at Red Dog would swap it, and ring in somebody else on us." A disbelief in the honesty of other camps prevailed at Roar- ing Camp as in other places. 190 The introduction of a female mu'se in the camp also met with objection. It was argued that no decent woman could be prevailed to accept Roaring Camp as her home, and the speaker urged that "they didn't want any more of the other kind." This imkind allusion to the defunct mother, 195 harsh as it may seem, was the first spasm of propriety, — the first symptom of the camp's regeneration. Stumpy advanced nothing. Perhaps he felt a certain deKcacy in interfering with the selection of a possible successor in office. But, when questioned, he averred stoutly that 200 he and "Jinny" — the mammal before aUuded to — cotdd manage to rear the child. There was something original, independent, and heroic about the plan that pleased the camp. Stumpy was retained. Certain articles were sent for to Sacramento. "Mind," said the treasurer, as he 205 pressed a bag of gold-dust into the expressman's hand, "the best that can be got, — lace, you know, and filigree-work and frills, — d — ^n the cost!" Strange to say, the child thrived. Perhaps the invigor- ating climate of the mountain camp was compensation for 210 material deficiencies. Nature took the foundling to her 492 American Literary Readings broader breast. In that rare atmosphere of the Sierra foothills, — that air pungent with balsamic odor, that ethereal cordial at once bracing and exhilarating, — he may 215 have found food and nourishment, or a subtle chemistry that transmuted asses' miUc to Ume and phosphorus. Stumpy inclined to the belief that it was the latter and good nursing. "Me and that ass," he would say, "has been father and mother to him! Don't you," he would add, apostrophising 220 the helpless bundle before him, "never go back on us." By the time he was a month old the necessity of giving him a name became apparent. He had generally been known as "The Kid," "Stumpy's Boy," "The Coyote" (an allusion to his vocal powers), and even by Kentuck's endearing 225 diminutive of "the d — d little cuss." But these were felt to be vague and unsatisfactory, and were at last dismissed under another influence. Gamblers and adventurers are generally superstitious, and Oakhurst one day declared that the baby had brought "the luck" to Roaring Camp. It 230 was certain that of late they had been successful. "Luck" was the name agreed upon, with the prefix of Tommy for greater convenience. No allusion was made to the mother, and the father was unknown. "It's better," said the philosophical Oakhurst, "to take a fresh deal all round. 235 Call him Luck, and start him fair." A day was accordingly set apart for the christening. What was meant by this cere- mony the reader may imagine who has already gathered some idea of the reckless irreverence of Roaring Camp. The master of ceremonies was one "Boston," a noted wag, and 240 the occasion seemed to promise the greatest facetious- ness. This ingenious satirist had spent two days in pre- paring a burlesque of the church service, with pointed local allusions. The choir was properly trained, and Sandy Tipton was to stand godfather. But after the procession 245 had marched to the grove with music and banners, and the child had been deposited before a mock altar. Stumpy stepped before the expectant crowd. "It ain't my style to ihe Luck oj Roaring Camp 493 spoil fun, boys," said the little man, stoutly eyeing the faces around him, "but it strikes me that this thing ain't exactly on the squar. It's plajring it pretty low down on aso this yer baby to ring in fun on him that he ain't goin' to understand. And ef there's goin' to be any godfathers round, I'd like to see who's got any better rights than me." A silence followed Stumpy's speech. To the credit of all hiraiourists be it said, that the first man to acknowledge its 255 justice was the satirist, thus stopped of his fun. ' ' But, ' ' said Stumpy, quickly, following up his advantage, "we 're here for a christening, and we'll have it. I proclaim you Thomas Luck, according to the laws of the United States and the State of California, so help me God." It was the first zeo time that the name of the Deity had been uttered otherwise than profanely in the camp. The form of christening was perhaps even more ludicrous than the satirist had con- ceived; but, strangely enough, nobody saw it and nobody laughed. "Tommy" was christened as seriously as he 266 would have been under a Christian roof, and cried and was comforted in as orthodox fashion. And so the work of regeneration began in Roaring Camp. Almost imperceptibly a change came over the settlement. The cabin assigned to "Tommy Luck" — or "The Luck," 270 as he was more frequently called — first showed signs of improvement. It was kept scrupulously clean and white- washed. Then it was boarded, clothed, and papered. The rosewood cradle— packed eighty miles by mule — had, in Stumpy's way of putting it, "sorter killed the rest of the 275 furniture." So the rehabilitation of the cabin became a necessity. The men who were in the habit of lounging in at Stumpy's to see "how 'The Luck' got on" seemed to appreciate the change, and, in self-defence, the rival estab- lishment of "Tuttle's grocery" bestirred itself and im- zso ported a carpet and mirrors. The reflections of the latter on the appearance of Roaring Camp tended to produce stricter habits of personal cleanliness. Again, Stimipy 494 American Literary Readings imposed a kind of quarantine upon those who aspired to the 285 honor and privilege of holding "The Luck." It was a cruel mortification to Kentuck — who, in the carelessness of a large nature and the habits of frontier life, had begun to regard all garments as a second cuticle, which, like a snake's, only sloughed off through decay — to be debarred this privi- 290 lege from certain prudential reasons. Yet such was the subtle influence of innovation that he thereafter appeared regularly every afternoon in a clean shirt, and face still shining from his ablutions. Nor were moral and social sanitary laws neglected. ' ' Tommy, ' ' who was supposed to spend his- whole 295 existence in a persistent attempt to repose, must not be dis- turbed by noise. The shouting and yelling which had gained the camp its infelicitous title were not permitted within hearing distance of Stumpy's. The men cohversed in whis- pers, or smoked with Indian gravity. Profanity was tacitly 300 given up in these sacred precincts, and throughout the camp a popular form of expletive, known as "D — ^n the luck!" aiid "Curse the luck! " was abandoned, as having a new personal bearing. Vocal music was not interdicted, being supposed to have a soothing, tranquillizing quality, ■ and one song, 305Stmg by "Man-o'-War Jack," an English sailor from her Majesty's Australian colonies, was quite popular as a lullaby. It was a lugubrious recital of the exploits of "the Arethusa, Seventy-four," in a muffled minor, ending with a prolonged djdng fall at the burden of each verse, "On 310 b-o-o-o-ard of the Arethusa." It was a fine sight to see Jack holding The Luck, rocking from side to side as if with the motion of a ship, and crooning forth this naval ditty. Either through the peculiar rocking of Jack or the length of his song — it contained ninety stanzas, and was continued 316 with conscientious deliberation to the bitter end, — theluUaby generally had the desired effect. At such times the men would Ue at full length under the trees, in the soft summer twilight, smoking their pipes and drinking" in the melodious utterances. An indistinct idea that this was pastoral The Luck of Roaring Camp 49S happiness pervaded the camp. "This 'ere kind o' think," 320 said the Cockney Simmons, meditatively reclining on his elbow, "is 'evingly." It reminded him of Greenwich. On the long simimer days The Luck was usually carried to the gulch from whence the golden store of Roaring Camp was taken. There, on a blanket spread over pine-boughs, he 325 would Ue while the men were working in the ditches below. Latterly, there was a rude attempt to decorate this bower with flowers and sweet-smeUing shrubs, and generally some one would bring him a cluster of wild honeysuckles, azaleas, or the painted blossoms of Las Mariposas. The men had 330 suddenly awakened to the fact that there were beauty and significance in these trifles, which they had so long trodden carelessly beneath their feet. A flake of gUttering mica, a fragment of variegated quartz, a bright pebble from the bed of the creek, became beautiful to eyes thus cleared and 335 strengthened, and were invariably put aside for "The Luck." It was wonderful how many treasures the woods and hill- sides yielded that "would do for Tommy." Surrounded by playthings such as never child out of fairyland had before, it is to be hoped that Tommy was content. He appeared to 340 be serenely happy, albeit there was an infantine gravity about him, a contemplative light in his round grey eyes, that sometimes worried Stumpy. He was always tractable and quiet, and it is recorded that once, having crept beyond his "corral," — a hedge of tessellated pine-boughs, which sur- 345 rounded his bed, — he dropped over the bank on his head in the soft earth, and remained with his mottled legs in the air in that position for at least five minutes with Tinflinching gravity. He was extricated without a njurmur. I hesitate to record the many other instances of his sagacity, which 350 rest, unfortunately, upon the statements of prejudiced friends. Some of them were not without a tinge of super- stition. "I crep' up the bank just now," said Kentuck one day, in a breathless state of excitement, "anfl dem my skin if he wasn't a talking to a jaybird as was a sittin' on his lap. 355 496 American Literary Readings There they was, just as free and sociable as anything you please, a jawin' at each other just Uke two cherry-bums." Howbeit, whether creeping over the pine-boughs or lying lazily on his back blinking at the leaves above him, to him 360 the birds sang, the squirrels chattered, and the flowers bloomed. Nature was his nvu-se and playfellow. For him she would let slip between the leaves golden shafts of sunlight that fell just within his grasp; she would send wandering breezes to visit him with the balm of bay and resinous gums; 36S to him the tall red-woods nodded familiarly and sleepily, the biunble-bees buzzed, and the rooks cawed a sltimbrous accompaniment. Such was the golden summer of Roaring Camp. They were "flush times," — and the Luck was with them. . The 370 claims had 3n[el4ed enormously. The camp was jealous of its privileges and looked suspiciously on strangers. No encoiu-- agement was given to immigration, and, to make their seclu- sion more perfect, the land on either side of the mountain wall that surrounded the camp they duly pre-empted. This, 376 and a reputation for singular proficiency with the revolver, kept the reserve of Roaring Camp inviolate. The express- man — their only connecting link with the surrounding world — sometimes told wonderful stories of the camp. He would say, "They've a street up there in 'Roaring' that 380 would lay over any street in Red Dog. They've got vines and flowers round their houses, and they wash themselves twice a day. But they're mighty rough on strangers, and they worship an Ingin baby." With the prosperity of the camp came a desire for further 386 improvement. It .was proposed to build a hotel in the following spring, and to invite one or two decent famiEes to reside there for the sake of "The Luck," — who might perhaps profit by female companionship. The sacrifice that this concession to the sex cost these men, who were fiercely 390 sceptical in regard to its general virtue and usefulness, can only be accounted for by their affection for Tommy. A few TPie Luck of Roaring Camp 497 still held out. But the resolve could not be carried into effect for three months, and the minority meekly yielded in the hope that something might turn up to prevent it. And it did. 895 The winter of 185 1 will long be remembered in the foot- hills. The snow lay deep on the Sierras, and every mountain creek became a river, and every river a lake. Each gorge and gulch was transformed into a tumultuous watercourse that descended the hillsides, tearing down giant trees andioo scattering its drift and debris along the plain. Red Dog had been twice under water, and Roaring Camp had been forewarned. "Water put the gold into them gulches," said Stumpy. " It 's been here once and will be here again ! ' ' And that night the North Fork suddenly leaped over its 405 banks, and swept up the triangular valley of Roaring Camp. In the confusion of rushing water, crushing trees, and crackling timber, and the darkness which seemed to flow with the water and blot out the fair valley, but Uttle could be done to collect the scattered camp. When the morning 410 broke, the cabin of Stumpy, nearest the river-bank, was gone. Higher up the gulch they found the body of its unlucky owner; but the pride, the hope, the joy. The Luck, of Roaring Camp had disappeared. They were rettuning with sad hearts when a shout from the bank recalled them. 415 It was a reUef-boat from down the river. They had picked up, they said, a man and an infant, nearly exhausted; about two miles below. Did anybody know them, and did they belong here? It needed but a glance to show them Kentuck lying there, 420 cruelly crushed and bruised, but still holding The Luck of Roaring Camp in his arms. As they bent over the strangely assorted pair, they saw that the child was cold and pvdse- less. "He is dead," said one. Kentuck opened his eyes. "Dead?" he repeated feebly. "Yes, my man, and you are 425 djdng too." •. A snule ht the eyes of the expiring Kentuck. "Dying," he repeated, "he's a taking me with him, — teU 17 498 American Literary Readings the boys I've got the Luck with me now"; and the strong man, clinging to the fraU babe as a drowning man is said 430 to cling to a straw, drifted away into the shadowy river that flows forever to the tihknown sea. JOAQUIN MILLER At Home, 1900 JOAQUIN MILLER 1842-1913 Cincinnatus Heine Miller, better known by his pen-name Joaquin Miller, was bom on November 10, 1842, some- where on the border line between Ohio and Indiana. He tells us in the autobiographical sketch prefixed to his com- plete works that his cradle was a covered wagon, one of those "prairie schooners" in which his pioneer parents were making their long journey westward. They settled for a while in Indiana but finally decided to push on to Oregon, a distance of over three thousand miles, where they made their permanent home. Joaquin had his full share of the hardships and adventurous experiences that naturally fell to this pioneer family. Once he was painfully wounded in a fight with some unfriendly Indians; an arrow pierced his face and neck and almost caused his death. But during these years he learned to love the wild western life and the picturesque and beautiful things of this wonder world of nature with a passion which made him unques- tionably the poet laureate of the Far West, or as he was frequently called, "The Poet of the Sierras." As a young adventurer he went from Oregon to CaU- fomia and took passage for Boston, but he stopped off at Nicaragua on his voyage down the Pacific and joined General Walker in his romantic revolutionary expedition into that country. His Central American experiences later found expression in the long poem "Walker in Nicara- gua." Then he drifted back to the coast of Oregon, spent a short time at college, and became a teacher. He studied law, was admitted to the bar, and was for a short time a district judge. He had been writing a great deal of prose and verse dtoring these later years, but his productions met with Httle favor. The lure of the mountains was ever calling him away from his social and legal duties, and when gold was discovered in Idaho and Montana, he left aU and joined the stream of miners which flowed into those states. He accumulated enough of the precious metal to build a home for his parents and purchase a newspaper for [499] Soo American Literary Readings himself. At the opening of the Civil War he threw his influence toward the peace party, and as a result of his vigorous editorials his paper was suppressed. Again he retired to the mountains to live alone with nature and to write poetry. About 1870 he crossed the continent and took passage from New York to England. He felt that he could never find an audience in his own country, for he had already pub- lished several thin voltunes which had attracted little or no attention either in the West, where they were printed, or in the East, where he hoped to find recognition. In London he lived a secluded life until he published at his own expense a volume of poems containing among other things an earlier poem on Joaquin Murietta, a Mexican bandit, from which fact he was himself called Joaquin in derision, a name which he permanently assumed as his nom de plume in his next volume. The seven poems in his first volume caught the English ear by their novelty and vigor and unmistakable evidences of poetical genius. The metrical crudeness and lack of literary finish were every- where recognized, but the English press praised his work extravagantly, and he was enabled to bring out his first really important volume, Songs of the Sierras, in 187 1. His own picturesque personality in his western garb, the rich new experiences heralded from an unknown world, and the varied and beautiful scenery of the great Rocky Mountains which formed the staple of his poetry made him for a time a sort of literary lion in London. He was invited to dine with many notable persons, met such men as Dickens, Browning, Archbishop Trench, Moore, Rossetti, and was cordially received in clubs and private families. In spite of his success in London, little attention was paid to him in America, for in his uncouth western garb he was looked upon as an unfair representative of American culture and art. He had to wait long and patiently for an apprecia- tive hearing in his own country. For a time he lived in Washington City, building for himself a log cabin on Stony Creek, a few miles north of the city. This cabin is still an object of interest to the thousands of people who drive in the beautiful park which has since been laid out here. He finally purchased a mountain side of his own in Oakland, California, in sight of San Francisco, and built for himself the lodge in which he lived until his death in 19 13. Joaqmn Miller • 501 Joaquin Miller caught the spirit of the western mountain scenery as none who had not lived in it could do. He is no imitator of the European bards, but an original American poet who was willing to put down in his own way what his own eyes saw and his own heart felt. He had his limitations and his faults, but he has earned a secure place among the poets who are thoroughly American in spirit and in subject- matter. KIT CARSON'S RIDE Room! room to turn round in, to breathe and be free. To grow to be giant, to sail as at sea With the speed of the wind on a steed with his mane To the wind, without ■pathway or route or a rein. 5 Room! room to be free where the white border'd sea Blows a Jiiss to a brother as boundless as he; Where the buffalo come lilse a cloud on the plain, Pouring on lUie the tide of a storm-driven main. And the lodge of the hunter to friend or to foe w Offers rest; and unquestion'd you come or you go. My plains of America! Seas of wild lands! From a land in the seas in a raiment of foam. That has reached to a stranger the welcome of home, I turn to you, lean to you, lift you my hands. 45 "Run? Run? See this flank, sir, and I do love him so! But he's blind, badger blind. Whoa, Pacha, boy, whoa. No, you would n't believe it to look at his eyes. But he's blind, badger blind, and it happen'd this wise: "We lay in the grass and the sunburnt clover 20 That spread on the ground Hke a great brown cover Northward and southward, and west and away To the Brazos, where our lodges lay, One broad and unbroken level of brown. We were waiting the curtains of night to come down 25 To cover us trio and conceal our flight With my brown bride, won frOm an Indian town That lay in the rear the fuU ride of a night. [502I Kit Carson's Ride 503 "We lounged in the grass — her eyes were in mine, And her hands on my knee, and her hair was as wine In its wealth and its flood, poiiring on and aU over Her bosom wine red, and press'd never by one. Her touch was as warm as the tinge of the clover Burnt brown as it reach'd to the kiss of the sun. Her words they were low as the lute-throated dove, And as laden with love as the heart when it beats In its hot, eager answer to earliest love. Or the bee hurried home by its burthen of sweets. "We lay low in the grass on the broad plain levels. Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride; 'Forty full miles if a foot to ride ! Forty full rmles if a foot, and the devils Of red Comanches are hot on the track When once they strike it. Let the sun go down Soon, very soon,' muttered bearded old Revels As he peer'd at the sun, l3ang low on his back. Holding fast to his lasso. Then he jerk'd at his steed And he sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly arovmd, And then dropp'd, as if shot, with an ear to the ground; Then again to his feet, and to me, to my bride. While his eyes were Hke flame, his face like a shroud. His form like a king, and his beard like a cloud. And his voice loud and shriU, as both trumpet and reed,- 'Pull, pull in your lassoes, and bridle to steed. And speed you if ever for life you would speed. Aye, ride for your lives, for yoiu- lives you must ride ! For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire, And the feet of wild horses hard flying before I heard hke a sea breaking high on the shore, While the buffalo come Hke a surge of the sea. Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us three As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire.' 504 American Literary Readings "We drew in the lassoes, seized saddle and rein, Threw them on, cinched them on, cinched them over again. And again drew the girth; and spring we to horse, 65 With head to the Brazos, with a sound in the air Like the surge of a sea, with a flash in the eye. From that red wall of flame reaching up to the sky; A red wall of flame and a black rolling sea Rushing fast upon us, as the wind sweeping free 70 And afar from the desert blown hollow and hoarse. "Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall, We broke not a whisper, we breathed not a prayer. There was work to be done, there was death in the air, And the chance was as one to a thousand for all. 76 Twenty miles! . . . thirty miles! ... a dim distant speck . . . Then a long reaching line, and the Brazos in sight! ■ And I rose in my seat with a shout of delight. I stood in my stirrup, and look'd to my right — But Revels was gone; I glanced by my shoulder 80 And saw his horse stagger; I saw his head drooping Hard down on his breast, and his naked breast stooping Low down to the mane, as so swifter and bolder Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire. He rode neck to neck with a buffalo bull, 85 That made the earth shake where he came in his course. The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane fuU Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire Of battle, with rage and with bellowings hoarse. His keen, crooked horns, through the storm of his mane, 90 Like black lances lifted and lifted again; And I looked but this once, for the fire licked through, And Revels was gone, as we rode two and two. Columbus 50s "I look'd to my left then — and nose, neck, and shoulder Sank slowly, sank surely, tiU back to my thighs. And up through the black blowing veil of her hair Did beam fuU in mine her two marvelous eyes. With a longing and love yet a look of despair And of pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her. And flames leaping far for her glorious hair. Her sinkin g horse falter'd, plunged, fell and was gone 1 As I reach'd through the flame and I bore her stiU on. On! into the Brazos, she, Pache and I — Poor, burnt, blinded Pache. I love him . . That's why." COLUMBUS Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind the Gates of Hercules ; Before him not the ghost of shores; Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said : " Now must we pray. For lo! the very stars are gone, Brave Adm'r'l, speak; what shall I say?" "Why, say. 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'" "My men grow mutinous day by day; My men grow ghastly, wan and weak." The stout mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. "What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" "Why, you shaU say at break of day: 'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'" They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow. Until at last the blanched mate said : "Why, now not even God would know Should I and aU my men fall dead. So6 American Literary Readings These very winds forget their way, For God from these dread seas is gone. Now speak, brave Adm'r'l, speak and say — " He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!" They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: "This mad sea shows his teeth tonight. He curls his lip, he lies in wait. He lifts his, teeth, as if to bite ! Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word : What shall we do when hope is gone?" The words leapt like a leaping sword : "Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!" Then pale and worn, he paced his deck. And peered through darkness. Ah, that night Of all dark nights! And then a speck — A light ! A light ! At last a light ! It grew, a starlit flag uiifurled ! It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. He gained a world; he gave that world Its grandest lesson : " On ! sail on ! " From a photograph taken by Max Plalz, Chicago EUGENE FIELD EUGENE FIELD 1850-1895 Eugene Field was bom in St. Louis, Missouri, September 3 , 1850, and died in Chicago, November 4, 1895, having barely completed his forty-fifth year. He was taken to New England for his early education, and he finished what academic training he had at the University of Missouri. He did not complete his course, however, preferring to sacrifice his degree in order to make a six months' tour of Europe. At twenty-three he began his journalistic career as a reporter on the St. Louis Evening Journal, and after working on a number of papers he rose to a perma- nent position on the Chicago Daily News, in which paper for the last twelve years of his life he conducted a unique column called "Sharps and Flats." This was a series of miscellanies in prose and poetry, covering a wide range of interests, by turns humorous, farcical, grotesque, pathetic, and serious. The material in the "Sharps and Flats" column was largely local in appeal, and in spite of its cleverness has now naturally lost much of its force. >. In 1890 appeared two thin volumes of Field's productions — A Little Book of Profitable Tales and A Little Book of Western Verse. From this time on his popularity steadily grew, although he lived to enjoy only five years of the vogue created by the publication of these books. Two other voltraies. With Trumpet and Drum and Love Songs of Child- hood, containing old and new poems, appeared just before his death. Eugene Field was possessed of a lovable personality. He was devoted to children of aU classes and was an idealist in his home, where he had a devoted wife and eight children of his own. He was extremely sympathetic toward animal life, companionable and magnetic among all classes of people, full of sentiment and imaginative idealism, and yet, like many another genius, he was erratic, extravagant, uncon- ventional in his habits, and obsessed with his own peculiar fads and fancies. His best work was his inimitable child [507] 5o8 American Literary Readings verse. He has been called "one of the sweetest singers in American literature and incomparably the noblest bard of childhood." His delicate sentiment, imaginative quality, and unconscious sincerity lift his child verse into the realm of art, and he is thus assured a unique niche in the Ameri- can temple of poetic fame. His best known child pieces are "A Dutch Lullaby (Wynken, Blynken, and Nod)," "Little Boy Blue," "Jest 'Fore Christmas," and "Seein' Things at Night." His two most significant moods — the imagi- natively sentimental and the pathetic — may be illustrated in the "Dutch Lullaby" and "Little Boy Blue." "In the FireUght" is an example of childhood experience glorified through reminiscence into a noble expression of faith. IN THE FIRELIGHT The fire upon the hearth is low, And there is stillness everywhere, While like winged spirits, here and there, The firelight shadows fluttering go. And as the shadows round me creep, A childish treble breaks the gloom, And softly from a further room Comes, "Now I lay me down to sleep." And somehow, with that little prayer And that sweet treble in my ears. My thoughts go back to distant years And linger with a loved one there , And as I hear my child's amen, My mother's faith comes back to me, — Crouched at her side I seem to be, And Mother holds my hands again. Oh, for an hour in that dear place ! Oh, for the peace of that dear time ! Oh, for that childish trust sublime ! Oh, for a glimpse of Mother's face! Yet, as the shadows round me creep, I do not seem to be alone, — Sweet magic of .that treble tone. And "Now I lay me down to sleep." [509] Sio American Literary Readings DUTCH LULLABY Wjniken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe, — Sailed on a river of niisty light Into a sea of dew. "Where are you going, and what do you wish?" The old moon asked the three. "We have come to fish for the herring-fish That live in this beautiful sea; Nets of silver and gold have we," Said W5Tiken Blynken, And Nod. The old moon laughed and sung a song. As they rocked in the wooden shoe; And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew; The little stars were the herring-fish That lived in the beautiful sea. "Now cast your nets wherever you wish, But never afeard are we!" So cried the stars to the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. All night long their nets they threw For the fish in the tvyinkUng foam. Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home; 'T was all so pretty a sail, it seemed As if it could not be; And some folk thought 't was a dream they'd dreamed Dutch Lullaby 511 Of s ailin g that beautiful sea ; But I shall name you the fishermeli three : Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. Wynken and Blynken are two httle eyes, And Nod is a httle head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one's trundle-bed; So shut your eyes while Mother sings Of wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock on the misty sea Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three,- Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 1849-1916 If poetic merit should be judged merely by popularity with the reading public and with lecture audiences, James Whitcomb Riley, the Hoosier poet, would undoubtedly out- rank all other American poets with the single possible excep- tion of Longfellow. He was bom in the village of Greenfield, Indiana, October 7, 1849 (other dates from 1851 to 1853 frequently given are now held to be incorrect), and lived all his life in his native state, his residence being during his late years on the retired little Lockerbie Street in Inchan- apolis. As a youth he is described as a delicate and slender lad with corn-silk hair, wide blue eyes, large nose, and freckled face. But he was not, as one might suppose from this description and from reading many of his later dialect poems, a ^backwoods, poverty-stricken country boy. On the contrary, he was the son of a well-to-do lawyer in a moderately sized middle Indiana town of the mid-nineteenth century. He did not take full advantage of his school opportunities, however, preferring to spend his time loitering around the country, filling his mind with the . images and experiences which he was later to enshrine so sympathetically and truly in his reminiscent verse. His tendency toward artistic expression early manifested itself in his ability to play by ear on several musical instru- ments and in his talent for drawing. At sixteen he learned the house- and sign-painting trade and went about the country for two years with several companions, practicing his vocation. Then he was induced to try reading law in his father's office for a time, but when, as he declares, he found out that political economy and law did not rime, he "slipped out of the office one summer afternoon when all outdoors was calling imperiously, shook the last dusty premise from my head, -and was away." He found an opening more to his taste at that period of his life with a traveling medicine man. His duties were to paint or draw the advertisements, assist the troup of actors, remodel their songs and scenes, and perhaps take part, in the acting and mimicry himself, for which, by the way, he had a decided talent. He was continually trying himself out in original poems [512] JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY James Whitcomb Riley 5^3 which he sent to local newspapers. Once he pubUshed "Leonainie," a poem which he pretended was signed by E. A. P. on the flyleaf of an old volume owned by Edgar Allan Poe. So successful was the hoax that it attracted nation-wide comment, many critics accepting the verses as a genuine work of Poe's. A storm of indignant protest arose when the trick was discovered, and Riley says that as a result he lost his position on the Anderson Democrat, a local paper on which he was working at the time. He was immediately called to join the staff of the Indianapolis ■Journal, however, and it was in this paper that he first began the long series of dialect poems purporting to come from a simple and unsophisticated farmer, Benj. F. Johnson, of Boone, the original Hoosier poet. Riley prepared long illiterate letters explaining how he, Johnson, came to write these poems, and how the tears rolled down his cheeks some- times as he wrote. "The Old Swimmin' Hole" was the first of the series published in the Journal in 1882, and in 1883 appeared Riley's first voltime. The Old Swimmin' Hole and 'Leven More Poem-s. Through a long series of years there continued to flow from his pen poem after poem until he became one of our most voluminous writers. The public bought his books by the hundreds of thousands and still clamored for more. He was called before the public to give readings, and he later became one of the most popular entertainers, vying for public favor with Bill Nye, Mdrk Twain, Robert J. Burdette, Eugene Field, and George W. Cable, with each of whom he held joint readings. It was a long time before Riley was recognized by the older and more cultured eastern poets and critics, but he finally won praise from practically all of them. Longfellow wrote him an encouraging letter early in his career; Lowell introduced him to a New York City audience, as a true poet; Holmes, Howells, Mark Twain, Joel Chandler Harris, Rudyard Kipling, and scores of others gave him high praise for touching the hearts of the people with his homely dialect pieces, his child poems, and his more serious and elevated lyrics. He was honored with degrees by several of our leading universities, and on October 7, 1911, the school children of Indiana, and of the whole cotmtry in 19 12, celebrated Riley's birthday with appropriate exercises. He died July 22, 1916. AFTERWHILES Where are they — the Afterwhiles — Luring us the lengthening miles Of our lives? Where is the dawn With the dew across the lawn Stroked with eager feet the far Way the hills and valleys are? Where the sun that smites the frown Of the eastward-gazer down ? Where the rifted wreaths of mist O'er us, tinged with amethyst, Round the mountain's steep defiles? Where are all the afterwhiles? Afterwhile — and we will go Thither, yon, and to and fro — From the stifling city streets To the country's cool retreats — From the riot to the rest Where hearts beat the placidest; Afterwhile, and we will fall Under breezy trees, and loll In the shade, with thirsty sight Drinking deep the blue delight Of the skies that will beguile Us as children — afterwhile. Afterwhile — and one intends To be gentler to his friends — To walk with them, in the hush Of still evenings, o'er the plush Of home-leading fields, and stand [514] Afterwhiles S i S Long at parting, hand in hand: One, in time, will joy to take New resolves for someone's sake, And wear then the look that lies Clear and pure in other eyes — He will soothe and reconcile His own conscience — afterwhile. Afterwhile — we have in view A far scene to journey to, — Where the old home is, and where The old mother waits us there. Peering, as the time grows late, Down the old path to the gate. — How we '11 click the latch that locks In the pinks and hollyhocks, And leap up the path once more Where she waits us at the door! — How we '11 greet the dear old smile. And the warm tears — afterwhile! Ah, the endless afterwhiles! — Leagues on leagues, and miles on miles, In the distance far withdrawn. Stretching on, and on, and on, Till the fancy is footsore And faints in the dust before The last milestone's granite face, Hacked with : Here Beginneth Space. far glimmering worlds and wings. Mystic smiles and beckonings, Lead us through the shadowy aisles, Out into the afterwhiles. From the Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley. Copyright 1913. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs- Merrill Company. Si6 American Literary Readings THE RAGGEDY MAN O The Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa; An' he's the goodest man ever you saw! He comes to our house every day, An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay; i An' he opens the shed — an' we all ist laugh When he drives out our Uttle old wobble-ly calf; An' nen — ef our hired girl says he can — He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann. — Ain't he a' awful good Raggedy Man? I Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! W'y, The Raggedy Man — he's ist so good He splits the kindlin' an' chops the wood; An' nen he spades in our garden, too. An' does most things 'at boys can't do. — i He clumbed clean up in our big tree An' shooked a' apple down fer me — An' nothem'n', too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann — An' nother'n', too, fer The Raggedy Man. — • Ain't he a' awful kind Raggedy Man? 1 Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! An' The Raggedy Man one time says he Pick' roast' rambos from a' orchurd-tree, An' et 'em — all ist roast' an' hot! — An' it's so, too! — 'cause a corn-crib got i Afire one time an' all bum' down On "The Smoot Farm," 'bout four mile from town- On "The Smoot Farm" ! Yes — an' the hired han' 'At worked there nen 'uz The Raggedy Man! — Ain't he the beatin'est Raggedy Man? I Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! The Raggedy Man's so good an' kind He'll be our "horsey," an' "haw" an' mind The Raggedy Man $l^ Ever 'thing 'at you make him do — An' won't run off — 'less you want him to! I drived him wunst way down our lane An' he got skeered, when it 'menced to rain, An' ist rared up an' squealed and run Purt 'nigh away! — an' it's all in fun! Nen he skeered a^'in at a' old tin can ... Whoa ! y' old runaway Raggedy Man ! Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! An' The Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes, An' tells 'em, ef I be good, sometimes : Knows 'bout Giimts, an' Grifiuns, an' Elves, An' the Squidgicum-Squees 'at swallers the'rselves ! An', wite by the ptmip in our pasture-lot, He showed me the hole 'at the Wunks is got, 'At lives 'way deep in. the ground, an' can Turn into me, er 'Lizabuth Ann! Er Ma, er Pa, er The Raggedy Man! Ain't he a funny old Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! An' wunst, when The Raggedy Man come late. An' pigs ist root' thue the garden-gate, , He 'tend Uke the pigs 'uz bears an' said, "Old Bear-shooter 'Ul shoot 'em dead!" An' race an' chase' 'em, an' they'd ist run When he pint his hoe at 'em like it's a gun An' go "Bang! — Bang!" nen 'tend he stan' An' load up his gun ag'in! Raggedy Man! He's an old Bear-shooter Raggedy Man ! Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! An' sometimes The Raggedy Man lets on We're little ^mc^-children, an' old King's gone To git more money, an' lef us there — 5i8 American Literary Readings And Robbers is ist thick ever 'where; An' nen — ef we all won't cry, fer shore — The Raggedy Man he'll come and " 'splore The Castul-halls," an' steal the "gold"— An' steal us, too, an' grab an' hold An' pack us off to his old " Cave" ! — An' Haymow's the "cave" o' The Raggedy Man!- — Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! The Raggedy Man — one time, when he Was makiti' a little bow-'n'-orry fer me. Says "When you're big like your Pa is, Air you go' to keep a fine store like his — An' be a rich merchunt — an' wear fine clothes? — Er what air you go' to be, goodness knows!" An' nen he laughed at 'Lizabuth Ann, An' I says " 'M go' to be a Raggedy Man! — I'm ist go' to be a nice Raggedy Man!" Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! From the Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley. Copyright 1913. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs- Merrill Company. ^^^^^^^H^^^^l Xj5f ■ *• ^^ 1 \J^/" ! ■. '■J^m ^HHP^ ' . ;: V- '^k^^ ■ : V ■ '^'''"'^ WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 1869-1910 William Vaughn Moody is as yet far from being a widely known poet, and perhaps he will never be a widely popular one; but like Sidney Lanier he will no doubt have a steady growth of fame, and in the estimation of those who are prepared to recognize his artistic work in the subtle metrical harmonies and the deeper interpretative thought of the modem world, he will surely take his place as one of our major American poets. He has done creditable work in literary criticism and the history of literature, and creative work in the pure lyric, in the poetic drama, and in the prose or acting drama; and although he died before reaching the full development of his genius, he accomplished enough to make him the most important of the younger poets of America. He was bom at Spencer, Indiana, July 8, 1869. About three years after his birth his parents moved to New Albany on the Ohio River. Here he grew into young manhood only to be doubly orphaned by the death of his mother when he was fifteen and of his father two years later. Left to his own resources at this immature age, he determined to secure for himself the best possible education. He taught school for a while near New Albany, and then went to New York to become an assistant teacher in an academy where he could himself obtain further instruction. He finally entered Harvard University and continued his undergraduate work for f otir years, and then- went abroad as a tutor in a private family. After a memorable year in Europe, he returned to Harvard and entered upon graduate work. Two years later, in 1894, he was graduated with the Master's degree, and the next year he became an instructor in English in the University of Chicago. With numerous vacation intermissions he con- tinued in the work of teaching until 1902, when he perma- nently relinquished his professional position to devote himself to creative writing. During the years spent in Chicago he made several trips abroad and a number of [519] S20 American Literary Readings bicycle and walking tours with his friends in his own country. He loved outdoor life, and had an insatiable desire to mix with all classes of people and thus see life at all sorts of angles. His friendships were very important to him, and no man perhaps ever had more devoted and intimate com- panions. In collaboration with Robert M. Lovett, he pre- pared a textbook on the history of English literature, and the success of this volume, and of several other books which he edited for school use, enabled him to carry out his long- cherished design of giving up entirely his work in the class- room. Professor John M. Manly urged him again and again to give a series of lectures at the University of Chicago after he had formally resigned, but he steadfastly refused, saying, "I cannot do it; I feel that at every lecture I slay a poet." He had been contributing poems to the best magazines since his Harvard University days, but it was not until toward the close of the nineties that he began to find his individual note. In 1900 he contributed to Scrihner's Maga- zine what he considered his best lyric, — namely, "Gloucester Moors." Among his other distinctive poems are "The Brute," a poem after the rnanner of Kipling, on machinery and its effects on modern life; "The Menagerie," a delight- ful Browning-like treatment of the theme of evolution from the point of view of a half-drunken man fresh from the menagerie of a circus; "On a Soldier Fallen in the Philip- pines" and "An Ode in Time of Hesitation," passionate outcries against American imperialism; and "The Daguerre- otype," a wonderful tribute to the memory of his mother. Professor Manly says that this last poem is "so deep of thought, so full of poignant feeling and clairvoyant vision, so wrought of passionate beauty that I know not where to look for another tribute from any poet to his mother that equals it." Moody's most ambitious work was his unfinished trilogy of poetic dramas, "The Fire-bringer," "The Masque of Judgment," and "The Death of Eve." The last, which was to round out and complete the series, is left in fragmentary form, but the final theme is more or less adequately treated in the blank verse poem of the same title. There is a wonderful array of fine poetry here, but the number of readers who can fvilly appreciate the quality of Moody's art is unfortunately limited. Professor Manly says that Moody's poetry even William Vaughn Moody 521 in its simplest forms does not always reveal its meaning to the careless and casual reader, and most young readers will find these dramas to be a severe test upon their intellectual and interpretative powers. But such poetry has in it lasting qualities, and will always repay the student for his efforts to comprehend and appreciate it. Some of Moody's finest lyrics, too, are imbedded in these blank verse dramas. The third type of writing in which Moody succeeded admirably was that of the prose or acting drama. "The Great Divide" is perhaps the most original and successful native play produced on the American stage within the past quarter century. "The Faith Healer" was not so popular with the playgoing public, but it is a composition of wonderful literary appeal, and if not so good as an act- ing play, is certainly worthy of remembrance as a literary drama. In spite of his outdoor habits and simple living, Moody's health failed in 1909, and after a few months of happiness in his marriage with Harriet V. Brainerd, a woman whose companionship had meant much to him for several years preceding their marriage, he succumbed on October 17, 19 10, cut off, as it were, in the full flush of his genius. ■> In the excellent introduction to the two-volume edition of Moody's poems and dramas Professor Manly admirably epitomizes the forcefulness of this new poet's work in these words: "Moody's poetry, whether due to a direct impulse from life or suggested, like 'The Dialogue in Ptirgatory' and 'The Fountain' and 'Thamuz' by literature, is notable for its freedom from response to the obvious, the trivial, the merely pretty. This is, no doubt, one reason why, for all his rich and various melody, his wealth of fresh and vivid imagery, his modernity, his worship of beauty and love, his depth of spiritual emotion, he is not popular, is indeed hardly remembered by any except those to whom poetry is not an idle pastime, but a passion; for the idler wants art in all its forms to be obvious, and trivial and pretty. Moody's themes are often the common themes of poetry: love, patriotism, human si:ifiering, God, and the soul. But he sees them ever from a new angle, he finds in them new significance, he mingles them with unaccustomed but predestined associations. His vision and feeling are not simple, but interwoven with rich threads of reflection and transmuting emotion." GLOUCESTER MOORS A mile behind is Gloucester town Where the fishing fleets put in, A mile ahead the land dips down And the woods and farriis begin. Here, where the moors stretch free In the high blue afternoon, Are the marching sun and talking sea. And the racing winds that wheel and flee On the flying heels of June. Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue, Blue is the quaker-maid, The wild geraniiun holds its dew Long in the boulder's shade. Wax-red hangs the cup From the huckleberry boughs. In barberry bells the grey moths sup. Or where the choke-cherry lifts high up Sweet bowls for their carouse. Over the shelf of the sandy cove Beach-peas blossom late. By copse and cliff the swallows rove Each calling to his mate. Seaward the sea-gulls go, And the land-birds all are here; That green-gold flash was a vireo, And yonder flame where the marsh-flags grow Was a scarlet tanager. This earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; [522] Gloucester Moors 5^3 Prom deep to deep she varies pace, so And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip ; With velvet pltmge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel ss Like a gallant, gallant ship. These summer clouds she sets for sail. The sun is her masthead light. She tows the moon like a pinnace frail Where her phosphor wake churns bright. 40 Now hid, now looming clear. On the face of the dangerous blue The star fleets tack and wheel and veer. But on, but on does the old world steer As if her port she knew. is God, dear God! Does she know her port. Though she goes so far about? Or blind astray, does she make her sport To brazen and chance it out? I watched when her captains passed : 60 She were better captainless. Men in the cabin, before the mast. But some were reckless and some aghast, And some sat gorged at mess. By her battened hatch I leaned and caught 55 Sounds from the noisome hold, — Cursing and singing of souls distraught And cries too sad to be told. Then I strove to go down and see; But they said, "Thou art not of us!" m I turned to those on the deck with me 524 American Literary Readings And cried, ' ' Give help ! ' ' But they said, ' ' Let be : Our ship sails faster thus." Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue, 5 Blue is the quaker-maid, The alder-cltunp where the brook comes through Breeds cresses in its shade. To be out of the moiling street With its swelter and its sin! Who has given to me this sweet. And given my brother dust to eat? And when will his wage come in? Scattering wide or blown in ranks, Yellow and white and brown, 5 Boats and boats from the fishing banks Come home to Gloucester town. There is cash to purse and spend. There are wives to be embraced. Hearts to borrow and hearts to lend, And hearts to take and keep to the end, — little sails, make haste! But thou, vast outbound ship of souls, What harbor town for thee? What shapes, when thy arriving tolls, 15 Shall crowd the banks to see? Shall all the happy shipmates then Stand singing brotherly? Or shall a haggard ruthless few Warp her over and bring her to, 10 While the many broken souls of men Fester down in the slaver's pen, And nothing to say or do? THE NOTES Rip Van Winkle (Irving) INTRODUCTORY: Irving was living in England when he wrote The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon. In 1819 he sent the manuscript to New York in separate sections to be published serially. In the first number, published in May, there were five sketches, of which "Rip Van Winkle" was the last. Irving's sources for this tale were partly local traditions about Henry Hudson and his crew, and about Indian legends concerning the spirits that dwell in the Catskills. The long- sleep device has been frequently used in romance and fairy lore. "The Seven Sleepers of Ephesus" is an old Latin medieval legend telling how seven Christians slept in a cave for three hundred and sixty years. In the French fairy tale of "Rosebud, or The Sleeping Beauty," the young princess sleeps one hundred years until she is wakened by the kiss of a prince. In Ludwig Tieck's "The Elves," the little girl Mary sleeps seven years. But Irving's sources, as he himself hints in the note at the end of the story, were the legends concerning the tales about Emperor Frederick I, or Barbarossa, and the Kyfifhauser, or the Kyffhauser Mountain legends. The principal Hartz Mountain legend is that told by Johann Karl Nachtigal, who, under the pseudonym of Otmar, published Folks-sagen or "Popular Traditions of the Hartz Mountains " in 1800. Irving probably saw this in the original German when he was studying that language during his first trip abroad. In order that it may be seen exactly how an author may use a source we give here Thomas Roscoe's translation of "Peter Klaus," which appeared in 1826, seven years later than Irving's story. Peter Klaos, the Goatherd In the village of Sittendorf at the foot of a mountain lived Peter Klaus, a goatherd, who was in the habit of pasturing his flock upon the Kyffhauser hills. Towards evening he generally let them browze upon a green plot not far off, surrounded with an old ruined wall from which he could take a muster of his whole flock. For some days past he had observed that one of the prettiest goats, soon after its arrival at this spot, usually disappeared, nor joined the fold again until late in the evening. He watched her again and again, and at last found that she slipped through a gap in the old wall, whither he followed her. It led into a passage which widened, as he went, into a cavern; and here he saw the goat employed in picking up the oats that fell through some crevices in the place above. He looked up, shook his ears at this odd shower of com, but could discover nothing. Where the deuce could it come from? At length he heard over his head the neighing and stamping of horses; he listened, and concluded that the oats must have fallen through the manger when they were fed. The poor goatherd was sadly puzzled what to think of these horses in this uninhabited part of the mountain, but so it was, for the groom making his appearance, without saying a word beckoned him to follow him. Peter obeyed, and followed him up some steps which brought him into an open courtyard surrounded by old walls. At the side of this was a still more spacious cavern, surrounded by rocky heights which only admitted a kind of twilight through the overhanging trees and shrubs. [525] 526 American Literary Keadtngs He went on, and came to a smooth shaven green, where he saw twelve ancient knights none of whom spoke a word, engaged in playing nine pins. His guide now beckoned to Peter in silence, to pick up the nine pins, and went his way. Trembling in every joint Peter did not venture to disobey, and at times cast a stolen glance at the players, whose long beards and slashed doublets were not at all in the present fashion. By degrees his looks grew bolder; he took particular notice of everything round him; among other things, observing a tankard near him filled with wine, whose odour was excellent, he took a good draught. It seemed to inspire him with life; and whenever he began to feel tired of running, he applied with fresh ardour to the tankard, which always renewed his strength. But finally it quite overpowered him, and he fell asleep. When he next opened his eyes, he found himself on the grass-plot again, in the old spot where he was in the habit of feeding his goats. He rubbed his eyes, he looked round, but could see neither dog nor flock; he was surprised at the long, rank grass that grew about him, and at the trees and bushes which he had never before seen. He shook his head and walked a little far- ther, looking for the old sheep path and the hillocks and roads where he used daily to drive his flock; but he could find no traces of them left. Yet he saw the village just before him; it was the same Sittendorf, and scratching his head, he hastened at a quick pace down the hill to enquire after his flock. All the people whom he met going into the place were strangers to him, were differently dressed, and even spoke in a different style from his old neighbors. When he asked about his goats, they only stared at him, and fixed their eyes upon his chin. He put his hand unconsciously to his mouth, and to his great surprise found that he had got a beard, at least a foot long. He now began to think that both he and all the world about him were in a dream : and yet he knew the mountain for that of Kyffhausen (for he had just come down it) well enough. And there were the cottages with their gardens and grass-plots, much as he had left them. Besides, the lads who had all collected around him answered to the enquiry of a passen- ger, what place it was, "Sittendorf, Sir." Still shaking his head, he went farther into the village to look for his own house. He found it, but greatly altered for the worse; a strange goat- herd in an old tattered frock lay before the door, and near him his old dog, which growled. and showed its teeth at Peter when he called him. He went through the entrance which had once been a door, but all within was empty and deserted. Peter staggered like a drunken man out of the house, and called for his wife and children by their names. But no one heard him, and no one gave him any answer. Soon, however, a crowd of women and children got round the inquisitive stranger with the long, hoary beard, and asked him what it was he wanted. Now Peter thought it was such a strange kind of thing to stand before his own house, enquiring for his own wife and children, as well as about him- self, that evading these enquiries he pronounced the first name that came into his head; "Kurt Steffen, the blacksmith." Most of the spectators were silent, and only looked at him wistfully, till an old woman at last said: "Why, for these twelve years he has been at Sachsenburg, whence, I suppose you are not come to-day." " Where is Valentine Meier, the tailor?" "The Lord rest his soul," cried another old woman leaning upon her crutch, "he has been lying more than these fifteen years in a house he will never leave." Peter recognized in the speakers two of his young neighbors who seemed to have grown old very suddenly, but he had no inclination to enquire any farther. At this inoment there appeared making her way through the crowd of spectators a sprightly young woihan with a year-old baby in her hand, all three as like his wife he was seeking for as possible. "What are your names?" he enquired in a tone of great surprise. "Mine is Maria." " And your father's? " continued Peter. "God rest his soul! Peter Klaus to be sure. It is now twenty years ago since we were all looking for him day and night upon the Kiffhausen; for his flock came home without him, and I was then," continued the woman, "only seven years old." The Notes 527 The goatherd could no longer bear this: "I am Peter Klaus," he said, "Peter and no other," and he took his daughter's child and kissed it. The spectators appeared struck dumb with astonishment, until first one and then another began to say, "Yes, indeed, this is Peter Klaus! Welcome, good neighbor, after twenty years of absence, welcome home." According to Lowell, a literary idea belongs to him at last who says it best, and so the whole series of tales dealing with long sleeps is now dominated by Irving's "Rip Van Winkle." So well known has Rip become through Irving's story and through Joseph Jefferson's dramatization of it that the very name has become a synonym for a sleepy old fellow who is about twenty years behind the times. EXPLANATORY: 7. thy Ike. That same; an old word composed of the and ilk, the (or that) same. 7. Carlwright. William Cartwright, an English playwright of the early seventeenth century; 7 : 2. Knickerbocker. Irving said the name was compounded from Knicker, to nod, and backer, books, or one who nods over his books. 7 : 27. "more in sorrow than in anger." Hamlet, I:ii. 7:33. Waterloo Medal, or a Qiieen Anne's Farthing. The Waterloo medals were given to the British soldiers who fought in the battle of Waterloo, and the Queen Anne's farthing was a coin supposed to be of great rarity. The joke on the hard Dutch cakes is evident. 7 : 35. Kaatskill Mountains. Why does Irving use this old spell- ing? The word kill means creek or river, as in Schuylkill. 8 : 50. a milage. When a young boy wrote to Irving asking him whether it was the village of CatskiU or Kingston, the author playfully replied that he could find nothing in Mr. Knickerbocker's manu- script to indicate which village was intended. 8 : 56. Peter Stuyvesant. Governor of the Dutch colony of New Netherlands from 1647 to 1664. See Irving's account of him in Knickerbocker's History of New York. 8 : 68. Fort Christina. The Swedish settlement near what is now Wilmington, Delaware. Stuyvesant captured it in 1655. 9 : 80. termagant. Formerly applied to a violent or overbearing person, but now only to a boisterous or quarreling woman. What is the meaning of tolerable in the next line? 9 : 84. good wives. Wife is used here in the generic sense of woman rather than specifically as a married woman. 10: 131. galligaskins. Long, loose trousers. 12 : 185. junto. An organization for ftu-thering some cause, especially of political intrigue. IS : 293. doublets . jerkins. The doublet was a close-fitting outer garment with sleeves. The jerkin was a jacket or waistcoat. 15: 303. Aojjger. A short broadsword worn hanging from the belt. 18: 426. an unkind cut. "This was the most unkindest cut of all" (Julius Caesar, III:ii). 19 : 442. red night-cap. This was used as a symbol of republican- ism in the French Revolution. It has also been adopted in our image of the goddess of liberty, as may be seen in the engraving on our coins. 19 : 465. Babylonish jargon. An allusion to the tower of Babel (Genesis 11:1-9). 528 American Literary Readings 20 : 475. Federal or Democrat. The Federalists were loose con- structionists and the Democrats strict constructionists of the Con- stitution. Hamilton was a leading member of the Federal party, and Jefferson of the Democratic party. 21 : 507. Stony Point. A rocky promontory on the Hudson, captured by General Anthony Wayne in 1779. 21: 508. Antony's Nose. Another promontory just north of Stony Point. Irving gives a humorous account of the naming of this prom- ontory in Knickerbocker's History of New York, Book VI, chap. 4. 23 : 585. the historian. Adrian van der Donck, author of a Dutch history of New Netherlands. 23 i 593. That it was affirmed. In this and the next sentence the main predication is omitted. Supply the omission. 23 : 594- Hendrick Hudson. Henry Hudson, an English sailor in the service of the Dutch East India Company, in attempting to dis- cover a northwest passage to India navigated the Hudson -River and also discovered Hudson Bay. The Half-moon was the name of his ship. Why does Irving spell the name Hendrick? 25: 659. Frederick der Rothbart. Frederick I of Germany, called Barbarossa, or Redbeard, died 1 190. A legend arose to the effect that he was not dead but held spellbound in an underground castle, where he must remain as long as the ravens fly about the mountain. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (l) What is the purpose of the introductory note about finding the manuscript of the story in Diedrich Knickerbocker's posthumous papers? How had Irving won fame under this pseudonym ten years before thfe appearance of the Sketch Book? (2) Examine also the note and the postscript at the end of the story. What is the chief value to the story of this framework of pretended notes from Mr. Knicker- bocker? (3) With what element does Irving begin the story — setting, characters, or action? Is this a good way to begin a story like this? Why? (4) Why are the mountains spoken of as "barometers," "fairy mountains," and the like? (5) Why is Rip the first character to be introduced? (6) Give a -full description of his appearance. (7) Discuss his character and habits, including his relations to his wife, his dog, his cronies, and others. (8) What humorous touches do you discover in Irving's treatment of Rip? (9) Is Rip well suited to play the part of a lackey or "subject" in the supernatural events which follow? Why? Do you think he might want to sleep twenty years? (10) Describe Dame Van Winkle's character. What light do Wolf's actions throw on this topic? (11) What does Dame Van Winkle's character have to do with the development of the narrative", that is, with the events which follow? (12) Why is the club or junto introduced? Are its members reverted to a little further on in the story? (13) At what point does the main action of the narrative begin? Note how many pages Irving has consumed in his leisurely introduc- tion. Do most modem stories move so slowly as this? Do you think Irving is justified in making such a full analysis of characters before he begins the main action of the story? Explain w;hy. (14) Notice that Irving gives a picture of the mountain scenery instead of recounting the details of Rip's day of hunting. Just why does he do this? Do you think the pictures are good? Compare these two paragraphs with the first two paragraphs for picturesque effects. 529 (i 5) Tell in yotir own words the peculiar happenings just as Rip started to descend the mountain. (i6) Are the strange characters vividly presented? Tell just how they look to you. What historical period and what particular characters do they represent? (17) How much space does Irving devote to Rip after he fell asleep and before the awakening? Might a less skUlful writer have filled in a page or so of description here to denote the passage of time? (18) How long did Rip think he had slept? (19) Is the waking natural? How does Irving manage to disclose the wonderful changes that had taken place in Rip and his surroundings? Note particularly the order in which things are taken up — -the' gun, the dog, the stiffness in Rip's joints, his hunger, and the like. (20) What things had apparently not changed during his sleep? Is this a natur^ touch? (21) Do you think it a little strange that Rip did not notice his long beard until he reached the village? Why is this point delayed? (22) Show just how the changes in the village are gradually disclosed. To what cause did Rip attribute his confusion? (23) What humorous and pathetic touches are found in the paragraphs describing Rip's visit to his own home? Was it Wolf or perhaps a dog like Wolf that snarled at him? (24) Does the name of the new keeper of the inn, now a hotel, sound like the previous Dutch names? Why this change? (25) What did Rip learn when he called for his old associates? (26) What ironical and humorous effect is produced when he asks if nobody knows Rip Van Winkle? (27) Who finally tells Rip that he went away twenty years ago? Was this the proper person to do it? De- scribe the recognition scene. (28) How did Rip spend his last days? (29) Go over the story now and point out its main divisions, thus making a complete outline. Notice first the setting; then the leisurely introductory description of characters ; then the account of the hunting trip, which is the beginning of the narrative proper; next the strange party at ninepins ; then Rip's sleep ; his awakening ; his return to the village; the recognition; and finally Rip's after life, as a conclusion. (30) In a second perusal do you see many natural hints or suggestive preparations for succeeding incidents? (31) Point out exact refer- ences to show the date and extent of time covered, and thus make a time outline of the story. (32) Point out five of the wittiest sayings in the story. • (33) Make a study of "Peter Klaus" (see introductory note above) and determine just what Irving has taken, what he has left out, and what he has added in writing his own story. (34) Suggested composition subjects: Rip's Character; Comparison of the Humor of "Rip Van Winkle" with That of "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow"; write a story incorporating some local legend; Comparison of Joseph Jefferson's Dramatization with the Original Story; How Irving Used His. Sources (see introductory note). Westminster Abbey (Irving) INTRODUCTORY: "Westminster Abbey" was the first essay in the seventh and last number of the Sketch Book when it was published serially in 1819. It is a typical example of the informal or personal essay dealing with real scenes and their literary and historical associations. We call the essay personal because the author infuses into it .a great deal of his 18 530 American Literary Readings OLD PALACE YARD MARG GROUND FLOOR PLAN OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY own sentiment and emotion, or personality; and we call it informal because it is presented in the easy and natural style of one talking to us and giving us his own thoughts and experiences in an informal rather than a formal or dignified manner. The Notes S31 EXPLANATORY: 26. Westminster Abbey. The Abbey, or Cathedral, of St. Peter in Westminster, formerly a suburb of London, but now in the midst of the city. The Abbey was begun by Edward the Confessor in 1050 and completed after his death in 1066. In 1245 it was rebuilt by Henry VII, and it has since been added to from time to time. It is the first of the English cathedrals built on the cruciform plan, and it is also first in historic and literary interest. If possible, look up further facts about this famous old church. 26. Christolero' s Epigrams. The correct title is Chrestoleros: Seven Books of Epigrams, by Thomas Bastard, 1598. 27 : 10. Westminster School. Also called St. Peter's College, one of the famous English boarding schools, refounded by Elizabeth in 1560. 27: 15. verger. The official keeper of a cathedral ; so called because he formerly carried the verge, or rod, signifying ecclesiastical authority. 28 : 45. Vitalis. Abbas., etc. Names of ancient abbots now almost entirely forgotten. 29 : 89. Poet's Corner. In the south transept. Geoffrey Chaucer was buried here in 1400, probably because he was a favorite officer of the crown and had his dwelling within the confines of the cathedral. Since Cromwell's time others than royalty have been buried in the Abbey by way of special national recognition. Longfellow, whose bust is in Poets' Corner, is the only American honored by a memorial in the Abbey. 30 : 122. cognizance. A family badge or heraldic device. 30 : 127. crosiers and mitres. A crosier, or crozier, is a bishop's staff surmounted with a crook or a cross; a mitre, or miter, is a large ornamental headdress worn by bishops and other ecclesiastics. 30: 131. tkat fabled ci'y. On the seventeenth night of the Arabian Nights' Entertainments, ".The Story of the Eldest Lady (Zobeide)" relates the finding of a city with all the inhabitants pet- rified just as they were in real life. .30 : 134. buckler . . morion. A shield . . an open helmet. 31: 171. tomb of Mrs- Nightingale. The French sculptor Roubillac (or Roubiliac) made several notable monuments in Westminster before his death in 1762. Irving accurately describes the bizarre statue in memory of Joseph Nightingale and his wife Elizabeth. 32: 201. Henry the Seventh's chapel. At the east end of the Abbey, built about 1500 by Henry VII as a memorial and burial place for himself and his family. 33 : 256. Elizabeth . . Mary. Look up the account of Queen Elizabeth and Mary Queen of Scots. 34 : 278. "For in the silent grave," etc. Quoted from Beaumont and Fletcher's Thierry and Theodoret, IV. 35 : 311. Edward the Confessor. King of West-Saxons from 1042 to 1066. He was succeeded by Harold, who was overthrown by William of Normandy. 35 : 319- "beds of darkness." Echoing Job 17:13, "If I wait, the grave is mine house; I have made my bed in the darkness." 37 '• 378. Sir Thomas Brown{e}. An eminent English prose writer of the seventeenth century. This quotation and the one below are from Hydriotaphia, or Urn Burial, his most noted work. 37 '• 389. Cambyses . . Mizraim . . . Pharaoh. Cambyses III, king of Persia, conquered Egypt in the sixth century before Christ. 532 American Literary Readings Mizraim is Hebrew for Egypt; it is also used as the name of one of Ham's sons (see Genesis io:6). Pharaoh is a general name for the early kings of Egypt. 37:402. a tale that is told. From Psalms 90:9, "We spend our years as a tale that is told." THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (l) In what mood and from what mental point of view does Irving open this essay? How does the day harmonize with this mood? (2) Why is the first personal pronoun used so frequently throughout the essay? Is it objectionable? (3) Trace Irving's course through the Abbey by reference to the plate given on p. 530. (Note that he enters from the southwest. After passing through Westminster School and the cloisters, he reaches the Abbey proper, entering at the south transept door [see the sixth paragraph]. After giving the first general impressions, he passes on to the Poets' Corner in the south tran- sept. He then goes on around through the kings' tombs until he reaches the Nightingale tomb in the north transept. Then he wanders around from toinb to tomb and chapel to chapel until he comes to the great Henry VII's chapel in the east wing, to which, including the reflections on the noise of the outside world, he gives ten paragraphs. On his way out he stops at the magnificent shrine of Edward the Confessor in the very, heart of the Abbey, and mounting this tomb, he takes a last general survey of the great mausoleum, and finally passes out the north entrance. The conclusion draws some lessons on the emptiness of human renown and the fieetness of all-consuming time.) (4) The notable thing about the essay is the blending of vivid aescription with quiet musing or reverie. Point out some of the paragraphs which best bring out this blending," and read them aloud in the appropriate tone and movement. (5) Do you get a better idea of the Abbey from this essay than you could from a guide book? Why does Irving not give the history of the Abbey, its dimensions, its architectural details? (6) You might expect from Irving some touches of humor. Are there any in this essay? Why? (7) Read the para- graph on Poets' Corner, and test what is said about the influence of authors by applying it to Irving himself. (8) Give the general characteristics of Irving's style in this essay. (Simplicity, clearness, elegance, smoothness, grace, and melody; blending of sentiment and picturesqueness; dominant personal tone.) (9) Suggested themes for compositions: A Comparison of Irving's Visit to Westminster Abbey with That of Sir Roger de Coverley (Spectator, No. 26) ; Westminster Abbey: Its History and Architecture; A Visit to Our Local Cemetery. The Last of the Mohicans (Cooper) Chapter III (Hawk-eye, Chingachgook, and Uncas) INTRODUCTORY: The Last of the Mohicans, the best and most widely read of all Cooper's novels, was written in 1825 and was published early in 1826. It has since been reprinted in almost innumerable editions both for the general reader and for school use. The earlier editions contained many errors in syntax and infelicities of diction which were removed in later editions; in our text we have preferred to give the author the. benefit of these improvements. Cooper's stories should be read and The Notes 533 judged as wholes rather than by excerpts. The third chapter is here reprinted more to pique interest than to show Cooper at his best, though the selection is a good average sample of his style and is especially valuable in that it presents, largely through conversation, the three principal characters of the romance. After this selection has been studied carefully, the pupil should be encouraged to read the remainder of the story more as a pleasure than as a set task. EXPLANATORY: 46. Before these fields, etc. Quoted from Bryant's "An Indian .at the Burial Place of His Fathers." Cooper usually followed the custom of placing a quotation as a motto or headpiece to give a hint as to the contents of the chapter. 46 : I . Heyward and his confiding companions. In the preceding chapter Major Heyward, who was intrusted with the duty of escorting Cora and Alice, the daughters of General Webb, from Fort Edward to Fort William Henry, was being led into an ambush by Magna, a treacherous Indian guide. 47 : 36. chivalrous scalping-tuft. The North American warrior caused the hair to be plucked from his whole body; a small tuft only was left on the crown of his head in order that his enemy might avail himself of it in wrenching oflf the scalp in the event of his fall. The scalp was the only admissible trophy of victory. Thus, it was deemed more important to obtain the scalp than to kill the man. Some tribes lay great stress on the honor of striking a dead body. These practices have nearly disappeared among the Indians of the Atlantic States. (Cooper.) 47 • 53- hunting-shirt. The hunting-shirt is a picturesque smock frock, being shorter, and ornamented with fringes and tassels. The colors are intended to imitate the hues of the wood with a view to concealment. Many corps of American riflemen have been thus attired, and the dress is one of the most striking of modem times. The hunting-shirt is frequently white. {Cooper.) 48 : 63. rifle of great length. The rifle of the army is short; that of the hunter is always long. (Cooper.) 48: 74. Chingachgook. The Indian name means "big serpent." Pronounced chin-ga-gook'. 48 : 81. the big river. The Mississippi. The scout alludes to a tradition which is very popular among the tribes of the Atlantic states. Evidence of their Asiatic origin is deduced from the circum- stances, though great uncertainty hangs over the whole history of the Indians. {Cooper.) 48 : 89. Hawk-eye. The name of the famous scout as given in The Pioneers, the first of the series of Leatherstocking Tales, is Natty Bumppo, Natty being an abbreviation of Nathaniel. In this first story he is also called Leatherstocking on account of his leather leggings, and in other tales he is given other appropriate names. i, 49 : 108. wooden gun. Bow and arrow. 49 : III. Iroquois. This was a large federation of various Indian tribes living west of the Mohicans around lakes Erie and Ontario. 50 : 137. Mohicans. A part of the Algoilkin or Delaware tribe. The Indian name Mohicanni or Mohegan means wolf. Cooper indi- cates in his introduction to The Last of the Mohicans that these eastern tribes were fast disappearing, and thus explains the title of his novel. 534 American. Literary Readings 50 : 146. water . . . sweet in the shade . . . bitter in the sun. Hawk-eye is thinking of the difference between the sweet waters of the inland or shaded streams and the salty water of the ocean. 51 : 184. Alligewi. A traditional tribe often mentioned by the Algonkins as their predecessors in the occupation of central New York. 51 ■; 187. Maquas. Another name for the Mohawks, the enemies of the Algonkins. 51 : 192. salt . . . licks. Inland salt springs gave rise to salt licks, where the animals came to lick the ground to obtain salt. Cooper explains that these were famous spots for hunters to waylay their game. 32: 221. Sagamore. An Indian name for chieftain. 53 : 261. busy Frenchman. So printed in the first edition, but frequently misprinted bushy in later editions. 55 : 316. Six Nations. That is, the Six (originally Five) Allied Nations of Indians who occupied the New York territory. Cooper gives a full note on them at the beginning of Chapter II. 55 : 324. The horses of white men. This was Major Heyward and his party approaching. In the next chapter the scout and his Indian friends perceive that Heyward and the tv;o young ladies are being led into a trap by the treacherous Indian runner Magna. Read the entire story. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) What is the principal function of this chapter (see the intro- ductory note)? (2) What appropriateness do you see in the poetical motto at the head of the chapter? Do modern novelists ever use this device? (3) What is the rhetorical function of the first paragraph? Why are the words unsuspecting, confiding, treacherous, introduced here? (4) What topics are developed in the next three paragraphs? (5) The usual function of dialogue is to develop the situation, portray character, and propel the narrative or action of the story. Does the conversation in this chapter fxdfill these functions adequately? (6) Give the substance of the first part of Hawk-eye's and Chingachgook's talk together. What does this section suggest to you in regard to the education of Hawk-eye? (7) Why is it wise to present rather fully the previous history and present troubles of the Mohicans? (8) Who was "the last of the Mohicans"? How is he brought on the scene? (9) What is said about the Maquas, and what has this to do with later developments in the story? (10) Describe the incident of the slaying of the deer by Uncas. (11) What is the function of the last incident in this chapter? Why does Hawk-eye mention the Iroquois in the very last sentence? (12) Study carefully the language put into the mouths of the characters. Is Cooper successful in preserviiig the peculiarities of the individuals and of the Indian language as it is traditionally reported to us? (13) Collect a list of peculiar meta- phorical or interpretative expressions found in this chapter, such as "setting sun" for west, "salt lake" for the ocean, etc. (14) Explain the means by which the author arouses your interest in this chapter. .Thanatopsis (Bryant) INTRODUCTORY: This celebrated poem, now usually considered the first great poem written in America, was composed in its earlier form by Bryant The Notes 535 in his seventeenth year (1811), but not published until 1817, when it appeared in the September number of the North American Review. ' Bryant's father found it in the young poet's desk and carried it to Mr. Willard Phillips, one of the three editors of the Norih'American Review. When Phillips read the poem to his colleagues, Richard Henry Dana said, "Ah, Phillips, you have been imposed upon; no one on this side of the Atlantic is capable of writing such verses." The source of Bryant's interest in subjects of this kind is traceable to the so-called "graveyard" poems, such as Henry Kirke White's melancholy verse, Blair's "The Grave," Bishop Proteus's poem on "Death," and Gray's "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard." In its original form the poem was shorter by seventeen lines at the beginning and sixteen at the end. Thus it will be seen that the germ or central thought of the poem begins abruptly in the middle of line 17, "Yet a few days," and ends similarly in the middle of line 66, "And make their bed with thee." The introductory and concluding lines were added when the poem was incliided in the first edition of Bryant's poems, published in 1821. Many verbal changes in both the original and the enlarged versions were made from time to time, and practically always for the better, so that we may well agree with Poe's statement that the poem owes a good part of its celebrity "to its nearly absolute freedom from deffect." EXPLANATORY: 62. Thanatopsis. A view of death; from two Greek words, Bdraroi, death, and o^frzS, view. 62 : 2. Communion with her visible forms. The first sentence is distinctly Wordsworthian in thought and tone. 63 : 50. Take the wings of morning. "If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; even there shall thy hand lead me and thy right hand shall hold me" (Psalms 139:9, 10). 63 : 51. Barca's. Barca is a desert region in northern Africa. '63 • 53- Oregon. Now known as the Columbia River in Oregon. 63 : 66. make their bed with thee. "If I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there" (Psalms 139:8). THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) What general introductory thought is developed in the first sentence? (2) How is the specific theme of the poem led up to in the second sentence? , What poetic imagery is used to bring the subject of death vividly before the mind? (3) What "still voice" (line 17) speaks to those who are burdened with the thought of death? "The body of the poem, then, is made up of the speech of Nature to man on the subject of death, is it not? (4) Write out briefly the argument of the poem from this point, giving only the principal thoughts advanced. (Suggestion: "In a short time death will claim you, and your b9dy will be placed in the earth to be resolved again into its elements. Yet you wUl not go alone, for you wiU find there the beautifiil, the great, the good of aU ages," etc.) (5) What is the exact meaning of "Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth"? (6) What is the efEect on the mind of the image beginning "To be a brother to the insensible rock"? (7) What is the advantage of selecting the oak as the specific image in the thought of line 30? 536 American Literary Readings (8) Why does the poet represenfr'the earth as a magnificent couch in line 33? Does he revert to this image again? Where? (9) What characters are suggested to your mind by the phrase "patriarchs of the infant world"? (10) Why is the epithet "rock-ribbed" a par- ticularly happy one for the hiUs? (11) Read aloud the passage beginning "The hills" (line 37) and comment on the imagery of these eight lines. (12) Just what is suggested to your mind by the ex- pression "Take the wings of morning" (line 50)? This is echoed from the Bible; does this fact increase its efifectiveness here? (13) What are some of the "favorite phantoms" (line 64) that men pursue? (14) With what fine moral thought does Nature conclude her dis- course? (15) Analyze the beautiful imagery in which this thought is expressed. Do you see vividly the "innumerable caravan"' winding toward "the silent halls of death"? What do you think of the con- trast drawn in the last lines? What would be the exact interpretation of "dungeon" and "couch" in this passage? (16) Some have called this a pagan rather than a Christian poem, meaning thereby that there is nothing in it which a pa:gan philosopher might not have said. Do you think the omission of the Christian teachings of immorta.lity and resurrection of the body is a serious lack in the poem? Is there any- thing in the poem which- denies these doctrines? Is it necessary for a poet to mix his theology with his art? (17) In what meter is this poem written? Scan the first five lines. (18) Notice how many of the lines are run-on lines; that is, the sense runs on without a pause from line to line. There is not even a comma at the end of a single line of the first ten. What is the stylistic effect of this? Are the long-cadenced sentences well suited to the thought of the poem? (19) How would you characterize the tone quality, movement, and general manner of the style? (Suggestion: Melancholy, sonorous, deep-voiced; slow, stately, dignified; majestic, reposeful, restrained.) (20) Memorize the first eight and the last nine lines; and also lines 37 to 45. (21) Suggested composition subjects: How " Thanatopsis " Affects Me; Bryant's Treatment of Nature; Bryant's Indebtedness to Wordsworth; Comparison of "Thanatopsis" with Gray's "Elegy." To a Waterfowl (Bryant) INTRODUCTORY: This poem, first published in the North American Review, March, 1818, had its origin in a personal experience. On December 15, 1815, Bryant, who was then twenty-one years old and had just been adinitted to the bar, went to the little village of Plainfield a few miles from his father's home at Cummington in western Massachusetts, to see if he could find any encouragement for opening a law office there. Parke Godwin, his biographer, thus describes the incident as related by Bryant himself. "He felt, as he walked up the hUls, very forlorn and desolate indeed, not knowing what was to become of him in the big world, which grew bigger as he ascended, and yet darker with the coming on of night. The sun had already set, leaving behind it one of those brilliant seas of chrysolite and opal which often flood the New England skies; and while he was looking upon the rosy splendor with rapt admiration, a solitary bird made wing along the illuminated horizon. He watched the lone wanderer until it was lost in the dis- tance, asking himself whither it had come and to what far home it The Notes 537 was flying. When he went to the house where he was to stop for the night, his mind was still full of what he had seen and felt, and he wrote those lines, as imperishable as our language, 'To a Waterfowl.'" Matthew Arnold relates an incident of how Hartley Coleridge read "To a Waterfowl" to him, calling it "the best short poem in the language." Arnold admitted that he was not sure but that Coleridge was right in this Judgment. EXPLANATORY: 64 : 7. limned upon. Bryant first wrote "painted on " but changed it to "limned upon," and in a still later edition to "seen against" because he said the image of the bird floating, in the next line, was incongruous with the image of a painted picture, which is stationary. Another suggested reading was "shadowed on." Which of them all do you think is the best? (Many modem editions retain the reading "painted on.") 64 : 9. plashy. Marshy, watery. 64 : 10. marge. A poetical form of margin. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Why is the generic waterfowl used in the title rather than a specific term like wild duck? (2) What figure of speech pervades the entire poem? (Determine to whom the poet is speaking.) (3) In what mood and tone is the lyric written? Is there any jarring note in the whole composition? (3) Explain the figure of speech in the second line. (4) Why docS the poet say "vainly the fowler's eye might mark thy distant flight"? Was the bird high or low ia the air? (5) What do we call the power by which a bird knows exactly where to go? Is instinct in animals an evidence of a creative design in the universe? (6) Why are lines 15 and 16 most imaginative ones? (7) Explain why the poet calls the atmosphere cold and thin. (8) What transferred epithet do you note in line 19? (9) Is the poem just right in length? Could you read the six stanzas preceding "Thou'rt gone" white the waterfowl was still in sight? (10) Some critics have said that the addition of- the moral (last stanza) is inartistic and almost spoils the poem. Do you agree with this? Give your reasons. (11) Study the form of the stanza. It is composed of four lines in iambic rhythm, the first and fourth being trimeter and the second and third pentameter, the rime being alternate. It is a rare form, though not unknown in EngUsh lyric poetry, and was used by Bryant in several poems. Note also that each stanza is one complete sentence. Do these long, involved sentences add anything to the general effect of the style? (12) Memorize the poem. The Death of the Flowers (Bryant) INTRODUCTORY: This poem, which appeared in the second edition of Bryant's poems, 1832, was written in 1825. It commemorates the death of his sister, Sarah Snell Bryant, who died of consumption in the autiunn of 1824 at tl^e age of twenty- two. Though she was eight years younger than he, the poet was deeply attached to her, and always enjoyed her 538 American Literary Readings companionship. George W. Cable in writing of this poem speaks of "those exquisite notes of grief . . . which only draw the tear to fill it with the light of a perfect resignation." EXPLANATORY: 66 : 13. wind-flower. The anemone; called wind-flower because of its supposed affinity for the wind in its ear'y spring blossoming time. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (l) Outline the poem by stanzas. [Suggestion: (a) Picture of late autumn; (6) the flowers are all gone; (c) detailed catalogue of the flowers by seasons; (d) the south wind searches for but finds not the- flowers; (e) the death of the flowers brings thoughts of the death of his beautiful young sister who died in the autumn.] (2) Point out some of the best minute references to nature. (3) In what tone and mood is the poem written? (4) Do the long seven-stressed iambic lines add anything to the effect? Note that the pause regularly occurs after the fourth foot in each line, so that the effect is almost the same as a four-stressed followed by a three-stressed line. (5) Do you find a note of resignation in the poet's grief? Robert of Lincoln (Bryant) INTRODUCTORY: This poem appeared for the first time in the 1854 edition of Bryant's poems. It is entirely different from the body of his poetry, beiog brighter in tone, more distinctly musical, and lighted up with a touch of humor. EXPLANATORY: 68 : 57. Off is his holiday garment laid. In the summer after the nesting time, the black and white plumage of the male bird becomes a dark buff or brown like that of the fenjale. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) What is the lyric impulse of this song? Do you think Bryant was listening to the bird's song as he wrote? (2) Outline the progress of the thought. Do you "note any analogy between the domestic life of the birds and that of men? (3) Why is the female called a Quaker wife? (4) Does the poet accurately describe the appearance, song, and habits of these birds? (See any good encyclo- pedia or bird book for a description.) (5) Point out some slight touches of humor here and there in the poem. (6) What is the effect of the onomatopoetic refrain? Do you think the words are a good imitation of the bird's song? (7) What is the tone of the poem? (8) The meter is dactylic tetrameter, a rare form for lyric verse, but Bryant handles it very deftly. There are many substitutions of two-syllabled feet, both spondaic and trochaic, but the three-syllabled feet occur often enough to give the dactylic swing to the poem. The last foot in each line is catalectic, that is, the two light syllables are omitted. Scan the first stanza. The Notes S39 Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking (Whitman) INTRODUCTORY: This beautiful ode was first published in the Saturday Press, December 24, 1859, under the title "A Child's Reminiscences." The next year it was included in the third edition of Leaves of Grass (1860-1861) under the general title "A Word Out of the Sea" (later called "Sea Drift"), and the subtitle "Reminiscence" inserted just after line 23. EXPLANATORY: 80 : I. the cradle endlessly rocking. What is this? (See the title under which the poem appeared in the i860 edition, introductory note above.) 80 : 3. Ninth-month. September. This is the Quaker method of naming the months. See Fifth-month in line 24. 80 : 9. sad brother. This refers to the bird. See note on line 61. 80 : 12. thousand responses. Compare line 177. 80 : 14. the word stronger and more delicious than any. See line 168 for this word. 80 : 15. the scene revisiting. That is, as I revisit the scene. 80 : 23. Paumanok. The Indian name for Long Island and Whitman's favorite poetical designation of it. 8i : 26. Two feather'd guests. Two mocking-birds. See line 2. 82 : 61. my brother. Whitman, like Burns, looked upon animals as his fellow-mortals and brothers. See line 9 above and lines 70, 175 below, and also line 102 of "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd. " 82 : 66. white arms. That is, the jets of white spray, which re- mind the poet of a swimmer's white arms. 84: 133. fierce old mother. The ocean. So also "savage old mother," line 141. 85 : 140. the trio. The bird, the sea, and the boy's soul. 85 : 143. outsetting bard. At a certain time in Whitman's life he had what has been called his "conversion," when he became conscious of his genius and set himself the task of striking up a new world-song of democracy. He dates the first dawnings of his poetical aspirations from the influences of nature felt in his boyhood when the full meaning of the sad notes of the bird entered his soul. 85 : 144. Demon. Used here in the old sense of a spirit with supernatural intelligence, and not necessarily, as later, a wicked spirit. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (l) The opening stanza is one long introductory sentence, pre- paring us for the reminiscence of an incident in the man's boyhood experiences. See lines 18 to 22 for the main predicatioii. The full import of the material in this introduction cannot be appreciated until the end of the poem is reached. The boyhood reminiscence begins at line 23, and extends, to the close, but the recital is inter- spersed with the later experiences and thoughts of the man. Relate the incident in its simple outline. (2) What do you think of the metaphors in lines i and 2? If you have ever seen the ocean rocking or heard the mocking-bird singing, you can all the better understand the figures. (3) At what time of year does the man go back to the scene of his boyhood experience (see line 3)? Coimect this with the 540 American Literary Readings time of year of the boy's experience (line 24). (4) What is the func- tion of the bird's love song, lines 32-40? (Suggestion: Compare this song with the bird's later songs and the answer will be evident.) (5) Why is the bird's call (line 52-54) made so short? Do you know the mocking-bird's call to its mate as distinguished from its imitative song? Look up a good bird book or encyclopedia on this point. (6) Study carefully the bird's grief song. Notice how it opens with "Soothe! soothe! soothe!" as an onomatopoetic bird note, as well as a suggestion of the regular flow of the waves. Point out the different natural objects in which the bird looks for his mate. Notice, too, how the grief rises and falls and grows more intense toward the close when aU hope of recovering his mate seems gone. How does the last line (129) echo the burden of the love song (lines 35 and 40), and what is the effect of this? (7) What was the effect of the song on the boy's heart? (See note on line 143.) (8) Explain what is meant by the trio. (See note on line 140.) (9) Do you think fierce, or savage, old mother is a good synonym for the sea? Why? (10) What is the "drown'd secret" (line 142) which the ocean hisses? Why is it not revealed just yet? Is hissing (142 and 170) a good word to use in this connection? (11) How does the poet gradually lead up to the dis- closure of the one word, the power which sublimates and equalizes all things (see lines 158 to 168)? Whitman is undoubtedly the poet who has best sung the mysterious beauty of death. Death is the central and culminating point in his whole philosophy and the gate to a, sure immortality. (12) Read the introductory and concluding stanzas together and point out all similarities and echo phrases, and comment on the artistic effect of this device. (13) Study the peculiar rhythmic chant or monotone of the body of the poem, and note the variety of phrasal grouping in the lines. Note also how the songs are given a distinct lyrical impulse and tone without the ordinary conventions of rime, regular stanza, and ordered meter and rhythm. (14) Memorize the first bird song (lines 32-40). When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd (Whitman) INTRODUCTORY: This threnody and .the following grief lyric, "O Captain! My Captain!" are the first two of four poems called "Memorials of President Lincoln" in the final edition of Leaves of Crass. They were written in 1865 shortly after Lincoln's death by assassination, April 14-15, 1865, included in a supplemental volume called Sequel to Drum- Taps (1865), and afterwards bound up with some of the remaining unbound copies of Drum-Taps, which was just going through the press when the tragedy occurred. Whitman was at his home in Brooklyn with his mother when the news reached him. He thus records the ex- perience of April 15, 1865: "Mother prepared breakfast — ^and other meals afterwards — as usual; but not a mouthful was eaten all day by either of us. We each drank half a cup of coffee; that was all. Little was said. We got every newspaper morning and evening, and the frequent extras of that period, and pass'd them silently to each other." In Specimen Days, p. 68, under date of April 16, 1865, is given Whitman's estimate of Lincoln: "He leaves for America's history and biography, so far, not only its most dramatic reminiscence — he leaves, in my opinion, the greatest, best, most characteristic, artistic, moral The Notes 54 1 personality. Not but that he had faults, and show'd them in the • presidency; but honesty, goodness, shrewdness, conscience, and (a new virtue, unknown to other lands, and hardly yet really known here, but the foundation tie of all, as the future will grandly develop) Unionism, in its truest and amplest sense, form'd the hard-pan of his character. These he seal'd with his life. The tragic splendor of his death, purging, illuminating all, throws round his form, his head, an aureole that will remain and will grow brighter through time, while history lives and love of country lasts." v The lilacs were in bloom in Brooklyn, and the odor of this favorite flower was naturally associated in the poet's mind with the death of the great President. Whitman had never been personally introduced to President Lincoln, but while he was working in the hospitals at Washington he had frequently seen the President going on his rides, and had recorded in his notes his impressions of the man. Lincoln, too, knew Whitman at sight and now and then exchanged cordial bows with him. On the occasion of Whitman's being pointed out to him, Lincoln remarked with peculiar emphasis on his words, "Well, he looks like a man." ( These two poems of Whitman's are undoubtedly the finest poetical tribute paid to the martyred president. "O Captain! My Captain!" is better known perhaps, because it is briefer and because it is written in the regular technical form of lyric verse. But the threnody, "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd," written in Whitman's char- acteristic recitative, or free verse, with the fine lyric interlude of the song of the hermit thrush, is the greater poem and certaiqjy reaches the high-water mark of Whitman's genius. Swinburne in a character- istic outburst of early enthusiasm said that it was ' ' the most sonorous anthem ever chanted in the church of the world." EXPLANATORY: 87 : I. lilacs. The lilac was a favorite flower with Whitman. At the old family homestead on Long Island there grew great clusters of these beautiful and fragrant blossoms. At Brooklyn, where Whitman was when he heard of the death of Lincoln, there were many yards with lilac borders, but in imagination the poet has associated the scene of his dirge with its threefold symbol, the lilac, the star, and the bird, around the old homestead at West HUls. 87 : 2. great star. Venus, the brightest of the planets, is seen low in the west in the spring. Whitman seems to identify the star with Lincoln, the sinking of the star into darkness representing Lincoln's death. 87 : 9. murk. An archaic word meaning darkness. What does it typify if Lincoln is the sinking star? (See the preceding note.) 87 : 20-2 1 . the thrush, The hermit. The North American hermit thrush, a shy and retiring bird with olive-brownish plumage, is a beautiful singer. 88 : 32. Night and day journeys a coffin. Lincoln's body was carried to Springfield, Illinois, for burial. On its journey of two thousand miles, throngs of people assembled all along the way to do honor to the dead president. 89 : 55. western orb. The evening star. 89 : 56. a month since I walk'd. This probably refers to a real incident recorded in Specimen Days (p. 43): "I see the President ( 542 American Literary Readings almost every day, as I happen to live where he passes to or from his lodgings out of town. He never sleeps at the White House during the hot season, but has quarters at a healthy location some three miles north, the Soldiers' Home, a United States military establish- ment . . I see very plainly Abraham Lincoln's dark brown face, with the deep-cut lines, the eyes, always to me, with a deep latent sadness in the expression . . . They pass'd me once very close, and I saw the President in the face fully, as they were moving slowly, and his look, though abstracted, happen'd to be directed steadily in my eye. He bow'd and smiled, but far beneath his smile I noticed well the expression I have alluded to. None of the artists or pictures has caught the deep, though subtle and indirect, expression of this man's face. There is something else there. One of the great portrait painters of two or three centuries ago is needed." 90 : 67. singer bashful and tender. The poet here reverts to the thrush to keep the reader from forgetting the bird which is later to sing the "Death Carol." 90 : 78. what shall I hang on the chamber walls? It was custom- ary in ancient times to hang votive emblems on the walls of the temples in honor of victory, dead heroes, etc. Whitman has here adapted this custom to his purposes in introducing the decorations for Lincoln's tomb. 90: 82. Fourth-month. April. See " Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking" (lines 3 and 24). 91 : 90. Manhattan. New York City, the heart of which is located on Manharttan Island. Whitman called this his city, and practically always used some form of the old Indian name to designate it. 93 : 134. tallied the song of the bird. Tally means to score with corresponding notches on two sticks; hence 'the meaning here is that the poet's soul echoed the song of the bird word for word. Whitman was very fond of this expression. See lines 163, 187, 200 below. 95 : 204. the sweetest, wisest soul. See introductory note, quo- tations from Specimen Days (p. 68). THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Try to put yourself in the proper mood for reading this great poem on death. Recall all you know and think and feel regarding Abraham Lincoln, and try to imagine how his tragic death affected the nation, and especially Walt Whitman, the poet whose love for democratic America was all-encompassing. Recall the form, color, and odor of lilacs, and associate this flower with Lincoln's death as Whitman did. Then imagine the poet sitting on the veranda of his ancestral farm home, beside the door of which the lilacs were blooming, looking out over the west just as night came on and the beautiful evening star was slowly sinking behind the horizon and the solitary hermit thrush- was soulfuUy singing in the dark swamp. The^e three objects become the motifs or lyrical symbols of the hymn. Now begin to read in a slow, solemn tone, thinking soberly and deeply as you read, following the poet in his imaginative flights and re-creating his mood from stanza to stanza as nearly as you can. (2) After you have read the poem straight through in this way, go back and study its structure. Notice the ode form in which this threnody, or dirge, is written. The stanzas vary in length as the intensity of the emotion increases or subsides. Note how skillfully the three concrete symbols The Notes 543 are woven together for a unified final effect. Point out some of the most intense passages, and indicate some of the places where the poet consciously injects one or the other of the three symbols just to keep them all before the reader's mind. Now, take up the poem in detail. The following questions will aid you in this study. (3) What two concrete images are associated with the poet's grief in the first stanza? (4) Why is the second stanza written in such broken, exclamatory style? (5) How does the tone change in the third stanza? (6) To what single object is the third stanza devoted, and why? (7) What third motif, or symbol, is introduced in the fourth stanza? Why is the song spoken of as from a "bleeding throat"? Why is it called "Death's outlet song of life"? (8) What procession does the poet have in mind in the fifth stanza? Is the railroad journey clearly presented to your mind? What elements of beauty enter the de- scription? (9) What picture is presented in the sixth stanza? How are the third and sixth stanzas united? (10) In the seventh stanza, which is parenthetical, how does the poet broaden the theme so as to make a imiversal application of the specific instance? (11) To what symbol does the poet revert in the eighth stanza? Do you think Lincoln himself might be the star that was so full of sorrow (see note on line 56)? (12) 'Why does the poet stop to mention the bird again in stanza 9? Where does he next introduce the bird, and for what purpose? At what point in the progress of the poem is the bird's carol introduced? Has this climax been carefuUy prepared for? (13) What beautiful new thought is given in the tenth stanza? (14) Give the decorative pictures as presented in stanza 11. (ig) In stanza 12 the poet offers the whole of America, body and soul, city and country, as a decorative tribute for the dead President's tomb. How does he manage to encompass in brief space the whole land with all its sections? (16) What is the function of stanza 13? (Note how all three symbols are united here.) (17) How does staiaza 14 summarize and enrich the picture, and at the same time present a new and startling imaginative vision? What is the distinction you would make between the companions that hold the poet by either hand? (18) What do you think of the bird's carol on death? Why is it called a carol instead of a lament? Did you ever think of death as an object of praise and glorification and joyous thanksgiving? Is it the bird or Whitman's soul that really sings this carol? How does the poet indicate that his soul responds to every word .that the bird sings? (19) What visions did the song of the bird bring to the poet (stanza 15), and what new thought came to him about the dead? (20) How does he dismiss and yet retain in his mind all the symbols and companions his grief-stricken imagination has conjured up? Quote from memory the last four lines of the poem. (21) Do you notice how the song of the bird and the scenes of nature have softened and quieted the poet's grief? Quote a passage from Bryant in this connection. (22) What peculiarities of style do you find in this poem? Is the punctuation always conventional? Are the sentences always complete; that is, do they always have the predicate and subject fully stated? Are Whitman's rhythmic chants like anything else you have read in this book? (23) Suggestions for compositions: Whitman's Portrayal of Nature; Whitman, the Poet of Democracy; Why I Think Whitman is (or is not) the Greatest American Poet; Walt Whitman and Abraham Lincoln. 544 American Literary Readings O Captain! My Captain! (Whitman) INTRODUCTORY: See the introductory note to "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd," p. 540. EXPLANATORY: 96: 2. rack. Storm, shipwreck; cognate with wrack, an obsolete form of wreck. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Under what figure does Whitman conceive the Union and at what critical moment in- our history? Who is the Captain? (2) What is the meaning of "the prize we sought is won"? Do you catch the full vision of the grand old ship coming into the harbor of peace after the great Civil War? (3) Give the circumstances of Lincoln's death. Does the image of the Captain fallen on the deck in his own blood fit the facts? (4) Why does Whitman call Lincoln "dear father" (lines 3 and 8) ? (5) What is the meaning of the bells, flags, etc., as indicated in stanza 2 ? In what respect does the tone of. this stanza differ from the tone of the next stanzaj" (6) How are the two notes of rejoicing and sorrow mingled in the final stanza? (7) Study the form of this lyric, noting that it has regular iambic rhythm, rime, and refrain, and is similar to conventional lyrics and entirely different from most of Whitman's poetry. Point out one example of rime within the line and one faulty end rime. (8) Compare this poem with the closing lines of Longfellow's "The Building of the Ship," beginning "Thou too sail on, O Ship of State." The Mystic Trumpeter (Whitman) INTRODUCTORY: This noble chant was first published in 1872 with the poem "As a Strong Bird on Pinions Free," which had been recited by the poet at the Commencement celebration of Dartmouth College that year. EXPLANATORY: 97. The Mystic Trumpeter. This shadowy musician is symbolic of the poet's ideal or creative imagination; and by identifying himself with the trumpeter. Whitman partially expresses his own poetic creed and what he hoped to effect by his poetry. 97 : 24. troubadours. The medieval poets of certain parts of France, Spain, and Italy who sang principally of love and war. 98 : 25. holy Craal. The Holy Grail. See the note on Lowell's "Vision of Sir Launfal," p. 599. 98 : 36. alembic. A glass distilling vessel. Expoimd the figura- tive use here. 100 : 71. bacchanals. Devotees of Bacchus, the god of wine THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Show how the poet first hears, then invokes, the mystic trum- peter (stanzas I and 2). (2) Just what is typified in this mysterious musician? (3) What is the first effect of the trumpet's free, clear note on the poet (stanza 3)? (4) What theme is developed in the fourth The Notes S4S stanza? Does this stanza summarize for you all that you have ever read of the feudal ages? (5) Why does the chant become more intense and more emotional in the fifth stanza? (6) What is the subject of the sixth stanza? (7) What thoughts seem to oppress the poet's spirit in the seventh stanza? Is it true that at times the whole world seems going wrong? (8) What striking contrast to stanza 7 is devel- oped in stanza 8? Does this seem to indicate Whitman's funda- mental optimism? In this final stanza Whitman sketches the ideal toward which he believed democratic America was tending. (9) Does this poem read more easily and naturally than the preceding long poems by Whitman? What is the chief difference in style between this and the other poems you have read? (10) Compare this poem with Dryden's "Alexander's Feast," and determine which of the two you think is the finer poetical production. Heroism (Emerson) INTRODUCTORY: Emerson delivered, a lecture on heroism in Boston during the winter of 1 837-1 838. l"his essay is probably a revision of that lecture. It occurs in the Essays, First Series, published in 1841. Only the quotation from Mahomet appeared as a motto heading in the first edition, but in later editions the additional lines composed by Emerson to fit the thought of the essay were inserted. Read these mottoes carefully; notice how admirably they suggest and summarize the thought of the essay. > EXPLANATORY: 106 : 15. Rodrigo, Pedro or Valeria. Names of characters in several plays by Beaumont and Fletcher, English dramatists of the time of Shakespeare. 106 : 21. Bonduca, Sophocles, etc. Names of plays by Beaumont and Fletcher. Sophocles is reaUy not a play but the name of a promi- nent character in the Triumph of Honor, one of four short plays or "triumphs" included under the title Four Plays in One. The long quotation just below is taken from Scene i of the Triumph of Honor. 107 : 34. Ariadne's crown. A constellation. Look up the whole beautiful story of Ariadne in classic mythology and report on it in class. 107 : 58. Strike, strike, Valerius. That is, lower your weapon, stop the punishment of Sophocles and Dorigen. 107: 82. flutes . . . fife. The flute is typical of soft, voluptuous music ; the fife of vigorous, martial, heroic strains. 108 : 86. Lord Evandale. In chapter 42 of Scott's Old Mortality Burley's characterization of Lord Evandale may be found. 108: 91. a song or two. Such perhaps as "Scots Wha Ha' wi' Wallace Bled" and "A Man's a Man for a' That." io8 : 91. Harleian Miscellanies. Robert Harley, first Earl of Oxford (1661-1724), collected many rare books and pamphlets. These are now to be found in the library at Oxford University. In Vol. IV, p. 197, of the published series (1808) there is a spirited account of the battle of Ltitzen (1632) between Gustavus Adolphus, King of Sweden, and Wallenstein, the great general fighting under Ferdinand II, King 546 American Literary Readings of Bohemia. Gustavus Adolphus won a great victory but lost his life. io8 : 93. Simon Ockley. English Arabic scholar and historian; died 1720. 108 : 98. Plutarch. A Greek historian of the first century who wrote the lives of many ancient heroes, statesmen, and philosophers. Some of them are named in the text. Read several of these heroic biographies, and see if you do not become interested enough to read more of the "Lives." 108 : 117. insanity that makes him eat grass. See the story of King Nebuchadnezzar in Daniel 4:33. 109 : 141. hero is a mind. That is, he possesses a mind, etc. 109 : 150. Heroism feels and never reasons. Emerson believed more in intuitive insight into truth than in the products of the logical or reasoning faculties. no : 182. Plotinus. A Greco-Egyptian philosopher of the third century who exalted the ideal or spiritual to the neglect of the physical or materialistic. no: 184. cats' -cradles. A child's game made by looping a string over the fingers so as to form imitative figures. Compare Job's coffin, crow's feet, etc. ' no : 189. the great hoax. That is, the world, life. Compare this passage with Shakespeare's "seven ages of man," As You Like It, II: vii. Ill : 195. "Indeed . . " The quotation is from Henry IV, Part II, II: ii. See also Hotspur's famous speech in Henry IV, Part I, I: iii, in which he flays "a certain lord," a "popinjay," who came to demand prisoners of him. Ill : 207. Ihn Haukal. An Arabian geographer; died 976. Emerson must have read the account in Sir William Ouseley's trans- lation, "The Oriental Geography of Ibn Haukul" (l8oo). This illustrates Emerson's habit of. using unusual and obscure allusions. 111 : ,220. put God under obligation. The same idea is expressed in the essay on Compensation, p. 134, "Put God in your debt." 112 : 229. bannocks. Coarse barley or oatmeal- griddle cakes used by the peasants in northern England and Scotland. 112 : 238. . John Eliot (1604- 1 690). The Apostle to the Indians. He lived among the Indians, teaching and preaching to them. He translated the Bible into the Indian 'language. 112 : 242. King David. Repeat the story as told in I Chronicles 11: 15-19. 112:245. Brutus. Marcus Junius Brutus (85-42 B.C.), the friend and one of the assassins of Julius Caesar. Efforts to locate the source of Emerson's information concerning the story that Brutus thus quotes this line have been unsuccessful. Shakespeare in Julius Caesar, follow- ing Plutarch's "Life," makes Brutus say, "My heart doth joy that yet in all my life I found no man but he was true to me. I shall have glory by this losing day More than Octavius and Mark Antony By this vile conquest shall attain unto." — V: v, 112 : 260. Scipio. The Roman general who destroyed Carthage, 146 B.C. 113:264. Socrates. A celebrated Greek philosopher; died 390 B.C. The Pryteneum was a palace where distinguished guests were entertained The Notes S47 by the state free of charge. Socrates playfully declared that he ought to be entertained there for life. 113 : 265. Sir Thomas More. An English nobleman who was beheaded as a traitor in 1535 in the reign of Henry VIII. It is said that when he mounted the scaffold he asked a friend to help him up, and then remarked, "When I come down, I can shift for myself." He is the author of the famous Latin romance Utopia. 113 : 269. The quotation is from The Sea Voyage, IV: iii. 113 : 280. Blue-Laws. In the early colonial governments, par- ticularly in New Haven, Connecticut, the laws were very strict and puritanical in character. Hence any harsh, restraining law is called a blue law. 114 : 309. That country is the fairest which is inhabited by the noblest minds. Compare with Ruskin's saying, "That country is richest which nourishes the greatest number of noble and happy human beings." 114 : 312. Pericles, etc. Pericles (died 429 B.C.), Greek states- man; Xenophon (died 357), Greek historian; Columbus (died 1506), Spanish explofer, discovered America, 1492; Bayard, Chevalier de (died 1524), French hero, the knight sans peur et sans reproche, "with- out fear and without reproach"; Sidney, Sir Philip (died 1586), an English nobleman, soldier, and author; or perhaps Emerson had in mind Algernon Charles Sidney (died 1683), an English patriot executed for alleged complicity in the Rye House Plot. Hampden, John (died 1643), English statesman, opposed ship tax of Charles I. All these men suffered reverses and exhibited notable traits of heroism and unselfishness in their troubles. 114:333- Sappho, or Sevigne, or De Stael. Three notable women, the first a lyric poet of ancient Greece, the second and third noted French writers and clever conversationalists. lis '• 336. Themis. The wife of Zeus; she was. the goddess of law and order and absolute right. Note the appropriateness of this appeal to a female goddess. 1 15 '■ 339- ^^t '^^ maiden ... to end of paragraph. This passage is worth committing to memory. lis • 365. "Always do," etc. This advice is said to have been given to Emerson by his eccentric but strong-minded aunt. Miss Mary Moody Emerson. Do. you think it is good advice? Why? 115:368. Phocion. A noted Athenian aristocrat, statesman, and soldier; died 317 b.c. He opposed the policy of Demosthenes in regard to the war against Philip of Macedon, preferring instead to make peace. 116 : 384. asceticism. The doctrine of extreme self-denial, absti- nence, austerity, and the like, in order to gain perfection of character. 117 : 404. Lovejoy. In 1837 the Reverend Elijah P. Lovejoy, a Presbyterian minister, was killed by a mob in Alton, Illinois, for persistence in his right to pubUsh freely his articles against negro slavery. Note how strongly Emerson voices his own feelings through this example. If possible, read the fidl account of Lovejoy's martyrdom in the Centenary Edition of Emerson's works. Vol. II, p. 424. 117: 410. stablish. Establish. The old form occurs frequently in the King James Version of the Bible. Does Emerson gain anything by choosing this archaic form of the word? 117 : 426. "Let them rave." Imperfectly quoted from one of Tennyson's early poems, "A Dirge." 548 American Literary Readings 117 : 438. conversation. Here used in the sense of intercourse, association, connection. 117 : 439. sooner than treacherous. That is, the love that will be annihilated sooner than it will prove to be treacherous, etc. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Test by your own reading the following outline by paragraphs: I . The heroic in early English dramatic literature. 2 . Modern literature has some touches of the heroic, but Plutarch is the great source book of heroism. 3. Need for such examples. 4. Education must forewarn and arm the youth so as to prepare him for life's warfare. 5. Defini- tion of heroism; how it expresses itself in its rudest forms. 6. Heroism cuts across accepted ideas of prudence and conventional life and proves its right to do so. 7. Heroism trusts itself and despises the little, piddling, prudent care of the body. 8. Heroism does not count the cost of hospitality, but is magnanimous. 9. The hero is temperate and never demands luxuries for himself. 10. The heroic soul clingS'to virtue; yields not to personal ease and comfort.. II. Abq^e all the hero is good-humored and sportive even amid the hardships and crises of life. 12. The perennial interest in heroes and heroic literature is due to the fact that, no matter what our circumstances may be, we are capable of becoming heroic and appropriating the hero's virtues in our own lives. 13. The aspiration of youth-, even though it may never ripen, springs from the heroic instinct and is its own reward. 14. Heroism is consistently persistent even when the outcome seems contradictory. 15. The heroic soul never worries over apparent blunders or indiscretions. 16. The fortunate should subject them- selves to some form of asceticism in order to develop heroic qualities. 17. All ages, even the most prosaic, offer opportunities to test heroism. 18. Trust yourself; prepare for the personal heroic crisis, for whatever has happened to men may happen again. 19. The hero can rest peace- fully when he has done his best according to the light that is in him. (2) Does Emerson stick to his subject throughout the essay? Can you see any regular plan or orderliness in the development of the theme? If so, make some larger headings covering groups of paragraphs. [Suggestion: Introductory thoughts on heroism (paragraphs 1-4); definition and specific qualities of heroism (paragraphs 5-1 1 ) ; some evi- dences of the heroic spirit in everyday life (paragraphs 12-19)]. (s) ^^ paragraph I, what is the function of sentences I and 2, which speak of gentility in the older English dramatists? What is the main topic of this paragraph? Do you think the long quotation justifies Emerson's high opinion of its heroic quality? What does Dorigen mean by " With this tie up my sight"? What does Martius mean by saying his heart will leap out of his mouth? (4) Have you read any of the modem literature referred to in paragraph 2? If so, how well do you think the examples are chosen? If not, read one or two of the specimens and make your decision as to their fitness in illustrating the point. (S) Look up the meaning of stoicism (paragraph 2), cathartic (paragraph 3), urbanity (paragraph 4). Write out the definitions of these and seven other words of your own selection in this essay, giving the special sense in which each is used in the text. (6) Explain the fitness of the examples of good humor and hilarity in paragraph 9. (7) Exactly what is meant by "Let us find room for this guest in our small houses, " paragraph 12? (8) Work out carefully the The Notes 549 thought of the beautiful final sentence of the essay. Does Emerson believe in immortality? (9) Select and memorize one good passage from each of the following paragraphs: 12, 13, 14, 17, 19. Compensation (Emerson) INTRODUCTORY: Whether this essay was first delivered as a lecture is now a matter of conjecture, but there is no doubt that Emerson was early impressed with the universal application of the law of compensation, and he probably introduced into his first lectures some of the ideas now incorporated in the essay. In June, 1831, he wrote in his Journal a considerable note on compensation, among other things saying, "Is not the law of Compensation perfect? It holds, as far as we can see, different gifts to different individuals, but with a mortgage of respon- sibility on every one . . I have nothing charactered on my brain that outlives this word Compensation." The essay was published in Essays, First Series, 1841, and it has since held the foremost or very nearly the foremost place in popularity among all Emerson's essays. EXPLANATORY: 118: 8. Electric star and pencil. Probably refers to comets and shooting stars. 118: II. makeweight. An insignificant weight or bit of matter used to make up a true balance. 118: 18. None from its stock that vine can reave. That is, the vine cannot take away anything from the tree on which it grows. 118: 20. There's no god . What is the meaning of this line? Note the striking paradox. 120 : loi. the following chapter. The next essay — namely, on "Spiritual Laws." > 120 : 105. Polarity. The quality of possessing opposite poles or contrasted characteristics. This is the keyword to the body of the essay. Notice the emphatic position in which it is placed in the paragraph. 120: no. systole and diastole. Systole is the contraction of the heart which drives the blood outward; diastole is the expansion which draws the blood inward. 122: 163. intenerate. Make tender or soft ; from Latin teraer, tender. 123 : 177. bear witness to the light. A reminiscence of John 1:7. Similarly "hate father and mother," in the next sentence, is an adapta- tion of Luke 14:26. 123 : 186. Res nolunt, etc. Translated in the preceding sentence of the text. 123 : 218. The world globes itself in a drop of dew. In what sense? 124 : 229. Thus is the universe alive. Emerson believed in a universal soul, a world soul, and an individual soul of man, all as parts of one great soul system. Read the essay on "The Oversoul." 124 : 232. " It is in the world," etc. A reminiscence of John i : 10. 124: 235. The dice of God, etc. A translation of the preceding quotation from the Greek. 125 : 272. soul says, 'Eat'; the body would feast. See the parable of the rich fool (Luke 12:16-21), "Eat, drink, and be merry." 125 : 273. one flesh. "And Adam said: This is bone of my bone 550 American Literary Readings and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called woman . . . and they shall be one flesh" (Genesis 2:23, 24). 125: 275. dominion over all things. See Genesis 1:26. 125: 278. All things shall be added unto it. "Seek ye first the Kingdom of God and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you" (Matthew 6:33). 125 : 281. truck and higgle. To barter and contend over a bargain. 126 : 295. "Drive out Nature," etc. An old Latin saying quoted by Horace in the first of his Epistles. 126 ; 314. "How secret," etc. From the Confessions of Saint Augustine. 126 : 324. Prometheus. Look up the story of Prometheus and the other classical allusions in this paragraph. Prometheus knew how Jupiter was to be overthrown. 126: 328. "Of all the gods," etc. Translated from a speech by Athena, or Minerva, in the Eumenides ("Furies"), a drama by Aeschy- lus. Emerson quotes from R. Potter's poetical translation, London, 1779, Vol. 11, p. 288. 127 : 331. A plain confession. The verb is omitted. Supply it. 127 : 338. Siegfried. Hero of the German epic "Niebelungenlied." 127 : 348. Nemesis. The goddess of retribution. The other allusions in this paragraph may be verified in a classic mythology. 127 : 354. belt which Ajax gave Hector, etc. After a personal combat Ajax and Hector exchanged arms; later Ajax committed suicide, with Hector's sword ; and when Achilles killed Hector and dragged his body around Troy, he used the belt of Ajax to fasten Hector's body to his chariot. See the Iliad for fuller details. 127 : 358. Theagenes. This explains how a wall (line 352) may punish a wrong, just as the sword and belt had done in the instances mentioned above. 128: 369. Phidias. The greatest of Greek sculptors; died 432 B.C. 129 : 424. vulgar. Common; from the Latin vulgus,Xhe common people. 130 : 446. obscene bird. That is, the carrion crow Fear. Obscene is here used in the originaL Latin sense of iU-omened. 130 • 450. emerald of Polycrates. Polycrates, tyrant of Samos, was so fortunate that he was warned that he must suffer some loss or injury, or else he would incur the envy of the gods and receive severe punishment. He threw into the sea an emerald ring, one of his most cherished treasures, but in a little while it was found in the stomach of a fish and restored to him. The story goes that shortly afterwards Polycrates was taken by his enemies and crucified. 130 : 452. noble asceticism and vicarious virtue. Noble asceticism means the noble desire to suppress or sacrifice one's self for the soul's good; vicarious virtue means the substitution of another's virtue for our own, as when we say Christ's virtue is a substitute for our sins. 130 : 456. scot and lot. In old English law, a tax levied according to one's ability to pay. The sense here is, to pay up fully all one's obligations or debts. Read in this connection what is said in the next paragraph, "Always pay," etc. 131 : 507. his honest care. What is the antecedent of his? The antecedent really follows rather than precedes in this case. 132 : 518. leger. An archaic form of ledgnr. 132 : 542, Love, and you shall be loved. In form this sentence The Notes 55 1 echoes Matthew 7:7, "Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and you shall find," etc. 133 : 550. Winds blow, etc. Quoted from Wordsworth's sonnet beginning "Inland, within a hollow vale I stood." 133 • 554- As no man had ever a point of pride, etc. See the quota- tion from Burke in paragraph 28. 134 • 580. cicatrizes. Forms a scar. 134 : 602. Put God in your debt. The same thought occurs in the essay on "Heroism." Locate it. 134 : 610. traversing its work. That is, contradicting reason's work. 136 : 670. His life. That is, the upright or virtuous life. 137! 705- I am my brother. A reminiscence of " Am I my brother's keeper?" (Genesis 4:9). 137 : 715- wi/. Used in the sense of knowledge, insight. 137 : 722. as the shell-fish crawls out. Compare the thought with that of Holmes's "Chambered Nautilus," p. 318. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: General, (i) What general idea does Emerson develop in the Introduction, paragraphs i to 6? (2) Do you agree with the preacher (paragraph 2) or with Emerson (paragraph 4) in regard to true success? (3) What is the main teaching of the body of the essay as indicated in paragraph 7? (4) Take the following suggestions and make a complete outline of the essay, condensing and restating where possible, and indicating the number of paragraphs in each division; then fill in the subdivisions by giving the paragraph topics: I. Reasons for the desirability of writing on the law of compensation. II. The law of polarity or dualism exists in all nature (a) as seen in the material world; (6) as seen in the moral and spiritual world; (c) as seen in the records of literature and art; (d) as applied to practical life; (e) as applied to labor; (/) as applied to virtue and vice; (g) as applied to the nature of the soul; (h) as seen in the calamities of life. (5) Is the evolution of the thought of the essay as indicated in the foregoing out- line logical and effective? Are the relations between the parts perfectly evident, or do you have some trouble in coordinating the various thought units? (6) Do you think Emerson paid a great deal of attention to the sequence and arrangement of his paragraphs? Of his sentences or thought units within the paragraph? What effect kas. his habit on the reader's attention? (7) Does Emerson appeal to our logical faculties or largely to our emotional and imaginative faculties? Is he convincing? Inspiring? (8) What did you think of this essay as a whole when you first read it? What do you think of it after study- ing it more closely? (9) Compare the structure and style of this essay with the structure and style of the essay on "Heroism." Specific, (i) What thought does the first headpiece or motto express? The second? Are the mottoes appropriate for this essay? (2) What is the relation between paragraphs 2 and 3? 2 and 4? 5 and I? (3) What is the function of the short paragraph 6? What was Emerson's real purpose in writing the essay? (4) Point out examples of concrete rather than general terms in paragraphs 3, 9, 14. Note other examples throughout the essay. (5) Explain "If riches increase, they are increased that use them," and "Nature takes out of the man what she puts into his chest," in paragraph 10. (6) Have 552 American letter dry Keadtngs you known or read of instances which illustrate the thought of the latter part of paragraph lo? What about Silas Mamer? (7) "Eyes, ears ... all find room to consist in the small creature," paragraph 14; is this literally true? (8) In what sense is the King of England helpless (paragraph 21)? (9) Are the figures and illustration in para- graph 27 effective? Why? (10) Explain why the proverb "I will get it from his purse or get it from his skin," paragraph 28, is sound phi- losophy. Read paragraph 29 in this connection. (11) Prove from your own experience the truth expressed in paragraph 29. (12) "Our property is timid," etc., paragraph 30. Why? (13) Explain the thought of paragraph 31. Look up the notes on this paragraph. (14) Illustrate from your own experience or observation the sayings in paragraph 32, "He had better have broken his own bones than to have ridden in his neighbor's coach," and "The highest price he can pay for a thing is to ask for it." (15) Make a practical application to your school work of the thought in the last sentence of paragraph 34. (16) Does Emerson mean to teach that a man is better for his faults or merely that a man's faults may at times be of distinct advantage to him? (17) Why is it wise to throw one's self on the side of one's assailants (paragraph 39)? (18) Who is the "third silent party to all our bargains" (paragraph 40)? (19) "If you serve an ungrateful master, serve him the more" (paragraph 40). If you had a hard teacher or one whom you did not like, would it be wise to refuse to do your best work for him? Why? (20) What is Emerson's defini- tion of a mob (paragraph 41)? Why is it a good one? (21) In con- nection with paragraph 41 read paragraph 17 of the essay on Heroism and the note on Alexander Lovejoy (p. 523) as an example of mob violence. Can you give other examples? (22) Is the doctrine of compensation fatalistic, that is, does it free us from the duty of attempting to do something worth while in life? (Read paragraph 42, and note the discussion of the nature of the soul which immediately follows.) (23) Can you really understand all that is said in paragraph 43? Try to express the thought in your own words. (24) Why is the criminal always punished, even though we do not see any "stun- ning confutation" (paragraph 44) of his deeds? (25) Most children wish to find a pot of gold. Why does Emerson say he no longer wishes to do this (paragraph 46)? (26) "I am my brother and my brother is me" (paragraph 47). What Bible story does this suggest? (27) In what sense are Jesus and Shakespeare fragments of the soul? "His virtue . . . his wit"; whose virtue and whose wit (paragraph 47)? (28) Under what conditions may we make absolute gain with- out suffering loss (paragraphs 45 and 46)? Can you give examples froni your own experience when calamities have strengthened and helped you in your development (paragraph 50) ? (29) Locate in the text and memorize the following passages: i. "The world globes itself in a drop of dew." 2. "Punishment is a fruit that unsuspected ripens within the flower of the pleasure whieh concealed it." 3. "You cannot do wrong without suffering wrong." 4. "He is base — and that is the one base thing in the universe — to receive favors and render none." 5. "The thief steals from himself. The swindler swindles himself." 6. "Do the thing, and you shall have the power; but they who do not the thing have not the power." 7. "Commit a crime, and the earth is made of glass." 8. "Love, and ye shall be loved." 9. "We cannot let our angels go. We do not see that they only go The Notes 553 out, that archangels may come in." lo. "The voice of the Ahnighty saith, 'Up and onward forevermore!'" (30) Select and copy five other passages which strike you as being especially good. (31) Select and copy six good figures of speech (see paragraphs i, 10, 15, 16, 27, 30) and name each figure. (32) Note the short, snappy, epigram- matic predications in paragraphs 42 and 43. Is this a characteristic of Emerson's style? Point out similar examples in this essay and in the essay on Heroism. (34) What is Emerson's habit in regard to using quotations or references from the Bible? See paragraphs 11, 15, 17, 18, etc., and the notes on these paragraphs. Concord Hymn (Emerson) INTRODUCTORY: In the early editions of Emerson's poems the subtitle gives the date as April 19, 1836, but the monument was not completed and dedicated until July 4, 1837. (See Emerson's Works, Centenary Edition, Vol. IX, p. 454.) Emerson in the bi-centennial "Historical Address," September 12, 1835, gives fuU details of the battle and its significance. In this address he spoke of "the poor farmers who came up that day to defend their native soU." Emerson's grandfather, William Emerson, minister of Concord, watched the battle from his window in the Old Manse, and encouraged the "embattled farmers" to stand their ground. Says Oliver Wendell Holmes, "Of all Emer- son's poems the 'Concord Hymn' is the most complete and faultless. Compact, expressive, serene, solemn, musical, in four brief stanzas it tells the story of the past, records the commemorative act of the passing day, and invokes the higher power that governs the future to protect the memorial stone sacred to Freedom and her martyrs." EXPLANATORY: 139: I. rude -bridge. A rude wooden bridge spanned the river just where the battle was fought. The monument is placed within a few yards of this bridge. 139 : 2. April's breeze. The battle occurred April 19, 1775. 139 : 8. creeps. The Concord River is a very sluggish stream at this point. 139 : 10. votive stone. A stone set up in fulfillment of a vow. The first stanza of Emerson's " Hymn " is now engraved on one face of the monument. 139: II. redeem. Here used in the sense of recall. Why did Emerson use this word? 139 • 13- Spirit. The spirit of Hberty or freedom. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) What kind of poem is this? (2) The first two stanzas give us what? The third stanza treats of what? To what does the poet appeal in the final stanza? (3) Give the story of the battle as recorded in your textbook on United States history. (Read "Paul Revere's Ride" in this connection.) Notice how perfectly the lyric motive of patriotic reverence and gratitude is embodied. (4) Which do you 554 American Literary Readings think will be more enduring, Emerson's "Hynm" or the monument itself? (5) What is the exact meaning oi flood in line I? In what sense was "the shot heard round the world"? (6) In what rhythm and meter is the poem written? Notice in reading the lines rhythmi- cally that certain variations of the regular iambic measure occur here and there. In the first line the first foot (By the) is a pyrrhic, or two light syllables; but this is compensated for in the second foot (rude bridge) by a spondee, or two heavy, full syllables. In reading lines 6 and 11, the words conqueror and memory should be compressed into two syllables instead of three. In line 13 the first foot {Spirit) is a trochee, and thus inversion of the regular iambic rhythm occurs in this instance. These variations are just frequent enough to avoid monotony of movement. (7) Memorize the poem. The Rhodora (Emerson) INTRODUCTORY: In the third chapter of Nature (1836) Emerson said, "The world thus exists to the soul to satisfy the desire of beauty. This element I call an ultimate end. No reason can be asked or given why the soul seeks beauty. Beauty, in its largest and profoimdest sense, is one expression of the universe. God is the all-fair. Truth and good- ness and beauty are but different faces of the same All." In a later essay on "The Poet" this same idea is advanced. "The world is not painted or adorned, but is from the beginning beautiful; and God has not made some beautiful things, but Beauty is the creator of the universe. ' ' ' 'The Rhodora' ' is a poetic expression of this idea in concrete form. It was first published in 1839. EXPLANATORY: 140 : 2. Rhodora. A handsome shrub of the genus Rhododendron; it bears beautiful clusters of purple flowers in early spring before its leaves appear. Read, if possible, John Fox, Jr.'s beautiful story, The Purple Rhododendron. 140 : 10. This charm is wasted. Compare Gray's Elegy, "Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. ' ' 140 : 12. Beauty is its own excuse for being. Compare Keats's "Beauty is truth, truth beauty; that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." — Ode on a Grecian Urn. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) How is the lyric impulse, that is, the object of beauty which arouses the emotion, the flower, described in the first eight lines? Do you get a good mental picture? By what means? (2) What philosophical application or explanation is made in the last eight lines? (3) How does the flower "cheapen the array" of the redbird? (4) Read the quotation from Gray (note on line 10), and determine whether Emerson seems to agree with him that the sweetness or beauty of a flower can really be wasted. (5) In the last four lines the poet apostrophizes the flower. What is the lyric effect of this? (6) Mem- orize the whole poem, or at least the heart of it, lines 1 1 and 12. Notes 55 S The Humble-Bee (Emerson) INTRODVCTORY: This poem was written in May, 1837. In his Journal for May 9, Emerson wrote, "Yesterday in the woods I followed the humble-bee with rhymes and fancies fine." It was first published in 1839 in the Weslern Messenger, edited by Reverend James Freeman Clarke. In the letter accompanying the verses, Emerson wrote, "Here are the verses. They have pleased some of my friends, and so may please some of your readers." Longfellow said that the poem contained "much of the quintessence of poetry." EXPLANATORY: 140 : 3. Let them sail for Porto Rique. Let those who will sail for Porto Rico. Why is the name of the island slightly changed here? 141 : 16. Epicurean. A follower of Epicurus (died 27a B.C.), a Greek philosopher who taught that men should seek the highest kinds of pleasure in life. Here accented Epicu'rean instead of Epicure'an as ordinarily. Why? 141 : 17. prithee. A shortened form of pray thee. 141:37. Indianwildernesses. The tropic regions of southern India. 141 : 38. Syrian peace. Syria in Asia Minor is noted for its mild, enervating climate. 141 : 38. immortal leisure. The gods on Mount Olympus are said to have immortal leisure. 141 : 43. daffodels. Daffodils. Why is the foim changed? 141 : 45. succory. Same as chicory. It has large heads of blue flowers. 142:60. Thou already slumberest. The humble-bee, or bumble-bee, hibernates, or lies dormant during the winter months. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (l) How is the humble-bee characterized in the first stanza? In the second? (2) Select the most striking line in the first stanza; in the second. (3) What is the exact meaning of line 19? (4) In which stanza does the poet describe the time when the bee comes? (5) What is the effect on the poet of the drowsy hiun of the insect (paragraph 4)? (6) Name the kinds of flowers listed in paragraph 5. What lesson can we draw from this stanza? (7) What lesson is drawn in the final stanza? (8) With the foregoing questions as a guide, make an outline of the poem. (9) The meter is called trochaic tetrameter catalectic. See the discussion of English metrics, pp. 642-647, and explain just what this means. The rime is usually in couplets, and the number of couplets varies from stanza to stanza. What peculiar- ities of rime do you find in the first stanza? Why are the following lines especially musical: "Epicurean of June," "But violets and bilberry bells," "Colimibine with horn of honey"? (Emerson) INTRODUCTORY: This poem, though written several years earlier, appeared in the first number of the Atlantic Monthly, November, 1857. Oliver Wendell Holmes in his Life of Emerson calls attention to a prose passage in SS6 American Ltterary Keaamgs Emerson's "Works and Days," which expresses the same thought as that in the poem: "The days are ever divine as to the first Aryans. They come and go like muffled and veiled figures, sent from a distant friendly party; but they say nothing, and if we do not, use the gifts " they bring, they carry them as silently away." Emerson was himself partial to the little poem, and many others have selected "Days" as the most perfect gem of all Emerson's poetry. It is particularly remarkable as a reflective lyric cast in blank verse instead of rime. EXPLANATORY: 142: I. hypocritic. That is, muffled so as to conceal their real character. 142: 7. pleached. Intertwined with branches, surrounded by a hedge. 142: II. fillet. A ribbon or band around the head. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Under what figure are the days presented? (2) Why are they called hypocritic? Is the word used in a derogatory sense? (3) Why are they placed in marching order and in endless single file? (4) What is symbolized by diadems and fagots? (5) How is the personal application made in the last five lines? (6) Why is one particular day singled out for the application? (7) Why does this day pass in silence, showing a look of scorn? (8) Read the passage quoted in the introductory note above, and draw a comparison between the poetical and the prose expression of the same idea. Which appeals to you more? Try to make out from this the real difference between poetry and prose. (9) In what meter is the poem written? Scan the lines, noting particularly the frequent inversions, the cesural pauses, and the rim-on lines. (See paragraph on "pauses," p. 642.) Can a successftd lyric be written in blank verse? The Ambitious Guest (Hawthorne) INTRODUCTORY: "The Ambitious Guest" was first published anonjrmously in the New England Magazine, June, 1836. It was later included in the enlarged edition of Twice-told Tales (1842), and it has since been frequently reprinted as one of the most perfect specimens of Haw- thorne's art. The story is based on the following incident in John H. Spaulding's Historical Relics of the White Mountains: "Some time in June — before the great 'slide' in August, 1826 — there came a great storm, and the old veteran, Abel Crawford, coming down the Notch, noticed the trees slipping down, standing upright, and as he was passing Mr. Willey's, he called and informed him of the wonderful fact. Imme- diately, in a less exposed place, Mr. WiUey prepared a shelter to which to flee in case of immediate danger; and in the night of August 28th, that year, he was, with his family, awakened by the thundering crash of the coming avalanche. Attempting to escape, that family, nine in number, rushed from the house, and were overtaken and buried alive under a vast pile of rocks, earth, trees, and water. By a remark- able circumstance, the house remained uninjured, as the slide divided about four rods back of the house (against a high flat rock), and came down on either side, with overwhelming power." Of the nine persons Tlie Notes SS7 who were overwhelmed in the avalanche, the bodies of all but three were later found. Visitors to the spot have erected a cairn of small stones to the memory of the three unrecovered children. EXPLANATORY: 149 : 12. Notch of the White Hills. , The Notch in the White Mountains in western NeW Hampshire was rediscovered in 177 1. "The Notch is a narrow rent, extending more than two miles between towering crags," says Spaulding. "The entrance of this wonderful chasm is about twenty-two feet wide, forming in itself a strange natural gateway . . . From a little beaver meadow the Saco river rises northerly from this gateway, and, struggling down its narrow bounds, shares with the road its wide gxilf; and, having passed through the mountain, bears its tribute onward to the ocean." 153 '• 145- Mount Washington. One of the peaks of the White Mountains. Consult a map of the New England states and locate the several geographical references. 154 : 192. the Flume. "Below [Silver Cascade] a short distance, on the same side, falls another stream, clear and beautiful. This, from having worn a channel deeply into the rock, is called The Flume. In one place the stream leaps a hundred feet; and its whole course from the clouds down is foamy and wild." — Spaulding, Historical Relics, p. 50. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) What is the theme of this story? Is it suggested in the title? (2) Read the incident upon which the story is based (introductory note) and show just what Hawthorne has added for the purpose of developing his theme. (3) Does he open the story with the setting, action, or characterization? (4) Why does he make the interior scene one of happiness and cheer? (5) By what means and why is the daughter of seventeen made prominent? (6) How is the guest received? (7) At what point is the first intimation of danger from the slide introduced? (8) Give a description of the guest's character. (9) Read the para- graph beginning "The secret of the young man's character," and see if you can detect an autobiographic note in it. (10) Why does Haw- thorne make the youth say, "I cannot die till I have achieved my destiny"? (11) What effect had the youth's dream on each member of the family? Does this enhance the unity or totality of effect? (12) Relate their ambitions and say whether each is smted to the character expressing it. (13) Just why does Hawthorne not permit any one of these dreams to come true? Suppose, for instance, that the ludicrous wish of the little boy had been acted upon, what would have been the result? (14) The daughter's wish is not clearly expressed. How does the author artistically suggest what was in her heart? (15) Why is the grandmother's wish put last? What makes it so grewsome and effective in this place? (16) Why do you suppose the author made the strangers hesitate and then go on by the cabin? Were they lost? Would they have harmonized with the interior scene? (17) Read the passage beginning "I wonder how mariners feel," line 283. How does this foreshadow the actual catastrophe of the story? (18) Determine the exact point of the climax of the story. How is it made powerful in its imaginative appeal? (19) Why is the last paragraph SS8 American Literary Readings devoted to the ambitious guest? Is there really any other ambitious character in the story? Can you decide, then, "whose was the agony of that death moment"? (20) Compare this youth with the youth in Longfellow's "Excelsior." (21) Go over the story carefully and collect all the words or phrases which help to make up the dominant tone of impending tragedy and thus foreshadow the catastrophe. For example, in the very first sentence, the fire is said to be made from "the splintered ruins of great trees that fcame crashing down the prec- ipice." (22) Read the famous extract from Poe's criticism of Haw- thorne's Tales, beginning "A skilful literary artist has constructed a tale" (p. 385), and determine for yourself just how nearly "The Ambi- tious Guest" comes to fulfilling those requirements. The Great Carbuncle (Hawthorne) INTRODUCTORY: This story was first published in one of the erstwhile popular annuals. The Token, for 1837. It was also included in the first edition of Twice-told Tales in that year. Spaulding in his Historical Relics of the White Mountains records that there were numerous legends about the wonderful carbuncles hanging from the crags in the White Mountains. Many "carbuncle hunters," or "seekers," came to the mountains, but none ever reported the finding of one of the marvelous stones. One reason advanced as to why no one could find any trace of these great carbuncles was that an old Indian had pronounced "the red man's curse" upon the pale-faced gem-seekers. "When he died, his last wish was .... that the Great Spirit would send a black storm of fire and thunder, and splinter the crags, and roll do'wn the carbuncles with mighty avalanches, and bury them deeply in the valleys, beneath the ruins of rocks and trees" (Spaulding, p. 31). Hawthorne took this legend and made the quest of the great carbuncle a symbol of the human search for happiness, or the desire for earthly glory of one kind or another. There is no direct hint of the germ of the story in his A merican Note Books, but one or two entries approach this theme rather closely. For instance, "some very famous jewel or other thing, much talked of all over the world. Some person to meet with it, and get possession of it in some unexpected manner amid homely circum- stances" (p. 109). Or, "A man will undergo great toil and hardship for ends that must be many years distant, — as wealth or fame, — but none for an end that may be close at hand, — as the joys of heaven" (p. 107). Or again, "A person or family long desires some particular good. At last it comes in such profusion as to be the great pest of their lives" (p. 27). EXPLANATORY: 158 : 2. Crystal Hills. The White Mountains in western New Hampshire were sometimes called Crystal Hills from the number of crystals found there. 158: II. Amonoosuc{k). The Wild Amonoosuc, one of the upper branches of the Lower Amonoosuc, which rises in the White Mountains and flows west and south into the Connecticut. 160 : 58. Doctor Cacaphodel. Doctor Bad-odor. 160 : 66. Jchabod Pigsnori. Ichabod means "bereft of glory." The Notes 559 Note how satirical Hawthorne is in naming the mere seekers after wealth. Compare "Gathergold" in "The Great Stone Face." i6o : 68. Mr. Norton's church. John Norton {1606-1663) was the successor of John Cotton as minister in the old First Church at Boston. 160 : 72. pine-tree shillings. A silver coin engraved with an image of a pine tree on one side. See Hawthorne's story of "The Pine-Tree Shillings" in Grandfather's Chair. 161 : 114. Captain Smith. Captain John Smith visited the coast of New England in 1614. 164 : 206. the Great Mogul's best diamond. The Koh-i-noor, now in possession of the British government, was once owned by the Great Mogul of Delhi, India. 165 : 233. Grub Street. A street in London formerly frequented by needy poets. It is now called Milton Street. 166 : 277. in rerum natura. In the nature of things. 168 : 360. cairn. A mound of loose stones erected as a memorial. 173 • 540- Persian idolater. The ancient Persians worshiped the sun. 173 '• 542- the great fire of London. Occurred in 1666. This, together with the references to Captain Smith and Mr. Norton's church above, fixes the approximate date of the setting of the story. THOUGHT QWESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) What kind of story would you call this? (The allegory is so naturally and spontaneously wrought out that we almost forget that the characters are mere types of mankind and that the search for the great carbuncle is nothing less than a symbol of the never-ceasing human search for happiness or the selfish desire to possess some earthly good.) (2) Under what circumstances does the author bring together the various characters? Describe them and tell what types they represent. (3) How are Hannah and Matthew differentiated from the other seekers? (See the suggestion in the second sentence of paragraph i, and note that they are described in a separate paragraph on p. 161.) (4) What was the one topic of conversation in the hut that night? (5) Why is the spectacled Cynic made a sort of spokes- man for the company? (Note how the author thus secures a natural means for his satiric and ironic strokes, and thus also adds a touch of grim humor.) (6) Tell in detail just what each one of the seekers desired to do with the carbuncle, and show how the Cynic gives each an ironic thrust. (7) What one touch differentiates the plans of the young couple from all the other seekers? Were they entirely selfish in their desires? (8) What does the author say about the Cynic who did not believe in the Great Carbuncle, calling it "the Great Humbug"? (9) What is suggested by the appearance of the strange light in the midst of the Cynic's speech? Do you suppose Hannah and Matthew were among those who saw it, or was it visible only to those who were so eager and feverish in the search that they could not sleep? (10) Is it an artistic touch to make the little wife the more ambitious of the two? (Note how the author works out this point in making her urge Matthew on, and in making her the last of the two to give up the quest but the first to give out in strength.) (11) Is the quest of the married couple really an allegorical presentation of average everyday S6o American Literary Readings human life? How so? (12) Why were the two almost lost in the mountain heights? (13) Why were they the only ones allowed to understand and appreciate the meaning of the wonderful light? (14) What happened to each of the other seekers? Do you think each got just what he deserved? (15) In what speech of Matthew's is the real secret of human happiness expressed (p. 168)? (16) What is the chief lesson you learn from the story? Is the moral obtrusive, that is, is it made too prominent for artistic effect? (17) Read aloud the paragraph beginning, "Out of the hollow of their hands," p. 172, and the climax passage on p. 169, beginning "Nor could the young bride" and continuing over two paragraphs, and comment on the quality of the thought and style. (18) Look over the story again, and see how it is constructed. Point out the sections dealing with the setting, the characters, the evening spent in preparation for the quest, the quest of Hannah and Matthew, the finding of the carbuncle (climax), the fate of the seekers, the conclusion. (19) Suggested subjects for compositions on Hawthorne: Write a story imitating Hawthorne's manner as nearly as possible (some of his own suggestions in Ameri- can Note Books may be used. Several are given above in the intro- ductory note on "The Great Carbuncle." Another suggestive one is the following: "A snake taken into a man's stomach and nourished from fifteen years to thirty-five, tormenting him most horribly. A type of envy or some other evil passion"); A Comparison of "The Great Stone Face" with "The Great Carbuncle"; A Comparison of Poe's Stories with Hawthorne's; The Charm of Hawthorne's Style; Haw- thorne's Power of Description. The Wedding-Knell (Hawthorne) INTRODUCTORY: This story was written in 1835, published in The Token for 1836, and included in the first edition of Twice-told Tales in 1837. Poe said, " 'The Wedding Knell' is full of the boldest imagination — an imagination fully controlled by taste. The most captious critic could find no flaw in this production." See Poe's "Review of Hawthorne's Twice-told Tales," p. 382. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Why does Hawthorne place this legend so far back in the past?. Is it based on fact, or is it purely imaginary? (2) Explain the exact situation between the lovers. (3) Expoimd carefully the character of each. (4) Why was it arranged for the bride and her party to come to the church first? (5) Explain in detail the effect of the sound of the tolling bell. Do you suspect whose funeral knell is being rung? (6) How does Hawthorne artistically present to us the workings of Mrs. Dabney's conscience as the bridegroom and his friends enter? (7) What impression does the description of the funeral make upon your mind? (8) Develop the contrast as fully as you can from memory. (9) Do you think Mr. EUenwood was cruel? Which of the two had been the more cruel? (10) What was the effect on Mrs. Dabney? Of her confession and contrition upon him? Is there a note of deep pathos here? (11) At one point in the story the minister sent an attendant to stop the tolling of the bell. Why does Hawthorne make it continue to toU until the very end of the story? What sound was The Notes 561 mingled with it at the close? (12) Is the stoi-y well named? (13) What is the effect of such a story on your mind? Do you like it? Do you feel that you understand life better after you have read it thought- fully? (14) Characterize Hawthorne's style as shown in this selection. Evangeline (Longfellow) INTRODUCTORY: The composition of Evangeline was begun in 1845, and the poem was completed and published in 1847. The origin of the poet's interest in the legend is significant because it shows the cordial relations which existed between two of our greatest writers. Nathaniel Hawthorne heard the legend from Reverend H. L. Conolly, of Salem, who learned the story from a French Canadian, an attendant at his church. In his notebook Hawthorne put down the legend thus: "H. L. C. heard from a French Canadian a story of a young couple in Acadie. On their riiarriage-day all the men of the Province were summoned to assemble in the church to hear a proclamation. When assembled, they were all seized and shipped off to be distributed through New England, — among them the new bridegroom. His bride set off in search of him — wandered . about New England aU her lifetime, and at last, when she was old, she found her bridegroom on his deathbed. The shock was so great that it killed her likewise." At a diimer in Longfellow's home, Craigie House, Cambridge, Mr. Conolly repeated the legend, saying that he had offered the material to Hawthorne as a plot for a tale, but appar- ently had not been able to get him to use it. Longfellow immediately asked Hawthorne to permit him to write a poem on the subject, and Hawthorne readily consented. Later, when Evangeline appeared, Hawthorne wrote an appreciative review of it and said in a letter to Longfellow that he had read the poem "with more pleasure than it would be decorous to express." A brief historical outline is essential to the clear understanding of the poem. France colonized the northeastern coast of North America about 1604, and the English the eastern coast about 1620. There was a great struggle for supremacy going on between France and England during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and naturally there was much contention and war between the French and English settlers in America. By the treaty of Utrecht, 1713, all that part of North America known as Nova Scotia was ceded by France to England. The country was stfll occupied by the French settlers, known as Acadians from the early name given to the peninsula by the French, imitating, it is said, the Indian name for this district; and these French settlers, because they differed so much from the English in manner, customs, and particularly religion, would not take the oath of allegiance and fight on the English side. They merely took the obligation to remain neutral in any further conflict between the French and English soldiers. In 1 741 the English made a settlement at Halifax on the eastern shore of Nova Scotia, and naturally rivalry and envy sprang up between this colony and the French settlements on the west shore of the penin- sula. In 1755 war broke out again, and on finding that the Acadians were violating their promise of neutrality, the English decided to remove them from the province and scatter them among the English colonies along the Atlantic coast. A cleverly conceived and skillfully executed plan put the Acadians entirely at the mercy of the English soldiers. 19 S62 American Literary Readings On September 2 Colonel John Winslow, acting under the authority of Governors Lawrence of Nova Scotia and Shirley of Massachusetts, called aU the men and boys over ten years of age to meet in the church at Grand- Pr6 on September 5 to hear the will of His Majesty George II with respect to their province. The story of the detention and deporta- tion is vividly told in the poem. The English tried to keep niembers of the same families together, but naturally amid so much confusion and distress, some cruel separations were inevitable. Several thousands of the Acadians were scattered along the Atlantic coast as far south as Virginia, and later a colony of over six hundred made their way to southern Louisiana to join the French settlements already there. The meter of the poem is the dactylic hexameter, the measure of the Iliad and Odyssey in Greek and of Vergil's Aeneid in Latin. Goethe used this meter in his Hermann und Dorothea, and because of the similarity of the themes, Longfellow is thought to have received the suggestion for the meter of Evangeline from the German poem. The classic meter is dependent upon syllable length, whereas English rhythm is dependent upon the regular recurrence of accented and unaccented syllables. In English, then, the dactylic hexameter line consists of six feet, each foot being composed of one accented syllable followed by two unaccented syllables. Sometimes one heavy sjrllable may be substituted for the two light or unaccented syllables, just as a spondee, or two long syllables, may be substituted for the one long and two short syllables of the dactyl. In reading the long hexameter line, it is necessary to find a pause for the voice, even though it be a slight one, at some point in each line. This pause is called the cesura. It may occur at any point after the first and before the last foot; and sometimes there is an additional or secondary pause, as in the following line: Bearded witk | moss, [| and in I garments | green, || indis I tinct in the | twilight. The third foot, garments, illustrates the spondaic foot, or the substitution of one syllable for the two light syllables of the dactyl. The pupil should be drilled on the scansion until he can read the lines smoothly and rhythmically. The long swing of the rhythm has been compared to the ebb and flow of "the deep-voiced neighboring ocean" whose "accents disconsolate answer the wail of the forest." The meter is peculiarly well suited to the melancholy theme of the poem. Evangeline is generally accepted as Longfellow's masterpiece. Oliver Wendell Holmes so classed it, saying, " Of the longer poems of our chief singer, I should not hesitate to select Evangeline as the master- piece, and I think the general verdict of opinion would confirm my choice . . . Prom the first line of the poem, from its first words, we read as we would float down a broad and placid river, murmuring softly against its banks, heaven over it, and the glory of the unspoiled wilderness all around." Suggested Plan of Lessons for "Evangeline" First reading: Two lessons The two parts should be assigned on successive days for rapid reading outside the class. The pupils should be asked to reproduce the narrative in detail by cantos. An outline of the whole poem should then be made by requiring the pupils to suggest suitable titles for the The Notes 5^3 "Prelude," or Introduction, for the two larger Parts, for the five Cantos in each Part, and for the "Postlude," or Conclusion. Sugges- tions for this outline will be found in the general questions below. After this first reading most of these general questions may be answered by the pupils, but some of the more specific questions may be deferred until a later period during the study of the poem. Sttidy and analysis: Eleven lessons One lesson on the "Prelude" and one on each of the cantos will make a good average assignment for closer study. In this study the notes should be carefully consulted, and specific exercises from the notes and thought questions should be prepared from day to day. Some of the questions may be assigned for written reports and some for class- room quizzes, either oral or written. The teacher must be the judge of the amount and character of work to be assigned to individual classes. Memory selections and short compositions on special topics may be interspersed from time to time. Third reading: Five lessons The pupils should be carefully drilled in scansion and rhythmic phrasing before any attempt at the final interpretative oral reading is made. They should be required to read the entire poem in sequence and in their best style. No part of the work is more important than this final oral reading of the complete poem. During the days while this reading is in progress, a long composition on the story as a whole or on some particular subject suggested by the study should be prepared by the pupils as a final exercise. General questions on "Evangeline" (i) Under what circumstances was the poem undertaken by Longfellow? (See introductory note.) (2) Relate the facts wl^ch make the setting or historical background of the poem. (3) Is the poem epic, lyric, or dramatic? (4) E. C. Stedman called Evangeline "the flower of American idyls." Explain just why he called the poem an idyl. (It is perhaps better to classify it as an epic, or narrative poem.) (5) What is the basic theme of the poem? (Suggestion: Summarize the whole story in one concise sentence.) (6) What would be a good title for each of the two parts? (Suggestion: Be sure to bring out in your answer the happiness and contentment in the first part and the sorrows of separation and wandering in the second.) (7) The "Pre- lude, ' ' or Prologue, strikes the dominant tone and suggests the nature and quality of the story. Canto l of Part I gives a description of Grand- Pr6 and its people, thus giving the setting and chief characters of the story; Canto 11 presents the lovers in all their happiness in Benedict's home, while Basil comes in to announce the arrival of the English ships; III relates the circumstances of the betrothal, which was practically equivalent to a marriage ceremony; iv relates the tragic interruption of the betrothal; and v tells of the deportation and separation of the lovers along with all the other Acadians. Canto i of Part II relates the fortunes of the lovers in separation; 11 shows Evangeline journeying down the Mississippi River, while Gabriel passes upstream in the night ; III gives the picture of Evangeline in Basil's home in Louisiana; IV tells of Evangeline's wanderings in search of Gabriel; v teUs of the end of the search; in a brief "Postlude," or Epilogue, the poet describes the grave of Evangeline and reverts to the "Prelude," thus closing the 5^4 American Literary Readings poem with the identical note with which it opened. Reduce all this to a carefully made outline, using your own words and ideas as far as possible. (8) What is the dominant tone of the whole story? (9) Why do we enjoy a poem full of sadness, melancholy, sentiment, purity, endurance? (10) What do you think is the chief thing which makes this poem so universally popular? (11) What qualities of style help to make Evangeline a great work of art? (Suggestion: Diction, imagery, grace, simplicity, melody, beauty, idyllic jjictures, rhythm, unity of tone and form — these would make good topics for discussion in answering this question.) (12) In what meter is the poem written (see introductory note) ? (13) Scan ten lines after the following model: This is the I forest pri I meval. The murmuring 1 pmes and the I hemlocks. Bearded with | moss, 1 1 and in | garments I green, 1 1 indis I tinct in the I twilight Stand like I Druid of i eld, 1 1 with | voices 1 sad and pro phetic. (14) Trace on the accompanying map the wanderings of Evangeline, citing references from the text for each important point. (15) Sug- gested topics for themes: Beautiftd Descriptions in the Poem; Figura- tive Language in Evangeline; A Character Sketch of Evangeline (or Gabriel, Basil, Benedict, Father Felician, Ren6 Leblanc); Catholic Life and Coloring in the Poem; The Home Life of the Acadians; Biblical Allusions in the Poem; The Diction of Evangeline; Superstitions and Legends of the Acadians; The Two Homes of Basil Lajeunesse; Evan- geline's Journey Down the Mississippi; An Imaginary Description of Gabriel's Wanderings; Moral Lessons Drawn from the Poem; A Comparison of Evangeline with Goethe's Hermann tend Dorothea. The "Prelude" to "Evangeline" EX-PLANATORY: 190 : I . primeval. Original, uncut, virgin. Note that this word ~ occurs twice in the "Prelude" and twice in the "Postlude." What is the effect of this repetition? 190 : 3. Druids of eld. Ancient Celtic priests. Why is eld preferred to old? 190 : 4. harpers hoar. White-haired minstrels. In what way are the pines like harpers with long beards and hair? 191 : 15. Grand-Pre. A French name meaning "great meadow." See lines 22, 23 for an interpretation of the name. 191 : 18. List. A poetic form; why is it preferred to listen? 191 : 19. Acadie. Nova Scotia; a name, perhaps of Indian origin, given by the French settlers to a large but vaguely defined territory including the present Nova Scotia. Compare the Parish of Acadia and the term "Cajun" still in use as a designation of the descendants of the Acadians in Louisiana. Compare also the name Arcadia, applied in pastoral romance to a picturesque and idealized country in the Peloponnesus. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (l) What is the chief function of the "Prelude"? (2) What two large natural objects are singled out for personification in_the opening passage, and why? (3) What is the dominant tone of the "Prelude"? (4) Point out seven words that indicate and emphasize this tone. The Notes S6S (5) Point out in the second stanza three similes that suggest the general nature of the theme and thus emphasize the dominant tone. (6) In what four lines is the theme of the whole poem definitely stated? (7) Memorize these lines. Evangeline I, i EXPLANATORY: igi : 20. Minas. Locate in the Bay of Fundy, Nova Scotia. 191 : 27. cornfields. Wheatfields. In English poetry corn practi- cally always means wheat; Longfellow discusses the Indian corn in lines 1208-1215, but he calls it maize, not corn. 1 Grand Pre on Basin of Minas 5 Tlie Teche (Basil's liome o) 2 Philadelpliia 6 Adayes (Natchitoches) 3 Acadian Coast 7 Ozark Mountains (The Mission o) 4 Atchafalaya River (Wachita willows +) 8 Saginaw River (Gabriel's lodge bJ 191 :■ 29. Blomidon. A high promontory at the entrance of the Basin of Minas. 192 : 34. Normandy. A province in northern France, whence many of the settlers of Acadia came. 192 : 34. Henries. Early Kings of France, probably Henry III (died 1589) and Henry IV (died 1610). ■192 : 39. kirtles. The dress of the Acadian women, a sort of jacket or bodice with a skirt attached. 192 : 49. Angelus. A bell rung morning, noon, and evening, to remind Roman (Catholics to repeat the prayer beginning "Angelus Domini" (Angel of the Lord), referring to the Angel Gabriel's annuncia- tion to Mary that she was to be the mother of the Savior. If possible, study Millet's picture, "The Angelus," in this connection. 193 : 61. Gentle Evangeline. On December 8, 1845, while Long- fellow was writing this poem, he recorded this note in his Journal: "I know not what name to give to — not my new baby, but my new S66 American Literary Readings poem. Shall it be 'Gabrielle,' or 'Celestine,' or 'Evangeline'?" Do you think he made a wise choice? What did he do with the first name? 193 : 68. kine. An old plural of cow. The breath of cattle is notably pure and sweet. The word kine occurs again in line 916. 193 : 72. hyssop. A plant used in the Jewish ordinance of purifica- tion. In the ordinance of the Passover a sprig of hyssop was used to sprinkle the lamb's blood over the door posts. See Exodus 12:22. 194 : 74. beads . . . missal. The rosary and mass-book used by the Roman Catholics. 194 : 87. penthouse. An overhanging shed. 194 : 91-92. moss-grown bucket. Compare Samuel Woodworth's poem, "The Old Oaken Bucket." 19s • 94- seraglio. The walled palace in which the sultans of Turkey keep their wives. Note the transferred epithet feathered. 195: 96. Peter. Explain the biblical allusion. See Matthew 26 : 75. 195 : 100. dove-cot. A pigeon house. The dove, or pigeon, is a symbol of love and peace. See the same word in line 899. 195: 107. hem of her garment. Explain the allusion; Matthew 9: 20. 196: 122. plain-song. A chant used in the Roman Catholic service. 196 : 130. smithy. Blacksmith shop. The word also occurs in "The Village Blacksmith." Compare Basil with the village blacksmith. 196 : 133. nuns going into the chapel. That is, the sparks dis- appeared like nuns going into the church. 196 : 137. wondrous stone. This was an old superstition. People believed the little stone had miraculous curative powers for certain diseases, and hence one was considered lucky to find it. 197 : 144. Sunshine of Saint Eulalie. If the sun shines clearly on Saint Eulalie's day (February 12), it is a sign that the apple harvest will be abundant. Scan the line to determine the correct accent of Eulalie. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Locate Grand-Pr6 on your map, and describe the surroundings (lines 20-32). (2) Describe the village life (lines 33-57). Why does the poet make it all so ideally beautiful and happy? (3) What two characters are first introduced? (4) What impression do you get of Evangeline's disposition and character? (5) Why is Benedict's age given as "seventy winters" and Evangeline's as "seventeen summers"} (6) Which one of these two characters is more fully described? Why? (7) Comment on the beauty and force of the line, "When she had passed it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music." Determine by the rhythm the correct pronunciation of ejcgwm^e. (8) What concrete images are presented in the description of Benedict's home (lines 82-102)? Are these details well selected for the poet's purpose? Does the picture give you the sense of plenty and peace and idyllic happiness? (9) How are the two chief characters introduced? (10) Whyissomuch said of the childhood associations of Gabriel and Evangeline (lines 119- 140)? (11) What figures of speech do you find in lines 30, 50, 57 (paradox), 62 (metonymy), 63, 94 (transferred epithet), 128? (12) Why are "gossiping looms" and "whir of the wheels" effective 'lines 41-42)? Evangeline I, 11 EXPLANATORY: 197 : 149. sign of the Scorpion. Scorpion is the eighth sign of the zodiac; it is late in October when the sun enters this sign. The Notes 567 197 : 150. leaden. Dull, gloomy, heavy. Note how the poet selects words and images which forebode calamity or misfortune. 197: 153- as Jacob of old. Retell the story as recorded in Genesis 32, and note the appropriateness of the comparison. 198: 159. Summer of All-Saints. November i is All-Saints' Day. We usually designate this season as Indian summer. Note how Longfellow has forced his dates here. The deportation actually took place on September 5-10. See question (2) below. 198 : 170. Persian. The Greek historian Herodotus tells us that Xerxes found a beautiful plane-tree and fell so much in love with it that he ordered it to be adorned with jewels and rich mantles. 200 : 205. pewter plates on the dresser. Dresser here means a sideboard or cupboard. In former times pewter plates and utensils were used by the better classes of people. 201 : 238. Gaspereau. A small river which empties into Minas near the village of Grand-Pr6. 202 : 240. his Majesty's mandate. The King of England at this time was George II. The order was really signed by Lieutenant Colonel John Winslow and dated September 2, 1755. The proclamation called all the men and lads over ten years of age to assemble in the church to hear what his Majesty intended. 202 : 249. Louishurg . . . Beau Sejour . . . Port Royal. Places taken by the English from the French in previous wars, Port Royal (now Annapolis) in 1710, Louisburg in 1745, and Beau Sejour in 1755 just a short time before the deportation of the Acadians. It is said that several hundred Acadians were taken prisoners when Beau S6jour fell. This would seem to indicate that the English had just reasons to complain against the Acadians for failure to keep their promise of neutrality. 203 : 261. glebe. Soil, a poetic word. 203 : 267. notary. An officer authorized to take acknowledg- ments, draw up contracts, and the like. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) How is the season of the year indicated in the opening lines? (2) Why has Longfellow forced the date forward here nearly two months? (Note the beautiful descriptive passages that follow.) (3) What general tone is struck in the first lines of stanza i , and how is the contrast drawn in the description of the Stimmer of All-Saints? (4) Reproduce in your own words the pastoral picture of lines 171-198. Why do you suppose Evangeline's heifer "bore the bell"? (5) Re- produce similarly the interior scene in Benedict's home (lines 199-217). Evangeline has been called a panorama of beautiful pictures. Do these scenes justify this statement? (6) By what signs did Benedict and Evangeline know who were coming when they heard footsteps on the outside? (7) Contrast Benedict's optimistic with Basil's pessimistic view regarding the purpose of the English soldiers. Which one was right? (8) Why was Benedict so happy on this particular night? Do you suppose that the fact that he was getting old had any effect on his desire to see Evangeline happily married? (9) What contract is referred to in line 259? Note how deftly and rapidly the lines here lead up to and prepare for the betrothal in the next canto. (10) Point -out the figures of speech in lines 153, 162-163, 19O1 228, 246. (11) Memorize lines 199-214. S68 American Literary Readings Evangeline I, iii EXPLANATORY: 203 : 276. an old French fort. Port Royal before it was taken by the English in 17 10. RenI Leblanc is a real historical character, the only one in the poem. 204 : 280. Loup-garou. A werwolf, in medieval superstition a man who had the power of changing into a wolf, in which form he devoured men. The superstitions mentioned in the following lines are still circulated in various forms. 204 :■ 287. writ. A poetic or archaic form of written. Until recently folklore was not really written down, but transmitted by tradition from generation to generation. 204 : 297. irascible. Easily angered, fiery. 205 : 306. an ancient city. Florence, Italy. 206 : 344. draught-board. . Checker-board. In many communities the game of checkers is still called draughts. 207-: 348. embrasure. An enlarged space in the wall where a window is set. 207 : 354. curfew. From the old French coufeu, composed of covrir + feu, cover the fire. 208: 381. Repeat the incident as related in Genesis 21:9-21. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) What is the chief incident in this canto? (2) Give in your own words a brief sketch of the notary public. (3) Enumerate the superstitions mentioned. (4) Relate the legend of the statue of justice. Why is this legend appropriate just at this point in the story? (It foreshadows in a way Evangeline's own story.) (5) Was the betrothal ceremony equivalent to a marriage? Why does the notary speak of "the bride and the bridegroom"? (6) Describe the happy fireside scene after the betrothal. (7) What effects are pro- duced by the full description of Evangeline's chamber and its con- tents? Does it indicate the girl's character? (8) Explain line 371. (9) Why is the feeling of sadness mentioned (line 376)? (10) Explain the force of the figures in lines 268, 270, 328-329, 351-352, 377-378, 380-381. Evangeline I, iv EXPLANATORY: 208 : 386. hundred hands. This suggests Briareus, the hundred- handed giant of Greek mythology. Note the appropriateness of the figure. 209 : 408. gayest of hearts and of waistcoats. Note the two con- trasting meanings of gayest. 210 : 413. Tous les Bourgeois, etc. Titles of old French songs. 211 : 442. sultry solstice. The summer solstice is June 21. Ex- plain why it is called solstice. 211 : 451. imprecations. Cursings. 212 : 461. chancel. The inclosed space in a church where the officiating priests retire. Why was Father Felician here, do you think? 212 : 466. tocsin's alarum. The alarm of a signal bell. A drum beat is sometimes used as a tocsin or signal of alarm. The Notes 5^0 zrs : -474. Lot where the crucified Christ. In Catholic churches there is always an image of Christ on the cross set up in a conspicuous place. 213: 476. "Father, forgive them." See Luke 23:34. 213 : 484. Ave Maria. The Latin hymn commemorating the angel Gabriel's salutation to the Virgin, beginning Ave Maria, "HaU, Mary!" See Luke 1:28. 213:486. Elijah ascending to heaven. Explain. See II Kings 2:11. 214:498. ambrosial. Ambrosia was the delicious food of the gods on Mount Olympus. In what sense is the adjective applied to the meadows here? Find a hint in line 500. 214 : 507. the Prophet descending from Sinai. Explain. See Exodus 34: 29-35. 214 : 508. Angelus. See note on line 49. The Angelus is again mentioned in line 589. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Recall from your outline the theme or subject of this canto. At what point was the tragic action first introduced (see end of Canto 1)? How was it foreshadowed in Canto 111? How is it developed in this canto? (2) What is the effect aimed at in the idyllic, joyous scenes of the first two stanzas? (3) Point out half a dozen words which emphasize the dominant tone of happiness in the first stanza. (4) Why was Benedict giving this merrymaking at his home? (5) Describe the scene of the presentation of the king's proclamation and its effect. Notice how the poet pauses to make the long Homeric simile beginning "As, when the air" (line 442) between the delivery of the proclamation and its effect. (6) Give the substance of Father Felician's appeal to his people. (7) What is the effect on the reader of the ready ■ response and the religious fervor of the prisoners? (8) Why do you suppose Evangeline prepared the supper in her home? Was it eaten? See line 515. (9) Read the end of Canto III, partic- ularly lines 374-380, and note the contrast between them and the ending of Canto iv, lines 509-513. How is the situation reversed and what is the artistic effect? (10) What is meant by the "gloomier grave of the living" (line 513)? (11) How do you imagine Evangeline felt when she returned to her empty, lonely home? (12) What is the artistic effect of the storm? (13) What tale is referred to in line 522? Recall how it was introduced and retell it. (14) Explain the appro- priateness of the figures in lines 385-386, 410-41 1,415, 442-447, 453-454, 465-466, 486, 506-507, 513. (15) Study out the balanced and parallel effects in lines 382-383 and 418-419. Find other examples of balance and parallel in the poem. Evangeline I, v EXPLANATORY: 215 : 524. fifth day. This is historically correct. The prisoners were locked in the church on September 5, 1755, and the deportation took place on September 10. 215.527. neighboring hamlets. Not only the people of Grand-Pr6, but the settlers in the whole province were deported. 215 : 528. ponderous wains. Heavy wagons. Wains is now used only in poetry. S70 American Literary Readings 218 : 575. refluent. Flowing back, the outgoing tide. Why does the poet say the ocean fled from the shore? 218 : 577. kelp. A kind of seaweed. 218 : 579. leaguer. A camp. 219 : 597. Paul on Melita's desolate seashore. When the apostle Patil was being carried to Rome, a great storm arose and wrecked the vessel, casting the passengers and sailors on the island of Melita, or Malta, in the Mediterranean. Paul comforted and directed the people in a masterly way. See Acts 27 and 28 for the whole story. 219: 605. Benedicite. Latin, "Be ye blessed." Pronounce in five syllables. Compare benediction and the proper name Benedict. 216 : 615. Titan-like. In Greek mythology, the Titans were the huge sons Heaven and Earth. Briareus, the hundred-handed, was one of these giants, or Titans. 220 : 621. gleeds. Sparks, burning coals; a poetic word. 221: 630. Then rose a sound of dread. Compare this passage with the description in "Kit Carson's Ride,'' p. 502. 222 : 657. bell or booh. In the Catholic burial ceremony the bell is tolled for the passing soul while the ritual is being recited from the book. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) This canto completes the tragic action of Part I. Recall the title of this canto from your outline. (2) The cock crowed cheerily in the midst of all this suffering. Is this a natural touch? (3) What pathetic reference is made in regard to the children (lines 531-532)? Did they know why they were hauling the household goods to the sea- shore? (4) Describe the procession to the seashore. (5) Why is it effective to place the lovers together for a brief moment? (6) It is said that the English officers tried to keep families together as far as possible. Is Longfellow justified in making the scene one of cruelty, distress, and heartlessness? (7) Describe the scene on the shore and in the village after the embarkation, and contrast it with the description of the happy village of Canto i. (8) Describe the burning of Grand- PrS (lines 618-640). What effect has this event on Benedict? On the reader's sympathy? (9) Why is it essential to the plan of the story -to allow Benedict to die on the seashore before the deportation? (10) What is the effect of his death on Evangeline? On the reader? (11) Contrast the character of Benedict with that of Basil. Evangeline II, i EXPLANATORY: 222 : 666. Many a weary year. Perhaps not more than ten years. Note the transferred epithet. Why were the years weary, and why did they seem so many? If we imagine Evangeline sixteen or seventeen at the time of the opening of the stoty, she would stiU be a young woman (see line 683). 222 : 670. on separate coasts. The Acadians were distributed among the English settlements from New England to the South Atlantic colonies. Some of our characters (see lines 1258 ff.) were landed at Philadelphia. About a year after the deportation, several hundred of the Acadians migrated to lower Louisiana to join the French settle- ments there. Among these were, doubtless, Gabriel and Basil. The Notes 571 223 : 674. savannas. Plains, level tracts; from the Old Spanish. 223 : 675. Father of Waters. This is the meaning «f the Indian word Mississippi. 223 : 677. mammoth. A large prehistoric elephant, remains of which have been found scattered over the central portions of North America. 224: 705. Coureurs-des-Bois. Literally "runners of the woods"; a general term for trappers and hunters. Voyageur in line 707 is another French word meaning traveler or transportation agent for the fur traders. 224: 713. to braid St. Catherine's tresses. Saint Catherine was the patron saint of virginity; hence to. braid St: Catherine's tresses means to remain unmarried. 225 : 732. shards. Broken pieces of pottery. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (l) How much time do you think is supposed to have passed between Part I and the main action of Part II ? (Consider, for example, what Basil had accomplished during this time.) (2) What function does this canto serve for the whole of Part II? (3) Give a general summary of the experiences of the dispersed Acadians. (4) Why is Evangeline's name not mentioned in line 681, and Gabriel's in line 698? (5) Where (see line 1258) and how was Evangeline spending these first years? (6) Why was Gabriel not looking for Evangeline during this time and later? (Remember that this is a tale of "the beauty and strength of woman's devotion.") (4) Comment on the expressiveness of the personification in line 676; the diminishing climax in line 699. (5) Point out in this canto two Homeric similes, that is, long, fully detailed and expounded comparisons. (6) Memorize lines 715-717 and 720-727. Evangeline II, 11 EXPLANATORY: 226: 741. Beautiful River. The Indian name Ohio is said to mean "beautiful river." 226 : 750. Acadian coast. The country along the banks of the Mississippi River below Baton Rouge, Louisiana, is still sometimes called the Acadian coast. Locate Opelousas, now a town in St. Landry's Parish. 227 : 759. pelicans. The pelican is used as an emblem on the seal of the state of Louisiana. 228 : 782. shrinking mimosa. The sensitive plant which folds or closes its leaves at night or when shaken or disturbed. In the South the children touch it and exclaim "Be ashamed!" and the plant seems to hide itself in shame. Is the epithet well chosen? 229 : 809. lotus. The American lotus, or Nelumbium, a large, yellow-flowering aquatic plant of the lily family. It has broad shield- shaped leaves, and the flower-stems rise from two to six feet out of shallow water. 229: 821. the ladder of Jacob. Explain the allusion. See Genesis 28:i2flE. 231:853. buoy. Pronounced in one syllable, boi'. Why? 231 : 856. l^eche. This river empties into Grand Lake, a part of 572 American Literary Readings the Atchafalaya. The settlements of St. Maur and St. Martin are on the TSche. St, Martin is now. a parish in southern Louisiana. 232 : 878. Bacchantes. The female revelers in the orgies in honor of Bacchus, the god of wine. Is the allusion appropriate? THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Why did Longfellow choose the month of May for Evangeline's voyage down the Mississippi? (2) Trace an imaginary line of Evan- geline's wanderings from Philadelphia to Basil's home on the T6che, touching at each of the places mentioned in this canto. (3) Point out some of the most attractive descriptive passages in this canto. (4) How do you think Longfellow could have drawn such wonderful pictures without ever having seen the countries he described? (5) Why was it necessary and appropriate to have Father Felician attend Evangeline as a guide on this part of her journey? Did he stay with her all the way through? Why? (6) How did the travelers manage to pass from the Mississippi to the Atchafalaya River? From the Atchafalaya to the TSche? (See a large map of Louisiana.) (7) Describe fully the scene on the lakes of the Atchafalaya where Evange- line's party stopped for the night. (8) Why does the poet make so full a description of the scene "under the boughs of Wachita willows"? What point in the narrative do we reach here? (9) Compare Jacob's dream with Evangeline's. (10) How are suspense and tenseness gained by the appearance of the light, swift boat (lines 827 flf.)? (11) How near did the lovers come to meeting? (12) What premonitions did Evangeline have? (13) Notice the beautiful and expressive stanza with which the canto closes. Why does the poet make the scene so brilliant and the heart of the maiden so hopeful and happy? (14) Explain lines 868-869. (15) Determine by the rhythm the pronun- ciation of the proper names Opelousas, line 750; Plaquemine (two syllables), line 766; Atchafalaya, line 807; Wachita, line 816. (16) Define and give the derivation of sombre, line 752; wimpling, line 758; tenebrous, line 769; cope, line 819; pendulous, line 822; credtdous, line 848. (17) Memorize the description of the mocking-bird. Evangeline II, iii EXPLANATORY: 233 : 889. mystic mistletoe. The mistletoe was held sacred by the old Druid priests. They cut the mistletoe with a golden knife and preserved it with great veneration. See the next line. 234 ! 913- gaiters and doublet. The doublet was a close-fitting body garment with sleeves; gaiters were coverings for the legs, usually made of leather and fastened at the side. 234 : 914. sombrero. A broad-brimmed hat, from the Spanish sombra, a shade. 23s '• 952. Adayes. An old Spanish settlement near the present town of Natchitoches on the Red River. ■ 235 : 956. Fates: The three Fates, Clotho, Lachesis.and Atropos, were supposed to control the destinies of men. Note that the Fates were against Gabriel, but not in the way Basil meant. 236:961. Olympus. A mountain in Greece, the abode of the gods. 236 : 970. ci-devant. A French word meaning former. The Notes S73 237 • 979- illuming. From illume, a poetical form of illumine. 237 : 98^- Natchitoches. Pronounced here in four syllables, but now in three. See pronouncing list of proper names, pp. 634-637. 238 : 1006. a spider . . . in a nutshell. See the reference to this superstition in line 285. Do you know of similar superstitious cures that are still in use among the negroes and uneducated classes? 238 : 1009. Creoles. Settlers of French or Spanish descent in lower Louisiana. 239 : 1033. Carthusian. An order of monks founded by St. Bruno in 1086, in the Chartreuse valley of the Alps. They were noted for their austerity, one of their practices being that of maintaining almost unbroken silence. 240 : 1044. Upharsin. "Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin'' were the words written upon the wall of Belshazzar's palace by^ the mysterious hand. , See Daniel 5:25-28, where the interpretation is given. 240 : 1057. oracular caverns. An allusion to the famous Pythian oracle of Apollo at Delphi; the messages were delivered by a priestess from a dark cave or cavern. 241 : 1063-1064. Prodigal Son . . . Foolish Virgin. Relate these parables as told in Luke 15 and Matthew 25. How far may they be applied to Gabriel and Evangeline? Why is Father Felician trying to be humorous? 241 : 1075. garrulous. Talkative. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Evangeline is now in Basil's home in Louisiana. The canto gives us a picture of luxuriance and plenty similar to and yet different from that of Benedict's home in Grand-Pr6. Draw out the points of similarity and contrast. (2) How is the pathetic revelation of Gabriel's departure made? Is there much emotion compressed in Evangeline's twice repeated query? (3) How did Basil entertain his guests, and why? Has his character changed with his circumstances? (4) Recall the previous canto in which Michael the fiddler appeared, and draw a comparison of the two scenes. (5) Why does the poet make Evange- line steal forth alone into the garden? What thoughts and memories were stirring in her mind? (6) What plan for overtaking Gabriel was decided upon? Why would it have spoiled the story to have left Evangeline behind at Basil's home while the men went to overtake Gabriel? (7) Why does Basil jokingly refer to bringing Gabriel back to his prison (line 958)? Note a similar effort at humor on the part of Father Felician in lines 1063-1064. (8) Judging from Basil's de- scription in lines 945-952, what effect do you think separation had on Gabriel's character? (9) Point out the figures of speech in lines 906- 911. (10) What play on words is found in line 983? (11) Compare the imitative, and alliterative effects of line 1019 with those of line 729. Which of the two do you think is the better? (12) In line 1025 the sea is again referred to. Compare line 729, "Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean," and read again lines 5-6, 1398-1399. The deep-voiced, melancholy monotone of the ocean is thus made a sort of recurring or dominant note throughout the poem. Is this artistic? (13) Compare the metaphor in line 1041 with that in lines 35I-352- Which of the two do you think is the more beautiful? (14) Explain the figure in lines 1 060-1 061. 574 American Literary Readings Evangeline II, iv EXPLANATORY: 242 : 1082. Oregon . . . Walleway . . Owyhee. The Oregon is now the Columbia River. The branch of the Columbia called the Snake is probably here intended; the Walleway and Owyhee are its tributaries. 242: 1083-1084. Wind-river Mountains, e.tc. These are in western Wyoming near Yellowstone Park. The Sweetwater River is in central Wyoming. It forms one branch of the Platte River. Nebraska is the old name for the Platte. Look up these localities on your map. 242: 1085. Fontaine-qui-bout. French for "Fountain which boils," or boiling spring. There are many hot springs in the Spanish sierras, that is, in the mountain ranges in lower Colorado. 242 : 1091. amorphas. The amorpha is a shrub called false indigo, or lead plant. It bears large spikes of purple or violet flowers. 242 : 1095. Ishmael's children. Ishmael was the son of Abraham and Hagar and was a wanderer; hence any nomadic tribes, like th2 Indians, may be called Ishmael's children. 242: 1 102. anchorite monk. A recluse or hermit. Explain the figurative use here. Why is taciturn appropriate? 243 : 1 106. Ozark Mountains. The Ozark Plateau. In southwest Missouri and extending through northwest Arkansas. 243 : 1 1 14. Fata Morgana. A mirage observed in Sicily and south- ern Italy. 243 : 1 121. Coureur-des-Bois. See the note on line 705. 244 : 1 139. Mowis. The legends of Mowis and Lilinau (line 1 145) are recorded in Schoolcraft's Algic Researches, the principal sourcebook of Longfellow's Hiawatha. 246: 1 175. Jesuit Mission. There are still many ruins of old Jesuit missions in Texas, California, and other western states. The one referred to by Longfellow was located perhaps somewhere in Arkansas in the foothills of the Ozark Mountains. 246: 1 182. susurrus. A Latin onomatopoetic word for "whisper." It is not a plural form, as the context might lead one to think. 248: 121 1, mendicant. Begging. The metaphor makes the crows the black-robed, begging monks who enter the cornfields as their cloisters. 248 : 1219. compass-flower. The compass plant is a tall, rough, bristly herb of the aster family. The leaves are said to assume a vertical position with their edges north and south. Longfellow later corrected this passage to "vigorous plant" (line 1217) and "Herein the houseless wild" (line 1220). 248 : 1226. asphodel flowers . . . nepenthe. The asphodel is a species of lily. In Greek mythology it is the flower of the Elysian fields where the dead heroes sleep ; nepenthe is an opiate that is supposed to make one forget all pain and sorrow. 249 : 1233. Saginaw River. Locate this in Michigan. 249 : 1241. Moravian Missions. The Moravians were a mild Protestant sect who came from central Europe. They set up " Gnaden- hutten," or "Tents of Grace," in Pennsylvania, Ohio, and elsewhere. 249 : 1242. camps . . . of the army. This was about 1776 to 1781. What army is referred to? The Notes S7S THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) The opening paragraph of this canto describes what section of our country? Do you suppose Gabriel went so far west as this? (2) What is the poet's purpose in introducing the Shawnee woman What is the effect on Evangeline of the Indian's tales about phantom lovers? (3) Why do you suppose the Indians called the priest "Black Robe chief"? (4) When Evangeline reached the Mission, what did she hear of Gabriel, and what did she determine to do? (5) Do you think by this time she had given up hope of seeing Gabriel? Give a quotation to prove your point. (6) How is the slow passage of time indicated in the stanza beginning "Slowly, slowly" (line 1207)? (7) Explain carefully the extended or Homeric simile in lines 12 17-1226. (8) Why did Evangeline eventually leave the Mission, and with what results? (9) After this last disappointment do you thiAk she heard any further rumors of Gabriel? (10) Summarize Evangeline's life from this time on. (11) Point out the parallelism and contrast in lines 1245-1246. (12) What is foreshadowed or suggested in the metaphor of lines 1249-1251? (13) Memorize lines 1217-1226. Evangeline II, v EXPLANATORY: 249 : 1252. Delaware's waters. Locate the Delaware River. 249 : 1253. sylvan . . . Penn. Note the pun on Pennsylvania. 250 : 1256. streets still re-echo the names of the trees. Some of the principal streets of Philadelphia are Chestnut, Walnut, Pine, Spruce. 250 : 1257. Dryads. These were the spirits or nymphs supposed to dwell within the trees. 251 : 1298. a pestilence. This refers to the yellow-fever epidemic of 1793. 252 : 1308. almshouse. Longfellow said that it would be hard to establish the identity of the house. In 1826 he went to Philadelphia for a few days. In a letter of 1876 he said, "A great many years ago, strolling through the streets of Philadelphia, I passed an old almshouse within high b'rick walls, and with trees growing in its enclosure. The quiet and seclusion of the place — 'the reserve,' as your poor woman so happily said — impressed me deeply. This was long before the poem was written and before I had heard the tradition on which it was founded. But remembering the place, I chose it for the final scene." Samuel Longfellow's Life of Longfellow, Vol. Ill, p. 259. 252 : 1312. " The poor ye always have with you." Quoted with some slight inversion from Mark 14:7. Why the inversion? 253 : 1326. Christ Church. The Episcopal church still standing on Second Street north of Market. Benjamin Franklin is buried in this old churchyard. -N — 253: 1328. Wicaco. An old Swedish settlement near Philadelphia. 254 '• 1355- with blood had besprinkled its portals. See Exodus 12:22, and explain the allusion in this and the next line. 255: 1 38 1 and 1390. Still stands the forest primeval. Compare this with the parallel passage This is the forest primeval in lines i and 7 of the Prelude. What is the purpose of this repetition and parallelism? 576 American Literary Readings THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Why did Evangeline finally land in Philadelphia? (2) What new aspiration now filled her soul? Quote a line which sums up her new view of life. (3) Tell how she employed her timt, and what effect her presence had on others. (4) What is the value of the pestilence in the story? (5) Why do you suppose Gabriel came to such poverty in his old age? (6) Why is the Sabbath chosen for the final scene ? What was Evangeline's mood? (7) What words did Evangeline utter when she recognized Gabriel? How had the poet prepared us for these words (see line 1046)? (8) For what do you think Evangeline was so thankful (line 1380)? Was her life a failure? (9) What is the chief function of the Postlude, or Epilogue, lines 1381-1399? (10) What repetitions from the Prelude are found here? Is it artistic for a poem to return in > the last lines to the point of departure? Why? (11) Give in a very few words your honest opinion of the poem as a whole. (12) If the yellow-fever epidemic of 1793 (see note on hne 1298) is the closing year of the action of the poem, how many years have transpired since the opening of the story? Make an estimate of Evangeline's age at the various stages and thus work out a complete time action of the story. A Psalm of Life (Longfellow) INTRODUCTORY: This famous poem was written on July 26, 1838, and first appeared anonymously in the Knickerbocker Magazine in October of the same year. It at once attracted wide attention. Whittier reviewed it enthusiastically in The Freeman, of which he was editor at this time, saying, "It is very seldom that we find an article of poetry as full of excellent philosophy and common sense . . . These nine simple verses are worth more than all the dreams of Shelley, and Keats, and Wordsworth. They are alive and vigorous with the spirit of the day in which we live — the moral steam enginery of an age of action." Literary critics smile to-day at this injudicious and extravagant out- burst of the good Quaker poet's, but it was the sincere expression of his heart, and his judgment has been confirmed by thousands who have read, committed to memory, and found comfort in Longfellow's solemn yet optimistic moralizing. It is the poet's expression of the struggles of his own heart in a period of depression— that, eternal struggle which goes on between the conflicting moods of despondency and joy in human life. EXPLANATORY: 256. young man . . . psalmist. The subtitle explains the situation. Notice that it is the heart of the young man, that is, the better, more hopeful, more joyous nature speaking against the pessi- mistic, hopeless philosophy of the psalmist, or poet, in a moment of despondency. Longfellow in different moods is both the young man and the psalmist. 256: I. mournful numbers. That is, melancholy or hopeless poetry. Numbers is frequently used to signify metrical composition. Compare Pope's line, "I lispt in numbers, for the numbers came." 256 : 7. Dust thou art. See Genesis 3 : 19. The Notes 577 256 : 13. Art is long. This has been traced back to Hippocrates, the ancient Greek physician. The thought recurs in many poems , in modern literature. 256 : 18. bivouac. A temporary camping-place. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Give the story of the origin of the poem, and show exactly what the poet meant to express by it. (2) Why is this, then, a purely lyric poem? (3) What is its mood, and in what tone of voice and movement should it be read? (4) Paraphrase the thought of the first stanza. (5) What great doctrine is expressed in the secotid stanza? (6) What is the pivotal word in the third stanza? In what two other stanzas is this word or idea repeated? Is it, then, the key to the whole poem? (7) Expound the metaphors in the fourth and fifth stanzas. (8) According to the sixth stanza, what is the only time we are sure of? (9) Do you admire the extended figure in stanzas 8 and 9? Why? (10) Select what you think is the best single stanza in the poem. (11) In what meter is the poem written? Notice that the trochaic rhythm requires feminine rimes, such as numbers — slumbers, but in the second and fourth lines of each stanza the final unaccented syllable is omitted, so that we have one feminine and one masculine rime in each stanza. Is this rime scheme adhered to throughout the poem? (12) How many syllables does the rhythm require in the words real, funeral, bivouac? (13) In line 4 would the rhythm require the emphasis to fall on are or on not? Does the rhjrthm, then, help you to give the correct rhetorical or thought stress? (14) Memorize the poem perfectly, and recite it. Hymn to the Night (Longfellow) INTRODUCTORY: ■'Longfellow said that he wrote the poem when sitting at his chamber window on a balmy night." — Bronson, American Poems, p. 576. Poe made an elaborate analysis of the "Hymn to the Night" in a review of Voices of the Night in Burton's Gentleman's Magazine, February, 1840. Among other things he said, "No poem ever opened with a beauty more august. The five first stanzas are nearly perfect — by which we mean that they are nearly free from fault, while em- bodying a supreme excellence. Had we seen nothing from the pen of the poet but these five verses, we should have formed the most exaggerated conception of his powers." The poem first appeared in Voices of the Night (1839), giving the cue for the title of that volume. EXPLANATORY: 257 ■■ 3- sable. Black; from the sable, ortnarten, whose fur is black. 258 : 2 1 > Orestes-like. Orestes was pursued by the Furies because he had killed his own mother. Look up the story in a classic mythology. 258: 22. Descend, etc. "It is not every reader who will here understand the poet is invoking Peace to descend through, or by means of ' The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, the best-beloved Night, ' " — Poe, in his review of Voices of the Night. 578 American Literary Readings 258 : 23. The welcome, the thrice-prayed for. This is a translation of the Greek words used as a headpiece or motto. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Give the lyric impulse of this poem. (2) In what form does the poet conceive of night? Is the personification maintained through- out the poem? (3) What was the effect of the presence of'night on the poet (stanzas 3 and 4)? (4) What lessons did he draw? (5) What appropriateness do you find in the allusion to Orestes? (6) Comment on Poe's interpretation of the last stanza (see note on line 22). Do you accept this interpretation? Why? (7) Compare this poem with "A Psalm of Life." Which of the two do you think is more beautiful? More inspiring? More artistic in expression? (8) How is the theme of the poem emphasized by the rimes in the first three stanzas? (9) Characterize the rhythm and the melody, or tone-color, of the poem. Maidenhood (Longfellow) INTRODUCTORY: On the publication of Ballads and Other Poems, Longfellow wrote to his father saying, among other things, " I think the last two pieces the best, — perhaps as good as anything I have written." These two pieces were "Maidenhood" and "Excelsior." EXPLANATORY: 259 : 18. Elysian. Relating to the Greek "Heaven," or place of the departed spirits of the heroes. 259: 21. falcon's shadow. The falcon was a hawk trained to catch birds for hunters. 259 : 34- Gather, then, each flower that grows. Compare Robert Herrick's "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may." 259 • 36. embalm. Perfume, sweeten. 259 : 37- lily. Emblem of purity. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) The thought movement of the poem may be summarized thus: (a) the picture of maidenhood (stanzas 1-5) ; (6) the query (stanzas 6-8) ; (c) warning and advice (stanzas 9-16). Give the detaUs brought out in the poem under each of these suggested divisions. (2) What metaphor is developed in lines 7-15? Why is it a good one? (3) Expound the metaphor in lines 31-36. Exactly what does the "tent of snows" mean? (4) Interpret literally the thought of lines 37-39. (5) Select the one stanza in the poem which you admire most. Excelsior (Longfellow) INTRODUCTORY: Late one night Longfellow's eye fell upon a scrap 'of a New York newspaper with an engraving of the state seal on it — a shield, with^ a rising sun in the center and the Latin motto Excelsior underneath The Notes S79 it. The picture of the youth in the Alps, climbing higher and ever higher and bearing this motto Excelsior upon a pennant, flashed into his mind, and he at once wrote the first draft of the poem on the back of an old letter. He dated the composition at the end as follows: "September 28, 1841. Half past 3 o'clock morning. Now to bed." In a letter written later to C. K. Tuckerman, Longfellow gives a full analysis of the piece. He said his purpose was "to display, in a series of pictures, the life of a man of genius, resisting all temptations, laying aside all fears, heedless of all warnings, and pressing right on to accomplish his purpose. His motto is Excelsior, 'higher.' He passes through the Alpine village — through the rough, cold paths of the .world — ^where the peasants cannot understand him, and where the watchword is an 'unknown tongue.' He disregards the happiness of domestic peace and sees the glaciers — his fate — before him. He disregards the warning of the old man's wisdom and the fascinations of woman's love. He answers to all 'Higher yet!' The monks of St. Bernard are the representatives of religious forms and ceremonies, and with their oft-repeated prayer mingles the sound of his voice, telling them there is something higher than forms and ceremonies. Filled with these aspirations, he perishes; without having reached the perfection he longed for; and the voice heard in the air is the promise of immortality and progress ever upward." EXPLANATORY: 261 : 32. Saint Bernard. He founded the Bemardine order of Cistercian monks at Clairvaux ir the Alps during the twelfth century. Note the reference to the famous St. Bernard dogs in line 36 below. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Read carefully the introductory note and make a complete outline of the poem by stanzas. (2) What effect has the constant repetition of the motto? (3) Which one of the voices was most appealing to the youth? Upon what grounds do you base your de- cision? (4) How do the warnings in the fourth and sixth stanzas prepare us for the catastrophe? (5) What voice speaks last, and what is the real import of this voice? (6) Compare the poem with Poe's "Eldorado." Which of the two poems best expresses the idea of the unattainable ideal? (7) Memorize "Excelsior." The Wreck of the Hesperus (Longfellow) INTRODUCTORY: Longfellow was constantly on the lookout for themes suitable to his own poetic genius. In his Journal he recorded suggestions as they came to him from his reading, conversation, and other sources. On December 17, 1839, he recorded the following note: "News of shipwrecks horrible on the coast. Twenty bodies washed ashore near Gloucester, one lashed to a piece of wreck. There is a reef called Norman's Woe where many of these took place; among others the schooner Hesperus. Also the Sea-flower on Black Rock. I must write a ballad upon this." About twelve days later he was sitting up rather late at night writing a review of AUston's poems, when suddenly the idea came to him to write the ballad. He worked rapidly sSo American Literary Readings on it and then went to bed, but he could not sleep, because he kept thinking of new stanzas to add to the ballad. He arose and completed the poem about three o'clock in the morning, and then went to bed and slept soundly. The next morning he recorded this experience in his Journal, saying that the poem hardly cost him an effort, as it came to him in whole sta,nzas rather than in single lines. The ballad was first published in the New World, January, 1840. EXPLANATORY: 262 : II. flaw. A sudden puff of wind. 262 : 14. Spanish Main. That part of the Caribbean Sea along the northern coast of South America, so called during the early coloni- zation periods when the richly laden Spanish merchantmen plied between the Old World and the New. This sea was infested with pirates, and many tales of sunken ships and buried treasures have been told of these stirring times and this romantic region. 263 : 56. Lake of Galilee. Relate the incident referred to; see Matthew 8:23-27. 264 : 60. Norman's Woe. A dangerous reef off Gloucester harbor in Massachusetts. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Relate the story in your own words. (2) What wrenched accents peculiar to ballad measures do you note in lines 3, 4, 13, 29? (3) What characteristic ballad parallelism and repetition do you find in lines 37-48? Point out other examples. (4) What is the char- acteristic ballad measure here used? Point out some peculiarities, such as extra syllables (lines 3, 7, etc.), omission of words (line 14), pleonasm (lines 9, 19), stock expressions (line 13), and the like. (5) Of course "The Wreck- of the Hesperus" is a literary or imitative ballad, and as such, good as it is of its kind, it pates into almost complete eclipse when brought into direct comparison with some of the fine old English and Scottish popular ballads. Take the following, for example, and make a close comparison of it with Longfellow's literary ballad: Sir Patrick Spence The King sits in Dumferling toune, Drinking the blude-reid wine; O whar will I get guid sail6r. To sail this schip of mine? Up and spak an eldern Knicht _ Sat at the king's richt knee: Sir Patrick Spence is the best sail6r That sails upon the se. The king has written a braid letter. And signd it wi' his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, Was walking on the sand. The first line that Sir Patrick red, A loud lauch lauch^d he; The next line that Sir Patrick red, The teir blinded his ee , * O wha is this has done this deid, This ill deid done to me, To send me out this time o' the yeir, To sail upon the sel' ' Mak hast*, mak hast', my mirry men all, Our guid schip sails the mome.' * O say na sae, my master deir. For I feir a deadlie storme. *Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone, Wi' the auld moone in her arme. And I feir, I feir, my deir mast6r. That we will cum to harme.' Our Scots nobles wer richt laith To weet their cork-heild shoon, Bot lang or a' the play wer playd, Thair hats they swam aboone. The Notes -, s8i ). O lang, lang may their ladies sit, lo. lang, lang may the ladies stand, Wi' thair fans into their hand, Wi' their gold kems in their hair, Or e'ir they sae Sir Patrick Spence Waiting for thair ain deir Jords, Cum sailing to the land. For they'll se them na mair. II. Half owre, half owre to Aberdour, It's fiftie f adorn deip. And thair lies, guid Sir Patrick Spence W 'i the Scots lords at his feit. The Arrow and the Song (Longfellow) INTRODUCTORY: On November 16, 1845, Longfellow made this note in his Journal: "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." It _ was included in The Belfry of Bruges and Other Poems, which was published about a month later. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) How is unity of effect obtained in this brief but almost perfect lyric? (2) Give the sequence of the thought by stanzas. (3) Work out the parallelism of expression in the first and second stanzas. What is the purpose of this? (4) How do Longfellow's own songs fulfill the condition set forth in the last two lines? (5) How do you like this simple stanzaic form? (6) Point out one break in the regularity of the rhythm. Is this a blemish? Why? (7) Is unbroke in the last stanza correct? Why is it permissible to use such a form here? Divina Commedia (Longfellow) INTRODUCTORY: This is the first of the six sonnets, two to each of the three parts, which Longfellow attached to his monumental translation of Dante's Divina Commedia. It is in this sonnet that the- poet refers most touchingly to the burden of the loss of his wife and to the additional distress which he felt as the terrible Civil War drew to a close. The sonnet was written in April, 1864. EXPLANATORY: 265 : 5- paternoster. The Lord's prayer. 265 : 9. here. That is, he enters upon the work of his translation of Dante. 265 : 10. leave my burden at the minster gate. His burden was the grief over the loss of his wife. Minster is an old word for monastery or cathedral. 265 : 12. tumult of the time. The Civil War (1861-1865). THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Note how the thought of the ordinary worshiper is developed in the octave, or first eight lines, and how the application to his own life's burden is made in the sextet, or last six lines. Summarize each of these divisions in your own words. (2) Read the poem aloud for its melody and sonorousness. Select the most musical lines. 582 American Literary Readings Snow-Botind (Whittier) INTRODUCTORY: "Snow-Bound," one of the most perfect rural idyls in the language, was first conceived by Whittier about August, 1865, just after the final settling of that terrible question of slavery, in which he had taken such an active part through his writings. Whittier was then fifty- nine years old, and had reached that period in life when the instinct for reminiscence is strongest. A few years before, his mother and elder sister had died, and just a year before, his younger sister, Eliza- beth, had passed away, and the poem is a sort of memorial to them and to the household of which they were a part, and of which now only the poet and his brother Matthew survived. The poem first appeared in a separate volume in 1866, under the management of James T. Field, the poet's literary adviser and publisher. Whittier explained in a note preceding the poem who the various members of the household were, and added this account of his resources: "In my boyhood, in our lonely farm house, we had scanty sources of information; few books and only a small weekly paper. Our only annual was the Almanac. Under such circumstances story-telling was a necessary resource in the long winter evenings. My father when a young man had traversed the wilderness to Canada, and could tell of his adventures with Indians and wild beasts, and of his sojourn in the French villages. My uncle was ready with his record of hunting and fishing and, it must be confessed, with stories, which he at least half believed, of witchcraft and apparitions. My mother, who was born in the Indian-haunted region of Somersworth, New Hampshire, between Dover and Portsmouth, told us of the inroads of the savages, and the narrow escape of her ancestors. She described strange people who lived on the Piscataqua and Cocheco, among whom was Bantam the sorcerer. I have in my possession the wizard's 'conjuring book,' which he solemnly opened when consulted. It is a copy of Cornelius Agrippa's Magic, printed in 1651." Prof. George R. Carpenter in his life of Whittier says, "He, this old man who had been an East Haverhill boy, describes his homestead, his well curb, his brook, his family circle, his schoolmaster, apparently intent on naught but the complete accuracy of his narrative, and lo! such is his art that he has drawn the one perfect, imperishable picture of that bright old winter Hfe in that strange clime. Diaries, journals, histories, biographies, and autobiographies, with the same aim in view, are not aU together so typical as this unique poem of less than a thousand lines." EXPLANATORY: 272. Whittier dedicated the poem "To the memory of the house- hold it describes." 272. Cor. Agrippa, Occult Philosophy. See Whittier's reference to this old book in the introductory note. 272 : I. brief. The shortest day in the year occurs when? . 272 : 7. portent. A sign or omen. It is still superstitiously believed that if the sun siiiks behind a cloud, a storm will follow. 272 : 13. sharpened. What effect would the cold have on the face? Is the adjective suggestive? 272 : 15. east. That is, from the east. The Notes 5^3 273 : 17. felt the strong pulse. The Whittier home was only about fifteen miles from the shore. Note the metaphor and personification in the line. 273 : 22. herd' s-grass. Timothy hay. 273 :. 25. stanchion. Upright poles with hickory or walnut bows attached so as to hold the cattle m the stalls. 273 : 44. Nature's geometric signs. That is, in regular crystals like geometric figures. Look up illustrations of snow crystals and see how aptly starry flake, pellicle, etc., apply. 274 : 62. well-curb. When some western school girls who could not understand how a well with a sweep could have a roof wrote to Whittier for an explanation, he replied that there was a board laid across the curb as a shelf to hold the pail, and the snow made this look like a Chinese roof. 274 : 65. Pisa's leaning miracle. A tower made of pure white marble in Pisa, Italy. Its base is 51 feet, and the tower is said to lean about 16 feet from its vertical line of 181 feet. It is called a miracle because it does not fall, but from a scientific point of view it is perfectly safe. Why? 274 : 70. buskins. Formerly high-heeled boots worn by tragic actors, but here simply heavy, high-topped shoes. 274 : 77. Aladdin's wondrous cave. Let some one briefly tell the story of Aladdin. 274 : 80. supernal. Heavenly, from above; compare infernal. 27s : 90. Egypt's Amun. An Egyptian god, frequently repre- sented with a ram's head. Also spelled Ammon. 275 : 97. No church-bell. This seems to indicate that the third day of the storm was Sunday. There coiild be no meeting on such a day. 276 : 136. crane and pendent trammels. The crane was a swinging bar of iron put on the side of the fireplace, and the trammels were hooks on which cooking utensils were hung. What does pendent mean? . 276 : 137. Turks' heads. The smooth tops of the andirons were imitations of the Turkish fez. 276 : 142. witches . . . tea. "When you see the fire on the hearth reflected outside, the witches are making their tea. It is dangerous to go out of doors then, and to stand in the reflection of the fire will bewitch you." Daniels and Stephens, Encyclopedia of Superstitions. 2TJ : 156. clean-winged. Swept clean, as with a turkey- wing duster. 277 : 183. brother. His younger brother, Matthew, died 1883, nine years before the poet's death. 278 : 204. The stars shine through his cypress-trees. The star is the emblem of hope; the cypress, of death and mourning. Explain the metaphor. 278 : 206. breaking day . . . mournful marbles. The resurrec- tion day breaking over the marble gravestones. i_ 278:211. And Love can never lose its own. Compare Tennyson's '"Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all." 278 : 215. " The Chief of Gambia's golden shore." The third stanza of Mrs. Sarah Wentworth Morton's poem "The African Chief" begins "A chief of Gambia's golden shore." Gambia is a district in West 584 American Literary Readings Africa from which slaves were taken. The lines quoted by Whittief below (hnes 220-223) form the fourth stanza of Mrs. Morton's poem. The poet may have learned the piece from Bingham's American Preceptor (18 1 3) where it appeared among other selections for dec- lamation. In later editions of "Snow-Bound" Whittier substituted for the lines referring to Dame Mercy Warren the following: As if a far-blown trumpet stirred The languorous sin-sick air, I heard; 279 : 225. Memphremagog. A lake on the border between Ver- mont and Canada. St. Frangois (line 229) is a river in Quebec; Salisbury (line 237) is in northeastern Massachusetts; Boar's Head (line 242) and the Isles of Shoals (line 243) are along the New Hamp- shire coast just north of Salisbury. 279 : 226. moose and samp. Moose meat and a sort of porridge made of Indian corn. 279 : 231. Norman cap and bodiced zone. The dress of the Ca- nadian settlers who came from Normandy, France. See Evangeline, lines 39-40. 279 : 244. hake-broil. Hake is a kind of salt-water fish. 280 : 259. Cochecho. Indian name for Dover, New Hampshire. It is near the Piscataqua River. 280 : 270. gray wizard's conjuring-book. See the introductory note with quotation from Whittier. 280 : 272. Piscataqua. A river in Maine. Pronounced pJs-cat'a- kwa here. Why? 280 : 286. painful Sewell's ancient tome. The ancient volume of painstaking Sewell, the author of a history of the Quakers. 280 : 289. Chalkley's Journal. Thomas Chalkley was a traveling Quaker preacher. The story repeated in the text is substantially the same as related in the Journal. 281 : 305. tangled ram, etc. Relate the story as told in Genesis 22. 281 : 307. innocent. Lacking in knowledge. The uncle was Moses Whittier, an old bachelor. 281 : 310. lyceum. Originally a grove in which Aristotle taught; hence any school or instructive course of lectures. Properly accented on the second syllable, but here on the first to meet the requirements of the rhythm. Scan the line. 281 : 313. divine. Find out, predict. 281 : 315. cunning-warded. A ward is a notch on a key to allow it to pass an obstruction in the lock; hence cunning-warded here means cunningly or nicely adjusted or fitted to unlock the mysteries of nature. 281 : 320. Apollonius. A Greek philosopher of the first century who was said to know all languages by instinct, even those of animals and birds. 281 : 322. Hermes. The Egyptian god Thoth, whom the Greeks called Hermes Trismegistus, the god of all wisdom. He is usually represented in figures as having the bill of an ibis, the sacred bird of the Egyptians, "the sage cranes of Nilus" referred to in the text. 282 : 332. White 0} Selborne. Gilbert White, an Englishman who recorded so faithfully "The Natural History and Antiquities of Sel- borne" that his book has become a classic in English literature. 282 : 350. the dear aunt. Mercy Hussey, sister of Mrs. Whittier. 283 : 361. huskings. Read Whittier's "The Huskers" with the "Corn Song" which follows. Tfw Notes 58s 283 : 369. mirage. An illusion; pronounced mir azh', though Whittier probably called it mir'age to fit the rhythm. In Pickard's life of Whittier the story is told that late one night the young girl saw an image of her lover on horseback approaching the home. When she opened the door, nothing was there. Shortly afterwards she heard that her lover had died m New York at exactly the same hour as that in which she had seen the apparition. This is evidently the "mirage that loomed across her way." 283 : 378. elder sister. Mary, who afterwards married Jacob Caldwell of Haverhill. She died in i860. 284 : 396. Our youngest. Elizabeth; she never married, but lived with her brother and devoted herself to his interests until her death in 1864. Like him she had a poetical gift and several of her poems have been preserved. The tribute the poet makes to her is perhaps the finest piece of poetry he ever composed. 285 : 438. Brisk wielder of the birch and rule. The teacher's name was George Haskell. 285 : 444. mitten-blinded. That is, he blinded the cat by drawing a mitten over its head. 28s : 447. Dartmouth's college halls. Located at Hanover, New Hampshire. 286 : 476. Pindus-born Araxes. The Arachthus (Araxes) River rises in the Pindus Mountains in Greece. 286 : 483. hostage . . . took. That is, his knowledge of the past gave him an advantage in discerning the trend of future events. 287: 510. Another guest. Harriet Livermore, of New Hampshire. She was a brilliant woman, but eccentric and quick tempered. She believed that the time of the second coming of Christ to the earth was at hand, and so she went to Asia and lived for a while on Mount Lebanon with another religious enthusiast. Lady Hester Stanhope, referred to in line 555 as the crazy Queen of Lebanon. 287 : 523. pard-like. Leopard-like; pard is used only in poetry. 288 : 536. Petruchio's Kate. Petruchio was the man who tamed Katherine, the high-tempered heroine of Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew. 288: '537. Siena's saint. Saint Catherine of Siena, Italy, noted for her mildness and charity. She made a vow of silence for tnree years. Note how the two contrasted Catherines are combined in Miss Livermore. 288 : 555. crazy Queen of Lebanon. See note on line 510. 288 : 568. fatal sisters. The three fates, Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. 291 : 656. Eden. Consult Genesis 2 and 3. 291 : 659. wise old Doctor. Dr. Elias Weld of Rocks Village near East Haverhill. 291 : 668. inward light. The conscience. The Quaker matron, Mrs. Abigail Whittier, professed to follow the inward light, while Dr. Weld, a Presbyterian or Calvinist, subscribed to a stricter creed. Note the metaphor in mail. 292 : 683. Ellwood's meek, drab-skirted Muse. Thomas EUwood, a Quaker poet, wrote a long epic on King David. Ellwood's muse Whittier humorously calls a stranger to the nine Greek or classic Muses, and he dubs it "drab-skirted" in humorous allusion to the plain gray garb of the Quakers. 586 American Literary Readings 292 : 693. painted Creeks. The Creek Indians later were removed from Georgia to the Indian Territory. ' 292 : 694. daft McGregor. Sir George McGregor, a Scotchman, attempted to form a colony in Porto Rico in 1822. This allusion and the one preceding give us a hint of the exact time Whittier had in mind for his reminiscent picture. He would himself have been about fifteen at this time. 292 : 696. Taygetos, etc. A mountain range in Greece; the Greek patriot Ypsilanti led his soldiers, who came from the district of Maina, against the Turks in the struggle for Greek independence. 292 : 700. Its corner for the rustic Muse. Whittier's first published poem appeared in just such a poets' corner. 293 : 715. Angel of the backward look. Memory. 293 : 719. weird palimpsest. Strange parchment, which could be written on after the previous writing had been erased. How does the figure apply? 293:727. mournful cypresses. Why mournful? See line 204 and the note on it. 293 : 728. amaranths. A flower supposed never to fade; symbolic of immortality. 293 : 730. restless sands. In the hour-glass of time. 293 : 739- century's aloe. The American aloe, or century plant, a large spear-leafed shrub of the southwestern United States and Mexico. It was formerly supposed to flower'only once in a century. Whittier here refers to the close of the Civil War and the abolition of slavery, the last being the finest achievement of the first century of American history. 293 : 741. Truce of God. An agreement of the eleventh century forbidding aU fighting for a time so that the laborers could till the fields. 294 : 747. Flemish pictures. The Flemish school of painters were noted for -brilliant coloring and sympathetic treatment of humble interiors. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: General, (i) Why is this poem called an idyl? What is the general nature of the theme and material introduced? (2) In what mood and from what point of view is the material treated? Notice how the poet indicates the change of point of view in tfie reflective passages (lines 179, 386, 400, 485) and in the conclusion (line 715). Note also how at the end of these reflective passages the reader is distinctly brought back to the original point of view. (3) Is the poem narrative or lyric in its general effect? Explain. (4) Divide the poem into four large sections showing the general structure of the whole composition, and give an appropriate title for each division. (Hint: Keep the central idea, namely, snow-bound, in mind, and note how we have before, during, and after sections, with a conclusion. Lines 116, 629, 715 are good dividing points.) (5) Now take these larger divisions and fill in the details so as to make a complete outline of about one full page. You will notice that at various points the poet interjects his own reflections on suggested topics, such as his thoughts on time and immortality (lines 179-21 1), vision of a lost loved one and thoughts on death (lines 400-437), education (lines 485-509), judging others (lines 565-589). These grow naturally out of the The Notes 587 subject-matter and should be duly recorded in the outline. (6) Work out a complete time scheme for the poem, beginning on a Friday morning late in Decemlser and running over to the next Friday. Con- sult lines I, 32, 42, 47, 116, 629, 674. Be careful to determine whether lines 42 and 47 indicate the same or separate mornings. (7) In which is the poet more interested, the incidents or the characters? (8) How does he blend the setting, the characters, and the movement or action of the piece so as to give unity of effect? (9) What is the- prevailing or dominant tone of the composition? (10) Why do you think the poet was able to draw such accurate portraits of the char- acters? Compare these with purely imaginary characters, like those in Longfellow's Evangeline, for example. (11) In what meter is the poem written? Scan lines 19 to 30, noting inversions, hovering or divided stresses, slurred or extra syllables, and the like. (12) The usual couplet rime is sometimes varied into alternate or inclosed rimes. Point out some of these. (13) Do you note many wrenched or slightly untrue rimes, such as pellicle — fell, lines 45-46; dumb — lyceum, lines 309-310; on — sun, lines 41-42; intense — elements, lines loo-ioi? How would hearth, line 106, he pronounced? Piscatagua, line 272? memories, line 360? Are these blemishes, or merely licenses? (14) Suggested memory passages : lines 155-174; 203-211 ; 394-437; 485-509; 647-656; 715-728. (15) Suggested subjects for compositions: The Inmates of Whittier's Early Home; A Contrast of "Snow-Bound" with Burns's "The Cotter's Saturday Night," or Goldsmith's "The Deserted Village"; Figures of Speech in "Snow-Bound"; Whittier's Power as a Portrayer of Characters; The Chief Values Derived from Studying "Snow-Bound"; A Winter Day in My Own Home. Specific. (l) What peculiar weather signs are given as presaging a storm? Can you give similar local weather signs? (2) Summarize the "nightly chores," and compare them with your own. (3) Explain the implied metaphor in line? 29-30. Is it humorous in effect? (4) Compare lines 33-40 with the stanza from Emerson's "The Snow- storm," which Whittier quotes at the head of "Snow-Bound." (5) Describe some of the transformed objects around the home (lines 54-65), explaining some of the allusions. (6) To what place and why was it necessary to dig a path? (7) Describe the appearance and action of the animals after the storm. (8) Compare Whittier's brief description of the frozen brook (lines 110-115) with Lowell's extended description in the first Prelude of "The Vision of Sir Launfal." (9) What effect has the evening fire on the scene? (10) Describe the picture around the hearth (lines 155-174). (11) Enumer- ate the evening entertainments (lines 21 1-2 15). (12) Do you suppose the father and mother told all of their experiences in one evening, or is the poet here condensing the narratives of many days into one? This is called the poet's power of universal compression or condensa- tion: Compare Milton's L' Allegro and // Penseroso for similar con- densation. (13) Refer to the notes and explain the allusions in the father's and the mother's recital. (14) Give an oral sketch of Uncle Moses Whittier. Do you think he was a good story-teller? (15) What aunt is referred to? Explain the reference in line 369. (16) Compare the metaphor in lines 390-391 with Shakespeare's "That undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns." (17) Explain just what the poet meant in lines 392-394. Why does the memory of the younger sister call forth such tender reveries from the S88 American Literary Readings poet? (i8) Why are the birch and rule mentioned in line 438? (19) Compare this schoolmaster with the one in Goldsmith's "The Deserted Village." Which portrait do you prefer? (-20) TeU the story of the other guest (lines 510 ff). (21) What does the poet describe after he finishes with the portraits? (22) Read aloud the description of sleep (lines 622-628) and comment on the happy way in which the poet suggests by his language the very thing he is describing. (23) On the morning of the fourth-day (line 629) what distinct change takes place in the situation of the snow-bound household? (24) Visualize the picture described in lines 650-656, and explain just what is meant by "the charm which Eden never lost." (25) What is meant by the "Quaker matron's inward light" and the Doctor's "mail of Calvin's creed"? (26) Explain the metaphor in lines 672-673. (27) How did the family spend the later days of their enforced imprisonment? (28) What do the allusions in the village paper help us to determine? See the notes above. (29) Read and expound the magnificent apostrophe to memory beginning with line 715 and forming^ the conclusion to this reminiscent idyl. (30) What event is referred to in line 739? (31) How does the poet appeal to his old friends (line 745) and how does he express his gratitude to his new friends, the readers whom he has never seen? Is this a happy concluding thought? Ichabod (Whittier) INTRODUCTORY: This famous poem was first published at Washington City on May 2, 1850, in the National Era, an anti-slavery organ of which Whittier was an assistant or corresponding editor. Daniel Webster, the dis- tinguished Massachusetts senator, had been regarded as the leader of the doctrine of unionism as opposed to states' rights; but when the Fugitive Slave Law was proposed, Webster took a conservative and conciliatory attitude and supported the measure, thus drawing upon himself a storm of protest from the anti-slavery party of the North. Whittier voiced his own and his party's feelings in this remarkable poem. In an introductory note written later, he declared that when he read the speech in which Webster supported Clay's compromise measure and saw clearly the sure results which would follow, he uttered his rebuke more in sorrow than in anger. Later in his life, feeling that he owed some reparation to the great statesman whose action he had so signally rebuked, and feeling also, as Professor Carpenter sug- gests, that perhaps Webster was right after all, Whittier wrote "The Lost Occasion," in which he gave a fine portrait of Webster and ex- pressed a profound regret that the great man had not lived to become a leader for liberty and union in the final struggle between the states. Professor Carpenter remarks that the verses are, in their awful scorn, the most powerful that Whittier ever wrote, and Francis H. Under- wood in speaking of "Ichabod" in his Life of Whittier, says, "It contains more storage of electric energy than anything we remember in our time." EXPLANATORY: 294. Ichabod. The meaning of the Hebrew name is "the glory has departed." See I Samuel 4:21. The Notes 589 294 • 3- f'^y hairs. Webster was then sixty-eight years old, and two years later he died, October 24, 1852. 295 : 35. Walk backward, etc. This is a veiled allusion to the incident recorded in Genesis 9:21-27, a part of which reads: "Shem and Japheth took a garment, and laid it upon both their shoulders, and went backward, and covered the nakedness of their father; and their faces were backward, and they saw not their father's nakedness." THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i ) Recall the historical occasion which produced this poem. (Look up Clay's Compromise Bill of 1850 and ascertain Webster's part in it.) (2) Explain the meaning of the title of the poem. (3) Whittier says that scorn and wrath with attendant revilings and insults are out of place in contemplating Webster's action. What emotion is it, then, that he feels and expresses in the poem? (4) Do you think there is after all a sort of suppressed and dignified scorn beneath the feeling of regret and sorrow which the poet voices? (5) Point out the single stanza which you think i? most powerfxil and stinging in its rebuke. (6) Do you think that this is a mere occasional poem, that is, the expression of a mere passing emotion due to the incident described? What gives the poem its real, lasting quality? (7) In what meter is the poem written? Do you like the peculiar effect of the short lines alternating with the longer ones? (8) Compare "Ich- abod" with Browning's "The Lost Leader." Skipper Ireson's Ride (Whittier) INTRODUCTORY: This ballad first appeared in the Atlantic Monthly, December, 1857. James Russell Lowell, who was editor of the Atlantic at the time, suggested the dialect refrain for the sake of local color, an evident improvement. Whittier accepted the change for all the stanzas in which the women are supposed to speak. The incident on which the ballad is based came to Whittier through the refrain of an old song which, he learned from a Haverhill Academy schoolmate who came from Marblehead. It is said that the skipper was really not so much to be blamed as his crew for deserting the sinking ship; but Whittier said that he drew the material of his ballad wholly from fancy, and we may add that whatever the facts in the case may be, the underlying truth of the ballad — namely, righteous indignation against cowardly action for selfish motives — remains universal in its appeal. EXPLANATORY: 296 : 3. Apuleius's Golden Ass. Apuleius was a Platonic philoso- pher of the second century who wrote a romance in which the principal character is turned by magic into an ass. The allusion is not quite apropos. 296 : 4. one-eyed Calender's horse of brass. This is a reference to the third royal mendicant, or calender, one of three traveling der- vishes who related their adventures in the Arabian Nights. Each of the three told of the strange manner in which he had lost his left eye. S90 American Literary Readings The third one tells of a horse of brass on the top of a lodestone moun- tain, but he did not ride this horse. He merely shot it from its pedestal and caused it to sink into the sea. Later on in his adventures he mounted a wonderful black horse which presently spread a pair of wings and bore him swiftly through the air. As it deposited him on the top of a castle, it switched out the mendicant's left eye with a violent blow of its tail. Whittier probably had another Arabian Nights story, that of the wonderful magic horse of ivory and ebony, confused with the reference to the brass horse in the third calender's tale. 296 : 6. Islam's prophet. Mohammed, the founder of Islamism. 296 : 6. Al-Bordk. This was the name of the white mule with a man's face, a horse's cheeks, and an eagle's wings, on which Mohammed rode through the air to the Holy City. 296: 8. Marblehead. A rough seaport town near Salem, Massa- chusetts. 297 : 26. Bacchus. The god of wine. Note the appropriateness of the allusion. 297: 30. Mcsnads. These were the frenzied female worshipers of Bacchus; also called Bacchantes. 297: 35-- Chaleur Bay. A part of the Gulf of St. Lawrence between Quebec and New Brunswick. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Why is the poem called a ballad? (2) Tell the story in your own words. (3) Construct an outline showing by stanzas the intro- duction, description of the skipper in the hands of the mob of women, the cause of their vengeance, the ride through Marblehead and the surrounding country, the repentance, and the dismissal of the culprit. (4) Is the narrative naturally told, logical, effective? (5) In what time of the year was the ride made? (6) How does the poet manage to make the scene comical and at the same time tragic and pathetic? (7) Can you see the skipper and his tormentors clearly? How does the poet manage this? (8) What motive for the skipper's desertion of the distressed ship is hinted at in line 40? (9) Why is the metaphor in line 61 appropriate? (10) Why is the skipper described as looking like an Indian idol (line 72)? Does Indian refer to American Indians or to East India? (11) How is the note of pathos touched in the last stanza? (12) Study the refrain throughout the poem. What is the effect of its repetition in dialect? In School-Days (Whittier) INTRODUCTORY: This poem was first published in Our Young People, January, 1870, under the editorship of Lucy Larcom. She had asked Whittier to write some verses to print under certain pictures; he replied that he could not do that but she might print "In School-Days" if she did not think it "too spooney for a grave Quaker like myself." S. T. Pickard, Whittier's biographer, says that the little girl referred to was Lydia Ayer, daughter of the poet's nearest neighbor, who died when she was fourteen. Oliver Wendell Holmes in writing to Whittier in 1878 said of this poem, "Let me say to you unhesitatingly that you have written The Notes 591 the most beautiful school-boy poem in the English language." We can readily agree with Holmes that the naturalness, simplicity, sweet- ness, and sincerity of school-boy and school-girl life were never more satisfactorily presented. EXPLANATORY: 299: II. creeping slow to school. Suggested by Shakespeare's "And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwilling to school." As You Like It, II: vii. 299: 16. icy fretting. That is, the sun lit up the icy fretwork, or icicles, on the eaves. 300 : 37. Still. Is this an adjective or an adverb? THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) This little poem tells a story, but it is a reminiscent lyric rather than a ballad or narrative poem. Its purpose is to re-create an emo- tional moment in the boy's life — -one of the sweetest moments that ever come to youth, the moment in which love first blossoms in all its glory. Show just how the poet manages to catch and preserve this emotional moment. (2) In what stanzas is the background or setting presented? Is it a lifelike picture of the old country schooUiouse? Can you create a similar one out of your own experiences? (3) How is the evening sunlight used to beautify the scene? (4) Does the poet successfully express the bashfulness of the two in the seventh stanza? (5) In what stanza is the emotional climax reached? (6) How is the tone chastened and subdued in the last two stanzas? (7) What figure of speech is effectively used in the- first stanza? (8) Determine the meter and rhythm of the poem. (9) Is the feminine rime organic, that is, is it preserved without variation throughout the poem? What effect has the use of the feminine rimes on the musical quality of the lyric? (10) By what rime repetition is the main thought or point of the poem emphasized? The Last Leaf (Holmes) INTRODUCTORY: "The Last Leaf" was written some time in 1831 or 1832, and first printed in The Harbinger, 1833. In a later prefatory note Holmes said: "This poem was suggested by the appearance in one of our streets of a venerable rehc of the Revolution (Major Thomas Melville), said to be one of the party who threw the tea overboard in Boston Harbor. He was a fine monumental specimen in his cocked hat and knee breeches, with his buckled shoes and his sturdy cane. The smile with which I, as a young man, greeted him, meant no disrespect to an honored fellow-citizen whose costume was out of date, but whose patriotism never changed with years. I do not recall any earlier example of this form of verse, which was commended by the fastidious Edgar Allan Poe, who made a copy of the whole poem which I have in his own handwriting. Good Abraham Lincoln had a great liking for the poem, and repeated it from memory to Governor Andrew, as the governor himself told me." John T. Morse, Jr., the biographer of Holmes, believed that "The Last Leaf" would outlive "The Chambered Nautilus." "Is there 592 American Literary Readings in all literature a lyric in which droUery, passing nigh into ridicule yet stopping short of it, and sentiment becoming pathos yet not too profound, are so exquisitely intermingled as in 'The Last Leaf? To spill into the mixture the tiniest fraction of a drop too much of either ingredient was to ruin all. How skillfully, how daintily, how un- erringly. Dr. Holmes compounded it, all readers of English know well. It was a light and trifling bit, if you will; but how often has it made the smile and the tear dispute for mastery in a rivalry which is never quite decided!" EXPLANATORY: 307 : II. Crier. The town crier was an officer whose duty it was to make public proclamations of sales, orders of court, and the like. 307: 15. _ Sad and wan. Holmes first wrote this "So forlorn," but being criticized for the bad rime, he adopted the change suggested by Mrs. Charles Folsom. 308 : 43. _ if I should live to he the last leaf. Holmes did actually outlive practically all of his early contemporaries. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Visualize the picture of the old man as he was and as he is. (2) What is the effect of the memories of buried loved ones in the fourth stanza? Do you see the appropriateness of the adjective mossy? (3) Why does the poet mention his grandmother only to announce that she died long ago? (4) What ludicrous images are developed in stanzas 6 and 7? (5) How does the poet make the application of the thought of the poem in the last stanza? (6) Read the introductory note and point out specific instances of the blending of pathos and humor, which is the chief charm of the poem. (7) Would you class this as a serious or a humorous lyric, or both? (8) Study the structure of the stanza. Notice the frequent occurrence of anapestic feet in the iambic rhythm of the longer lines. The short lines are uniformly one anapestic foot, and the trimeter, or three- stressed lines, usually open with an anapest. The two short lines with answering rime make what is called "tail-rime." Scan the second and last stanzas. The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table (Holmes) Section IV INTRODUCTORY: The first number of the Atlantic Monthly, November, 1857, contained the first instalment of The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table: Or Every Man His Own Boswell. The opening words were, "I was just going to say, when I was interrupted." This interruption Holmes explains by reminding his readers that just twenty-five years before in the New England Magazine he had written two chatty papers under the title he now resumed in the A tlantic Monthly. The papers continued through twelve numbers, and were the life of the new magazine. When the work was published in book form, it was recognized as an original and permanent contribution to our literature. In the February (1858) number of the Atlantic the fourth paper, containing "The Chambered Nautilus," appeared. The poem was everywhere greeted with applause. Whittier said upon reading it The Notes 593 that it was booked for immortality. Holmes preferred it above all his other productions, and it has undoubtedly been more frequently quoted than anything else the genial "Autocrat" wrote. EXPLANATORY: 309 : 36. Lochiel. Sir Ewen Cameron of Lochiel, a Scotch clan leader, called "The Black," and noted for his unrelenting treatment of his enemies in the war of the Highlands. 309 : 40. Wellington. Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, de- feated Napoleon at Waterloo in 1815. He was called " the iron Duke." 310 : 47-60. Jargonelles . . . Winler-Nelis . . . Saint-Germain . . . Early- Catherine . . . Easter-Beurri. Varieties of pears. ' 310 : 78. polyphlmshcean. Loud-roaring; a Homeric epithet for the ocean. 311 : 86. Sir Isaac. Sir Isaac Newton, the great English scientist, discoverer of the law of gravity, etc. The quotation referred to is, "I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself, I seem to have been only a boy playing on the seashore and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, while the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me." 312: 121. harlequin. A fantastically dressed person whose business is to afford amusement. In the space indicated by the dots above, the correspondent is supposed to compliment the poet and ask for his autograph. 312 : 136. Mr. Blake play Jesse Rural. William R. Blake was an excellent actor, especially of old men's parts. His best character was Jesse Rural, the simple-hearted old clergyman in Dion Boucicault's Old Heads and Young Hearts. 313 : 154. Sidney Smith. An English clergyman and humorist, one of the founders of the Edinburgh Review. 313" I57' The " Quarterly . . . tartarly." An allusion to the Jow mot attributed to Byron anent the report that the poet John Keats died from grief over the severe criticism of his works in the Quarterly Review. "Who killed Johny Keats?" "I," said the Quarterly, So savage and tartarly, "I Icilled Johny Keats." 313: 168. Bob Logic. The Oxonian, a light-headed dandy and wit in Pierce Egan's "Life in London," an extravaganza with elaborate drawings by Cruikshank. 313 : 172. Paul Pry's umbrella. Paul Pry, the title character in an English comedy by John Poole, is represented as a meddlesome busybody, always prying into other people's business. He usually carried a big umbrella. 314 : 187. Aristophanes. A Greek comedy writer of the fourth century B.C. 314 : 211. Sir Thomas Browne. An English physician and noted prose writer, author of Vrn Burial, Religio Medici, etc. The passage quoted is from the last-named work. 316 : 265. Derby. The famous English horse race held at Epsom, in Surrey; named from its founder the Twelfth Earl of Derby (pro- nounced dar'bi). 20 594 American Literary Readings 316:272. "Hunclapidem," etc. "This stone placed here by his sorrowing companions." 316 : 275. eau lustrale. Lustra! water; used in the ceremony of purification. 316 : 285. arcus senilis. Arc of old age; a disease of the eye in old age, by which the edge of the cornea becomes opaque. Note Holmes's use of medical terms and illustrations here and there. 317 : 324. a flower or a leaf. Wordsworth wrote several poems on the daisy, one of them in particular being fuU of similitudes. Com- pare also Burns's "To a Mountain Daisy." 3^8 : 333. Roget's Bridgewater Treatise. Peter Mark Roget, an English physician and writer, was awarded one of the prizes in the Earl of Bridgewater's foundation for research in the physical sciences. 318 : 339. unshadowed main. The ocean without a shadow either of a cloud or of a sail. 318:341. purpledwings. The nautilus was popularly supposed to have a sort of gauze-like pair of projections to act as sails. 318 : 342. Siren. One of the three sea-nymphs, half women and half birds, who by their singing enticed sailors to destruction on their island. See the story in Homer's Odyssey. 318 : 351. irised ceiling. The inside of the shell is rainbow- colored. Iris was the goddess of the rainbow. 318 : 355. left the past year's dwelling. See Holmes's explanation above, lines 349-353. 319 : 363. Triton. Son of Neptune; herald of the sea. He is represented as blowing a spiral conch-shell as a trumpet. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Imagine the breakfast table of a boarding-house, with various types of characters, such as the widowed landlady and her son Ben- jamin Franklin, the divinity student, the timid school-mistress, the angular female dressed in bombazine, and the incorrigible young man, John. Note the frequent use of the dash, especially at the beginning of paragraphs. This indicates some interruption in the Autocrat's talk. Sometimes it is a remark by some one of the boarders, not recorded but clearly implied, and sometimes it is a parenthetical or bracketed side remark of the Autocrat's for the reader's benefit. Note other evidences of the conversational or monologue style. (2) What is the first analogy suggested, and how is it developed through the first three paragraphs? ' (3) What compliment is implied in the speech of the divinity student, and how does the Autocrat show his gratitude? (4) What is the effect of the Autocrat's comparison of the student's head to an egg? (5) HoW does the Autocrat turn the student's remark so as to lead up to another analogy? (6) Explain the remarks of the Autocrat on the pebble, and comment on the figure in the last one, beginning "throne," etc. (7) What effect was produced upon the divinity student by the statement-concerning the number of analogies in the tmi verse? (Note that the effect is stated in another amusing figure or analogy.) (8) What is the purpose of all these analogies? (9) What new topic does the Autocrat advance in the section beginning "I know well enough"? Has he forgotten his general topic of analogies, or will he come back to it? (10) Are the Autocrat's remarks about the humorous literary man true? Can you give an example in your own community of a joker who finds it The Notes 595 hard to get himself taken seriously? (11) What remark do you imagine provoked the Autocrat's reply "Oh, indeed no!"? Do you find in this paragraph evidences of Holmes's dislike of Puritanism in its extreme forms? (12) How does the Autocrat manage to get back to his original topic of analogies? (See the quotation from Sir Thomas Browne.) (13) What does Holmes mean by "every now and then we throw an old schoolmate over the stern with a string tied to him"? By "the ruffled bosom of prosperity and progress, with a, sprig of diamonds stuck in it"? By "grow we must, if we outgrow all that we love"? (14) The comparisons of life to a sea voyage and a race are almost as old as literature itself; how does Holmes manage to make these old figures fresh and suggestive? (15) Notice the skill with which the Autocrat introduces his last figure — ^the one for which he has all along been preparing. In what form does it appear? Show how he really explains the poem before he reads it. SPECIAL QUESTIONS ON "THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS" (i) Point out the topic of each stanza and thus make an outline of the poem. (Remember that the "wrecked" shell before the poet is the lyrical stimulus, and hence the poem is built entirely around this object.) (2) Compare the analogy developed in the poem with some of those previously presented. Is this one so old or trite as those previously introduced? (3) What are some of the effects on the imagination and emotional nature as you read? (4) Holmes said of "The Chambered Nautilus": "In writing the poem I was filled with a better feeling — the highest state of mental exaltation and the most crystalline clairvoyance, as it seemed to me, that had ever been granted me — I mean that lucid vision of one's thought, and of all forms of expression which will be at once precise and musical, which is the poet's special gift, however large or small in amount or value." Can you see evidences of this exalted state of mind and this absolute com- mand of language in the poem? (5) The stanza is an original one in its form. It is composed in iambic rhythm with lines of varying length, ranging from three (lines 2, 3, 6) to five (lines 1,4, 5) and six (line 7) stresses or feet to the line. Show what lines rime and see if the model is consistently followed in all of the five stanzas. (6) Memorize the poem — if not the whole of it, by all means the last stanza. The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table (Holmes) Section XI INTRODUCTORY: "The Deacon's Masterpiece: or The Wonderful One-Hoss Shay" has usually been accepted simply as an example of Holmes's excellent Yankee humor, and there is nothing in the text or its setting to show that he intended it as anything else. Some have even gone so far as to point out Deacon David Holmes, one of the poet's ancestors, as the original "Deacon" who built the wonderful chaise. But Pro- fessor Barrett Wendell in his chapter on Jonathan Edwards in A Literary History of America says, "Often misunderstood, generally thought no more than a piece of comic extravagance. Dr. Holmes's 'One-Hoss Shay' is really among the most pitiless satires in our language. Born and bred a Calvinist, Holmes, who lived in the fuU tide of Unitarian hopefulness, recoiled from the appaUing doctrines '596 American Literary Readings which darkened his youth. He could find no flaw in their reasoning, ^but would not accept their conclusions." According to this inter- pretation, "The Deacon's Masterpiece," written in 1858, just a hundred years after the death o£ Jonathan Edwards, signalizes the complete collapse of the extreme Calvinistio doctrines advocated with so much force and logic by the great preacher. This inter- pretation becomes all the more convincing when we recall that the deacon's chaise was, according to the poem, completed in 1755, just about the time of the publication of Edwards's masterpiece. The Free- dom of the Will. EXPLANATORY: 320: 17. tertian and quartan. A tertian fever appears every first and third day, skipping one day; a quartan fever appears every first and fourth day, skijjping two days. 320: 31. quasi. As if. 320 : 43. Thomas Sanchez. A Jesuit priest (died 1610), who wrote many tracts, one of which -is mentioned in the text. 321 : 58. Georgius Secundus. George II, King of England from 1727 to 1760, was the son of George I of Hanover, Germany. 321 : 60. Lisbon-town. Lisbon, Portugal, was shaken by a disastrous earthquake on November I, 1755. 321 : 62. Braddock's army. The English General Braddock was severely defeated at Fort Duquesne in western Pennsylvania by the French and Indians, July 9, 1755. 321 : 68. felloe. A segment of the rim of a wheel. .321 : 68. thill. One of the shafts. 321 : 70. thoroughbrace. The strong leather strap between the two parts of the C-spring supporting the body of an old-fashioned carriage. 323 : 138. whippletree. Singletree. 323 : 140. encore. The same. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) How does Holmes introduce "The Deacori's Masterpiece"? (2) Is there any hint that the poem is a satire on Jonathan Edwards and his Calvinistic doctrines? Why do you suppose Holmes kept this in the background? (Remember how and where the piece was first published.) (3) Why does the poet break off line 51 so suddenly? (4) What three misfortunes or disasters are mentioned in the second stanza, and why? (5) Can you pick any flaw in the deacon's reason- ing? (6) What is the effect of putting his remarks in dialect? (7) How does the poet gradually lead up to his climax date, November i , 1855? (8) Read the final passage, beginning "The parson was working his Sunday's text," and comment on the skill of the conclusion. (9) Whatisthemeter of thepoem? (10) What is the effect of frequeiit repetition of the same rime sound as shay — way — day — stay — delay in the first stanza? Brute Neighbors (Thoreau) INTRODUCTORY: Walden, or Life in the Woods, the most significant of all Thoreau's productions, was issued in 1854. Thoreau kept elaborate notebooks or journals during his residence at Walden from July, 1845, to Sep- tember, 1847, and the book was made up largely from extracts from The Notes 597 these journals, though the material was thoroughly revised and fused into a more or less connected series of chapters before publication. For a fuller account of the purpose of the volume see the biographical sketch of Thoreau. Chapter XII, which we have chosen for reprinting, is complete in itself, though marked by some evidences of the lack of apparent sequence which is characteristic of practically all of Thoreau 's writings. The introductory dialogue seems to divide its interest between a meditation on the uselessness of the stir and worry of life and the preparations for a fishing excursion. The preceding chapters have a good deal to do with other fishing excursions, and so this introduction may be considered as a sort of transition from what has gone before. Thoreau seems here to be consciously imitating the style of Izaak Walton's Complete Angler, a book full of delightful meditation and philosophizing as well as instructions in the art of fishing. The connection between this introduction and the body of the chapter is not apparent, but we may assume that while the two friends are tramping toward their fishing-ground, Thoreau discourses on his experiences with the birds and animals around his hut in the woods. In other words, like Izaak Walton, he takes his fishing excursions not merely as opportunities for recreation and sustenance, but for medita- tion and for summarizing his observations on nature and life. EXPLANATORY: 331 : I. a companion. The poet, William EUery Channing, was one of Thoreau's most intimate friends. 331 : 14. Base. A common designation for a farm dog. Note the satire and humorous treatment. 332 : 62. Con-fui-see. The more accurate foreign spelling of Confucius, the Chinese religious teacher. 332 : 64. Mem. Memorandum. The hermit, unable to recall his original train of thought, makes a memorandum of at least one deduction from the experience — namely, "There is never but one opportunity of a kind." 333 '• 77- Pilpay & Co. That is, the maker of animal fables like those of Aesop or La Fontaine. Pilpay, or Bidpai, is the ancient Sanscrit title of a Hindu wise man or collector of apothegms, fables, and the like. 333 • 83. distinguished naturalist. Probably Professor Louis Agassiz of Harvard College, for whom Thoreau collected many specimens. 335' 173- red squirrel . . . particularly familiar. The following paragraph from H. S. Salt's Life of Thoreau relates the anecdote re- ferred to: "A story is told how a squirrel which he had taken home for a few days in order to observe its habits, refused to be set at liberty, returning again and again to its new friend with embarrassing persistence, climbing up on his knee, sitting on his hand, and at last gaining the day by hiding its head in the folds of his waistcoat — an appeal which "Thoreau was not able to withstand." 336: 187. Myrmidons. The fierce soldiers of Thessaly, followers of Achilles in the Trojan War. 337:213. return with his shield or upon it. Plutarch relates how a Spartan mother gave her son a shield and sent him to battle saying, "My son, either this or upon this"; that is, either return with your shield and victory, or be borne back as a corpse upon it; 598 American Literary Readings ' 337 '• 214. Achilles . . '. Palroclus. When Agamemnon, the leader of the Greek forces in the siege of Troy, took from Achilles a maiden he had won in battle, the great warrior sulked in his tent, refusing longer to aid the Greeks in the battle. But at last, angered by the report that Hector had slain Patroclus, he came forth and avenged the death of his dearest friend by killing Hector and dragging his body around the walls of Troy. Read the account in the Iliad. ■» 337 : 235. Austerlitz or Dresden. Two of Napoleon's great vic- tories on Austrian soil; the battle of Austerlitz was fought December 2, 1805, and that of Dresden on August 26, 1813. 337: 236. two killed. Captain Isaac Davis and Abner Hosmer, named below, were the only two Americans killed in the battle of Concord. Luther Blanchard was a member of Major Buttrickjs command and was wounded in the fight. See the notes on Emerson's "Concord Hymn," p. 553. • , , , 338 : 267. Hotel des Invalides. The French retreat for aged and maimed soldiers, founded at Paris in 1670. 338 : 273. Kirby and Spence. Joint authors of an Inlrodtiction to Entomology, a book on insects. 338 : 275. Huber. A Swiss naturalist; died 1831. 338 : 276. Aeneas Sylvius. Pope Pius II; died 1464. 338 : 280. Eugenius the Fourth. Pope of Rome; died 144;;. 339 : 284. Olaus Magnus. A Swedish ecclesiastic of the sixteenth century. 339:290. Webster' s Fugitive-Slave Bill. Passed in 1850. Webster was not the author of the bill, but his support of it attracted upon him the severe attacks of the abolitionists. See Whittier's poem ' ' Ichabod ' ' (p. 294) in this connection. Thoreau, though never very active nor ■conspicuous in public life, was an ardent abolitionist, and once in a public address he fearlessly defended John Brown. ■ 339 : 300. jerbilla. Another form, and apparently found only in Thoreau's writings, of gerbillus, a genus of jumping mice. Compare the jerboa of the Old World. 340: 331. winged . . . as his horse. An allusion to Pegasus, the winged horse of Greek mythology. Why are poets supposed to ride on Pegasus? (See a classic mythology.) 340 : 336. Mill-dam. The business section of Concord, near which once stood an old mill-dam. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) What purpose is served by the introductory dialogue? In what style is it written? (2) At what point does the poet come in? In what bit of humor does the hermit indulge on the approach of the poet? (3) What is the hermit thinking about in his opening medita- tion? Does he revert to this again? Why is he unable to re-create the exact state of mind and train of thought after the interruption? (4) Do you see any connection between this introduction and the body of this chapter? (5) How did Thoreau treat the mice in his hut? Is this the ordinary method of dealing with mice? (6) What do you learn about the habits of the partridge, or ruffed grouse, in the next paragraph? (7) How does the author add a human and humorous tone to the battle of the ants? Do you think he was serious in com- paring this battle with some of the greatest battles of history? (8) Explain 'the humorous allusions to the Greek heroes in the siege of The Notes 599 Troy. (See the explanatory notes above.) (9) Would your feelings and interests be similar to Thoreau's in observing such a battle? (10) Give an account of some similar conflict . between insects or animals that you may have observed. (This may be made into a composition.) (11) In the concluding paragraph of this section is there a touch of satire in the reference to the political situation of the times? Explain. (12) What humorous effects are aimed at in the paragraph on domestic ailimals in the woods, such as the farm dog and the winged cat? (13) Describe fully the hermit's experience in chasing the loon. Do you not think this sort of hunting is much better than shooting the wild things? (14) Write a brief composition on the literary excellences of Thoreau's style as illustrated in this section on chasing the loon., Ask yourself the following questions in preparing this composition: . Is the passage unified, effective in se- quence, climactic? Is the treatment sympathetic, poetic, well sustained in dominant tone? Is the diction precise and suggestive? Is the material interesting and clearly and logically presented? What is the effect of the constant recurrence to the wild, weird laughter of the loon? Can you imagine that you have yourself seen and heaid this strange bird? Note that the first paragraph on the loon ends with the sentence, "He commonly went off in the rain " ; how is this worked out at the end of the next long paragraph? Is it a pretty fancy to say that the god of loons had sent the rain as an answer to the bird's player? The Vision of Sir Launfal (Lowell) INTRODUCTORY: In February, 1848, Lowell said in a letter to his friend Mr. Briggs that he had composed " a sort of story . . . more likely to be popular than what I write generally. Maria [his wife] thinks well of it. I shall probably publish it myself next summer." It was not until December that "The Vision of Sir Launfal" appeared in a thin volume by itself. The poem was written rapidly, being completed within two days, so declared Mr. Underwood, during which time the poet worked at a white heat, scarcely taking time to eat or sleep. But it is the result of a lifelong tendency toward mysticism or the realization of God iii the poet's nature, as is indicated in several early minor poems on similar themes, such as "The Search" and "The Parable," both of which introduce the idea that Christ is foxmd only in service to the outcast, the poor, and the weak. Lowell's final note in the first edition gives the best introductory explanation of the meaning of the poem. "According to the mythology of the Romancers, the San Greal, or Holy Grail, was the cup out of which Jesus partook of the Last Supper with his disciples. It was brought into England by Joseph of Arimathea, and remained there, an object of pilgrimage and adoration, for many years in the keeping of his lineal descendants. It was incumbent upon those who had charge of it to be chaste in thought, word, and deed; but one of the keepers having broken this condition, the Holy Grail disappeared. From that time it was a favorite enterprise of the Knights of Arthur's court to go in search of it. Sir Galahad was at last successful in finding it, as may be read in the seventeenth book of the Romance of King Arthur. Tennyson has made Sir Galahad the subject of one of his most exquisite poems. 6oo American Literary Readings "The plot (if I may give that name to anything so slight) of the following poem is my own, and, to serve its jjurpose, I have enlarged the circle of competition in search of the miraculous cup in such a manner as to include, not only other persons than the heroes of the Round Table, but also a period of time subsequent to the supposed date of King Arthur's reign." The poem contains several verbal infelicities and is faulty in struc- ture as a whole, but as Mr. Ferris Greenslet says, "for all that, it has stood the searching test of time; it is beloved now by thousands of young American readers, for whom it has been the- first initiation into the beauty of poetical idealism." EXPLANATORY: 349. Sir Launfal. Lowell borrowed the name but nothing more from an old metrical romance called Sir Launfal by Sir Thomas Chestre. Another more familiar form of the name is Sir Launcelot. 349 : 3. list. Pleased, wished. 349 : 9-10. Not only around our infancy, etc. Alluding to Words- worth's "Ode on Immortality," lines 66 ff., "Heaven lies about us in our infancy," etc. Note how Lowell takes an enlarged view, especially in lines 13 and 19. 349 : 12. Sinais. Sinai was the mountain between the Red Sea and Canaan, where Moses saw and talked with God, and received the tablets of stone with the ten commandments on them. See Exodus 19 and 20. 349 : 17. druid wood. The oak groves in which the old Celtic priests performed their religious rites. Compare "Druids of eld," Evangeline, line 3. 349 : 18. benediciie. . Blessing; from the Latin canticle beginning "Benedicite omnia opera Domini," "O all ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord" (Psalms 145:10). 349 : 21. Earth gets its price, etc. Earth is used in the sense of "the world," or evil. Note the contrast with heaven in line 29. Another echo of Wordsworth's "Ode on Immortality," line 77, "Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own." 349 : 27. cap and bells. The medieval court fool, or jester, wore a cap with several spangles to which bells were attached; hence "cap and bells" has come to be the symbol of folly. How do we pay our lives for a cap and bells? 350 : 29-30. 'Tis heaven alone that is given away, etc. Compare Isaiah 55:1, "Ho, everyone that thirsteth, come to the waters, and he that hath no money, come ye, buy and eat." Note the contrast in line 21. 350 ■ 33- And what is so rare as a day in June? This is perhaps the most frequently quoted passage in all Lowell's poetry. June has been called Lowell's month. It is significant that he was the first of the New England poets to break away from the conventional laudation of May after the manner of the British poets, and substitute the more suitable month of June as the "high- tide of the year" in the New England climate. For Lowell's other notable poems on June, see "Under the Willows," "Al Fresco," "Sunthin' in the Pastoral Line" in the Biglow Papers, etc. 350: 47. mean. Small, insignificant. Similarly in line 344, " The meanest serf in Sir Laurjfal's land." Compare also Wordsworth's The Notes 60 1 "Ode on Immortality,'' lines 202-203, "To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears." 350 : 56. nice. Exact, finely discriminating. 351: 81. Everything is happynow. Compare Wordsworth's " Ode on Immortality," line 29, "And all the earth is gay," etc. 352 : 99. Holy Grail. See Lowell's explanation, introductory note. 352 : 103. rushes. The medieval floor covering before the days of carpets. 352: 116. North Countree. An indefinite region to the north of central England, the land of the medieval ballads. 354 : 166. a slender mite. Alluding to the widow's two mites (Luke 21:2). 354 : 168. all-sustaining Beauty, etc. The spirit of God which runs through all things. Compare Emerson's idea of the Earth-soul and the Oyer-soul. 354 : 172. u. god . . . store. That is, a godlike power makes it an abundant store to feed the soul. 354 • 175- summers. Why five thousand summers? 354 : 181. The little brook. Lowell said he drew this picture from the brook at Watertown near Cambridge. "As I stood on the hill just before you enter the village, the stillness of the fields around me was delicious, broken only by the tinkle of the little brook, which runs too swiftly for Frost to catch it." 354 : 184. groined. Fitted or matched at the angles of the curved or arched roof. 354 : 190. forest-crypt. A crypt is a recess, as in the basement of a cathedral where the pillars rest. Note how many architectural terms are used, and explain the meaning of each as clearly as you can. 355 : 196. arabesques. Fantastic ornaments of leaves, etc., used in the Arabian or Mohammedan style of architecture. 355: 212. cheeks of Christmas. Visualize the picture in this personification. 355 : 2 13. corbel. A carved projection or bracket of wood or stone. Why does the poet say every corbel and rafter is sprouting? 355 : 216. Yule-log. Yule is borrowed from the Scandinavian festival of Juul, held in honor of the god Thor. It was held about the same time as, and is now identified with, our Christmas festival. 356 : 231. still. Is this an adjective or an adverb? 356 : 233. seneschal. The ofiicer of a medieval castle who had charge of the festivals. 356 : 244. A single crow. Note the effectiveness of this image. Crows rarely go alone. Compare "The crows flapped over by twos and threes" (line 109). 356 : 254. recked of. Minded, cared for. 356 • 255. surcoat. The loose garment worn over the armor. 357 • 259. idle. Ineffective, useless. See also line 330. 357:281. Him who died on the tree. This whole passage is based on Christ's crucifixion as described in the Gospels. 358: 294. ashes and dust. Compare Job 42:6, "Wherefore I abhor myself and repent in dust and ashes." 358: 307. Beautiful Gate. "The gate of the temple which is called Beautiful," Acts 3:2. Line 308 echoes John 10:7, "I am the door," and line 309 alludes to I Corinthians 3: 16, "Ye are the temple of God," etc. 6o2 American Literary Readings 358 : 315. "Lo, it is I, be not afraid." An exact quotation of John 6:20. 359 : 320. my body broken for thee. See accounts of the Last Supper, Matthew 26:26-28, Mark 14:22-24, Luke 22:19-20. 3S9 • 328. swound. Why is this archaic form of swoon used? 359 • 336. hangbird. The oriole, so called from its swinging nest. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: General, (i) Why is this poem called "The Vision of Sir Launfal"? Just where does the vision begin and end? (This is the most important point in the analysis of the structure of the poem. Mr. Greenslet thinks nine out of ten readers of the poem have missed the real point of its structure.) (2) The Prelude to Part First opens with the introductory figure of the musing organist (lines 1-8), and then in a general way states the theme of the poem, — namely, the key to the truly happy or Christlike life is the seizing of daily opportunities for service (implied specifically in lines 11-12), — showing that all through our lives come these opportunities for service as well as temptations to spend our days foolishly (lines 9-32). The theme is then elaborated by a full descrip- tion of June, typifying happiness in human life (lines 33-93) and suggesting the keeping of Sir Launfal's vow (lines 94-95). Part First opens with Sir Launfal's decision to go on his quest for the Holy Grail, typifjring again the virtuous and happy life by a specific example in Sir Launfal himself (lines 96-105), concluding with his sleep and the announcement of the vision (lines 106-108). In line 109 we have the beginning of the vision in which Sir Launfal sees his own imaginary adventures. There is an introductory description of summer and its siege of the castle and then the young knight rides forth on his quest. There is just the one simple incident in Part First of how Sir Launfal in his pride and youth tossed a golden coin to the leper by his gate, only to have it rejected because it came not from the heart (lines 109- 173). All goes well until we come to the Prelude to Part Second, in which the poet practically takes the readers out of the dream, or vision (though he does not say so), to show them a picture of winter as a contrast to the picture of June in the first Prelude. The contrast is most successful, but the unity and sequence of the composition as a whole are seriously disrupted. The last part of the second Prelude, beginning at line 211, is distinctly a part of the vision, in which Sir Launfal sees his castle at Christmas, warm and brilliantly lighted, but himself an outcast cold and shelterless. Part Second begins with a recurrence to the winter scene just described, and goes on to relate the simple incident of how Sir Launfal came back as an old man and an outcast from his own hard gate, and found the Holy Grail in his whole- souled service to the leper who was still conveniently sitting by the castle gate. In this section there are two subordinate visions within the main vision — namely, lines 261-272 and 302-327. The conclusion (lines 334-347) follows Sir Launfal's awakening and transformation (lines 328-333). Work all this out in an outline of about one full page. (3) Give orally some of the striking contrasts brought out in the two Preludes and in the two Parts. (You may be asked later to write a composition "on the contrasts of the poem.) (4) Explain the nature and fitness of the medieval legend which Lowell used as the vehicle for his moral conceptions. How has he enlarged the bounds of this legend? (5) What kind of emotion seems to have animated the poet The Notes 603 in this composition? (6) In which does the poet seem to be most interested, the nature pictures, the story, or the underlying moral teachings? (7) State in yoar own language at least two large moral lessons developed in the poem. (8) How would you classify the poem? (There is a large narrative element in "The Vision," but the poem is cast in the form of the English or irregular ode. Note the irregular stanzas, the varied meters and rime schemes, the exalted subject-matter and dignified manner of treatment, and the steady progression toward a climax. All these are' characteristics of the ode.) (9) The meter of the first eight lines is iambic pentameter, as in Begin ! ning doubt ! fully I and far I away (2) ; but the body of the poem is in a sort of combination of iambic and anapestic tetrameter. Some lines are entirely iambic, as Its arms I outstretched I the dru | id wood (17) ; and some are almost whoUy anapestic, as Now the heart I is so full I that a drop | over fills it (61) ; and anapestic feet are so commonly used throughout that we may say that the rhythm is characteristically anapestic. There are some shorter lines, as And rat 1 ties and wrings The ic i y strings (227-228) each of two feet, and And gloomed ! by itself 1 apart (144) of three feet. The rimes range from the usual couplet to alternate and inclosed rimes, and in some cases the rime sound is repeated three times. Scan lines 225-239. Note that the last -less in line 232 is accented for the sake of the rime, while the other two examples of the same syllable are unaccented. (10) Suggested memory passages: Lines 9-12; 21- 32; 33-56; 174-210; 324-327. (ii) Suggested subjects for com- positions: Contrasts in "The Vision of Sir Launfal"; The Imagery of the Poem; Lessons from "Sir Launfal"; Medieval Life as Suggested in the Poem; Lowell's Use of Bible Thought and Phraseology in This Poem; Some Faults of Language and Structure in "The Vision of Sir Launfal"; Lowell's and Whittier's Nature Pictures Compared; a Com- parison of "The Vision of Sir Launfal" with Thomas Chatterton's "A Ballad of Charitie"; Lowell's Indebtedness to Wordsworth in "The Vision of Sir Launfal"; A Summer and a Winter Day in Our Town. Specific, (i) Does the musical figure of the introductory lines fit the mystical nature of the theme and Lowell's own practice in the construction of the poem? (2) Visualize and comment on the beautiful imagery in lines 7 and 8. (3) Work out the contrast between Lowell's ideas in lines 9-20 and 21-32 and Wordsworth's in the fifth and sixth strophes of the "Ode on Immortality." (4) Just why do we not know when "We Sinais climb"? (See line II for a hint.) (5) Give some examples from your own observation and experience of the thought "Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us." (6) What is the figure in lines 35-36? What instrument did the poet have in mind? 6o4 American L,iterary Keaamgs (7) Explain the force of the italicized words in the following expressions: "the cowslip startles" (line 45); "the buttercup catches the sun in its chalice" (line 46); "a, blade too mean" (line 47); "atilt like a blossom" (line 50); "the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings" (line 54); "In the nice ear of Nature" (line 56); "how clear bold chanticleer" (line 77) . (Is the accidental rime in this last phrase a blemish? Why?) (8) Do you catch the poet's enthusiasm for the beautiful June day? Why is June called Lowell's month? (See note on line 33.) (9) What is the effect of all this beauty on men?- (See lines 80 ff.) (10) Why is it inappropriate to speak of "unscarred heaven" (line 87)? (11) Explain the simile in lines 9'i-93. Is the figure imaginative? (12) How is the Prelude distinctly linked to Part First? (13) Why is Sir Launfal made to say that he may have a vision (line 104) ? Did the people of medieval times bejieve in visions? (14) Is the picture in lines 109-127 intended as a direct continuation of the June scene in the first Prelude, or is it a later summer picture seen in Sir Laimfal's dream? (15) Work out carefully the military figure beginning in line 115 and continuing to line 127, and reverted to again below in line 134. What were "her pavilions tall" and "every green, tent"? (16) How do the words suggest the idea in "The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang"? Note other examples of similar effect, as in line 156. (17) Why is Sir Launfal called a "maiden Knight" (line 130)? (18) How is the castle used as a foil to the knight? (19) Explain "made morn" in line 147. (20) What unpoetical expression is found in line 148? Does the exigency of rime justify a poet in using a prosaic expression? (21) Is it natural for a leper or a beggar to refuse a piece of gold? What mysterious spirit seems to be incarnated in this leper? (22) What sort of language and philosophy does the leper use? (23) It is said that Lowell has put a medieval European legend in the setting of a New England landscape. Is this true? Would the description of the New England summer and winter be quite applicable to the vague "North Countree"? Remember that the artist is merely required to create the correct general impression (24) What do you think of the poetical quality of the description of the frozen brook (lines 18 1-2 10)? Select five of the most striking or picturesque phrases. (25) Compare Lowell's picture of the fire (lines 215-224) with Whittier''s in "Snow-Bound," lines 120-132 and 155-174. Which is the more accurate? Which is the more imagina- tive? (26) Contrast the two pictures of Sir Launfal, lines 129-139 and 225-232. (27) Comment on the simile in line 233. Is it imaginative? (28) Why is the castle made so warm and comfortable in lines 21 1-239? (29) "Again it was morning" (line 246); find the exact line that this is intended to parallel, and contrast the two passages introduced by these lines. (30) Why does the poet bring the knight to the exact spot where the leper first stood? (31) What is the purpose of Sir Launfal's musing, or the vision within "The Vision" (lines 261-272)? Does this give you some idea of how the knight had spent the interven- ing years? (32) What breaks in on this vision? Is the contrast effective? (33) By what means is the repulsiveness of the leper expressed in lines 275-279? Select the special words that strengthen the impression of loathsomeness. Why is the leper made more repul- sive here than in lines 148-157? (34) How has Sir Launfal's attitude toward the leper changed as indicated in his speech, lines 280-287? (35) Does line 294 mean that "the heart within him was ashes and The Notes 605 dust" now or when he was a young knight? (36) Into what person- ality is the leper transfigured now that Sir Launfal shows Christian charity and service to him (lines 303 flf.)? Note whose words the poet puts into the leper's mouth (lines 315 ff.)- (37) What is the meaning of brine (line 311)? Why is "shaggy unrest" (line 313) an effective image? (38) Why did Sir Launfal not go on his quest for the Holy Grail when awake? (39) How do you picture Sir Launfal after you have read through the poem? Does the poet make it perfectly clear to you that Sir Launfal had never grown old? (40) What previous figure does line 338 recall? Is it artistic thus to revert to the opening passage at the close of the piece? Why? (41) Later in his life Lowell made a fine address on "Democracy." Is there any hint in his belief in this doctrine in the conclusion to "The Vision of Sir Launfal"? The Courtin' (Lowell) INTRODUCTORY: While the Biglow Papers, First Series, was going through the press in 1848, the printer reported to Lowell that there was a blank page that needed to be filled. Lowell immediately sat down and wrote a review of the work, pretending that it was taken from The Jalaam Independent Blunderbuss; in this review the supposititious editor compliments highly the work of his fellow-townsman, Hosea Biglow, and then adds that he would append a. fragment of a pastoral from a manuscript copy loaned him by a friend, the title of which was "The Courtin'. " The printer put in six stanzas, now numbers 2, 4, 5, 6, and 15 of the enlarged and completed poem, and then cut 'it off short because the page was full. The piece was interrupted just at that interesting stage where "His heart went pity-pat. But hern went pity Zekle." Naturally there were scores of requests from readers of the book for the remainder of the story. But Lowell had kept no copy and the printer had destroyed the original. So he patched up a conclusion, and in 1864 he enlarged the poem to its present form, saying, " I added other verses, into some of which I infused a little more sentiment in a homely way, and after a fashion completed it by sketching in the characters and making a connected story." The Biglow Papers as a whole has been called Lowell's most original and permanent con- tribution to American literature, and Mr. Greenslet, the latest biog- rapher of Lowell, says that "The Courtin' " is "oerhaps the most nearly perfect of his poems." EXPLANATORY: 360: 16. dresser. A sideboard or cupbosird. Compare EDawge/jwe, line 205. 360 : 17. crook-necks. Crooked-necked gourds or squashes. 360 : 19. queen's-arm. An old-fashioned musket which Grand- father Young had brought back "busted" from the battle of Concord. See Emerson's "Concord Hymn," p. 138. 360: 21. coz. Because. 360 : 25. kingdom-come. A homely dialect phrase meaning "like heaven." 360 : 27. dogrose. The wild or brier rose. 361 : 34. squired 'em. Attended or waited upon them. 361 : 36. All is. The fact, or whole truth, is. 6o6 American Literary Readings 361 : 43. Ole Hunderd. The tune usually sung to the long-metei doxology. 361 : 58. sehle. Sequel or outcome. 362 : 88. Snowhid. Hidden under the snow. 363! 95- '"'^^ cried. The formal engagement, or "bans," of 'a couple was formerly announced or "cried" at church. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: . (i) Point out some of the best humorous passages in this poem. (2) What effect has the homely New England dialect? Would the poem have been as good written in correct or literary English? (3) What evidences of real poetic truth and sentiment lie underneath the homely dialect? (4) Are the characters' drawn true to life? (5) Memorize the selection and recite it for the class. (This may be assigned to one or two members of the class. If desirable, stanzas 8 to 13 inclusive may be omitted from the recitation.) A Fable for Critics (Lowell) INTRODUCTORY: This jeM d' esprit was thrown off at intervals during i847and 1848, largely for Lowell's own amusement. He was advised by some of those to whom he read parts of it to publish it, and he finally gave his rights in the piece to his friend C. P. Briggs, and it appeared anony- mously toward the close of 1848. . It is a mock-heroic or satiric poem of a humorous character, though Lowell himself said that the criticism in it was meant to be serious. It is by no means a great poem, but it is by far the cleverest and most original production of its kind in Amer- ican literature, rivaling Byron's "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers" in English literature, though written in a mood by no means so venge- ful and caustic. The criticism is remarkably acute, and according to the verdict of time it has proved to be almost entirely correct. The poem has in it nearly two thousand lines, but since it suffers little by being excerpted, we have included here only such portions as are of interest to young readers in their study of our more prominent writers. EXPLANATORY: 364 : 24. Olympus . . . Exchange. A hit at the combination of the philosopher and shrewd business sense in Emerson. 364 : 27. Flotinus-Montaigne. Plotinus was a Greek philosopher born in Egypt in the third century; Montaigne was a French essayist, born in Gascony in 1533. Emerson was a close student of both these writers. 364 : 46. lecturer. This means that the earth, not Emerson, though like him, was ninety-nine parts lecturer. 364: 50. postmortem. After death ; this means that Emerson merely serves tip his material in a lifeless sort of style. Is the criticism just? 364 : 55. Criswold. Rufus W. Griswold was a conspicuous critic and editor of the time. 365 '• 73- Berkshire's hills. In western Massachusetts where Bryant was born and reared. 365:74. in loco, etc. " At a given place (add 'by a given fireside' here) you may play the fool." In a previous passage in loco desipere was used; this explains the parerithetical "add foco here." The Notes 607 365 : 79. Mr. Quivis. Mr. Who-ever-you-please. 366 : 96. Hesiod's staff. In Thomas Cooke's translation of the Greek poet Hesiod's "Words and Days, we read, "Fools, blind to truth! Nor knows their erring soul How much the half is better than the whole." 366 : 108. my Pythoness. According to the plan of the whole poem it is Apollo speaking, and he refers to the Pythoness, or Pythia, the priestess who delivered the message from Apollo at his Oracle in Delphi. 366 : 121. old what' s-his-name. Referring to Taillefer, a Norman bard and soldier who marched before William's army at the battle of Hastings, io56, singing the song of Roland and tossing his sword in the air. 367 : 126. Thor. The Scandinavian god of war, etc., usually represented with a hammer. 367 : 127. Anne haec, etc. "Is this the coat of thy son?" George Fox, the founder of the Quakers, died in 1691. He made for himself a suit of leather. See Carlyle's interesting chapter on him in Sartor Resartus. 367 : 131. Goliath. See in I Samuel 17 the story of David and Goliath. 367 : 132. Castaly's spring. A spring on Mount Parnassus in Greece, sacred to Apollo and the Muses. 367 : 135- The Voice. Whittier attached himself to the cause of abolition long before it became popular. There is a playful double meaning here, "The Voice" referring to the Quaker inward voice, or conscience, and the Voices of Freedom, Whittier's first volume of poems. 367 : 148. rathe. Early. 367: 151. a John Bunyan Fouque, a Puritan Tieck. Referring to the combination of moralist and romancer in Hawthorne. The English Baptist preacher John Bunyan is the author of The Pilgrim's Progress; De la Motte Fouqu^ was a German poet and romance writer ; Tieck was a German dramatist, poet, and writer of gloomy romances. 368 ; 159. good as a. lord. That is, he had earned the right to a lordship as well as had Scott. 368 : 163. American Scott. Cooper is still called the American Scott, but Lowell is right in implying that it is much to the American author's disadvantage. 368 : 167. acquitting. That is, acquitting Cooper of being the American Scott. 368 : 173. Natty Bumpo. Nathaniel Bumpo, or Bumppo, other- wise known as Hawk-eye, Deerslayer, Leatherstocking, the famous scout and woodsman in The Pioneers and the four other Leather- stocking romances by Cooper. 368 : 176. Coffin. Long Tom Coffin, the famous old sailor in The Pilot. 369 : 197. Adams . . . Primrose. Parson Abraham Adams, the simple, innocent, and yet courageous preacher in Henry Fielding's novel, Joseph Andrews; Dr. Charles Primrose, the title character in Goldsmith's The Vicar of Wakefield. 369 : 198. Barnaby Rudge. The title character in one of Charles Dickens's novels. He was a ^shrewd, half-witted youth with a love for the wild life of London. He possessed a pet raven, and it was doubtless this fact that caused Lowell to associate Poe, the author of "The Raven," with him. 6o8 American Literary Readings 369 : 204. Mathews. Cornelius Mathews, a lawyer and volu- minous contributor to the magazines about the middle of the nineteenth century. 369 : 217. Collins and Gray. William Collins and Thomas Gray, two eighteenth-century English poets. 369 : 223. Melesigenes. One of the names applied to Homer; he was so called because said by some to be the son of the river-god Meles, near Smyrna, Asia Minor. 369 : 225. I've heard the old blind man, etc. Remember that it is Apollo speaking; hence he may claim to have heard Homer recite his own poems. 370 : 228. Strauss. An Austrian composer of light waltz music. 370 : 229. Beethoven. Ludwig von Beethoven is the greatest of the German musical composers. 370: 231. Theocritus. A Greek pastoral poet of the third century before Christ. 370 : 241. Cervantes. Spanish poet and novelist, author of Don Quixote. 370 : 244. having just laughed at their Raphaels and Dantes. It happens that the lines containing the laugh at the American Raphaels and Dantes occur some ninety-odd lines further down in the poem. Lowell doubtless rearranged the sequences, later and forgot to correct this line. 370 : 247. Dick Steele. Richard Steele, who, with Joseph Addison, wrote many of the Spectator papers, including those on Sir Roger de Coverlev. 370 : 251. fine old English Gentleman. Referring to Irving's por- trait of the master of Bracebridge Hall in the Sketch Book. 371 : 262. new Telegraph. The first telegraph line was set up between Washington City and Baltimore in 1844. 371 : 263. pricks down. In the early Morse method of telegraph- ing, the messages were pricked in dots and dashes on paper. 371 : 269. Campbell. The English poet Thomas Campbell, author of "Ye Mariners of England" and other famous sea pieces. "The Tribute of Holmes to the grand Marseillaise" probably refers to his famous little poem "Old Ironsides." 371 : 273. Bulwer's New Timon. Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, author of many novels and several plays, published a satiric poem, "The New Timon," in 1846. 371 : 290. last New Jerusalem. That is, the latest moral or political reform. - THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Read the criticism of each of these authors in connection with your study of their works. (2) Which of the satiric sketches do you think is the best? (3) Do you agree with all of the criticism? Give some examples of what you think is unjust criticism. (4) The meter is anapestic tetrameter instead of the ordinary iambic pentameter used in heroic or satiric verse. This meter helps to give the whimsical and humorous tone so characteristic of the poem. For example take lines 49-50: "With the qui I et preci I sion of sci I ence he'll sort 'em. gut you can't I help suspect | ing the whole | a postmortem,'' The Notes 609 The peculiar rimes, many of them feminine and even three-syllabled, like cabinet — dab in it, conjecture her — lecturer, also add distinctly to this whimsical and playful tone. Point out some of the best (or worst) of these rimes. Our Literature (Lowell) INTRODUCTORY: When Lowell was asked to respond to the toast "Our Literature'' at the commemoration, on April 30, 1889, of the one hundredth anni- versary of Washington's inauguration as President, he twice refused; but when Oliver Wendell Holmes and President Charles W; Eliot of Harvard importuned him to accept the invitation, he cqnsented to break the silence to which he thought his advanced years entitled him. He was not satisfied with his effort, for the audience was so large that he could not make himself heard; but this short speech will illustrate the more serious style of Lowell's prose, and it is of special interest to students of American literature as the final word of our "Representa- tive Man of Letters." EXPLANATORY: 223 : 5. the Psalmist's measure. "The days of our years are three score years and ten" (Psalms 90: 10). 224 : 58. where was our literature. For many years English critics taunted American writers with the query "Who reads an Ameri- can book?" Irving's Sketch Book was the first serious answer to this query. 224 : 63. vates sacer. A sacred prophet, or poet. 225 : 86. one precious book. St. Augustine's Confessions. 225 : 89. find swans in birds of quite another species. An inverted or veiled allusion to Hans Christian Andersen's "The Ugly Duckling." 226 : 114. low on the list of toasts. Lowell came twelfth on the program and was followed only by Benjamin Harrison in the final toast on "America." 227 : 130. old wives' tale. An oral tradition or legend. Wife in this sense means simply an adult woman of the lower classes. Com- pare George Peele's drama, "An Old Wives' Tale." 227: 141. "Rejoice, young man," etc. Ecclesiastes 11:9. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) What introductory thoughts are expressed in paragraphs i and 2? (2) What three reasons are given why literature should be recognized on this anniversary? (3) What consolation does Lowell find in the foreign query as to where our literature was? (4) What reasons does he give as to why we could not suddenly develop a litera- ture, and by what standards does he insist that we must judge our literature? (5) Why is literature the most powerful form of human expresison? (6) What warning does the speaker utter in paragraphs 7 and 8? (7) What is Lowell's definition of literature? Memorize it. (8) Study the precision and clearness of the diction, the smoothness and easy rhythm of the well-rounded sentences, the distinct and well- articulated paragraph structure, and the general stylistic qualities of the whole speech. 6io American Literary Readings Review of Hawthorne's Twice-told Tales (Poe) INTRODUCTORY: This review appeared in Graham's Magazine, May, 1842. In the previous month Poe had written a hasty notice of half a page, promising to review Hawthorne's stories in detail in the next number. Poe again reverted to Hawthorne's tales, quoting in an extended review published in Godey's Lady's Book, November, 1847, several of the salient paragraphs of this earlier review. The paragraph beginning "A skilfid literary artist has constructed a tale" has become a sort of locus classicus for all short-story criticism. It was Irving and ■ Hawthorne who wrote our first artistic short stories, but it was Poe who best imderstood the technique of this form, and the public now gives- him ciredit for foreseeing the importance and greatly furthering the development of this modem art form. We reprint this character- istic book review as a type of a very familiar form of literary criticism, and one in which the student may exercise his own talent. EXPLANATORY: 383 : 63. a rhymed poem . . . perused in an hour. Poe continued to stress this note in his address "On the Poetic Principle," published ' in Sartain's Union Magazine, October, 1850, saying, "I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase 'a long poem' is a flat contradiction in terms." This address repeats some parts of the present review almost verbatim. 384 : 84. De Beranger. Pierre Jean de B&anger, a French lyric poet; died 1857. 384: 85. immassive. Lacking in mass; one of Poe's coinages. 384 : 90. In medio tutissimus ibis. "You will go most safely in the middle way." 385 : 132. idea of the Beautiful. In the address "On the Poetic Principle" Poe defined poetry as "the rhjrthmical creation of Beauty." 385: 136. tales of ratiocination. That is,, tales based on the principle of deductive reasoning. Poe's own tales, "The Gold Bug," "The Murders in the Rue Morgue," "The Purloined Letter," are the best examples of this type. 386 : 148. par parenthese. By way of parenthesis. Poe was fond of the use of French and Latin phrases. 386 : 155. Blackwood. A literary magazine published at Edin- burgh, Scotland. 386 : 167. Mr. John Neal. A minor American author; died 1876. 388 : 212. caviare. A Russian relish which is appreciated only by a cultivated taste; hence anything fine that is unappreciated by the vulgar crowd. See Shakespeare's use of the word in Hamlet, II: ii. 389: 248. resembles a plagiarism. The joke is on Poe, for " Howe's Masquerade" first appeared in the Democratic Review, May, 1838; Poe's "William Wilson" first appeared in Burton's The Gentleman's Magazine, 1839. 390 : 292. a passage . . of " William Wilson." The parallel passage referred to is as follows: "'Scoundrel!' I said, in a voice husky with rage, while every syllable I uttered seemed as new fuel to my fury; 'scoundrel! imposter! accursed villain! You shall not — you shall not dog me unto death! Follow me, or I stab you where you stand!'" Do you think there is much resemblance between the passages quoted?. The Notes 6ii THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) A good book review may contain a survey of the content and division and analysis of it, some general estimate of the form in which the work is cast, specific criticism of what is good and bad, and a summary of the author's merits and defects. Has Poe followed this plan? Point out the divisions of his review. (2) What para- graphs would you select as the most valuable in this essay? Give your reasons. (3) In this review Poe lays down more fully than elsewhere the principles of short-story writing. Work these out into a definite usable plan, giving specific quotations to support your points. [Suggestion: (a) The author of a short story must definitely plan his story to produce a preconceived efEect; (6) this must be a unique or single effect, so as to produce perfect unity or totality of impression; (c) the story must not be too long nor too short, or else it will defeat its own end of creating a pleasurable sensation; {d) it must show originality, invention, imagination.] (4) Read a story by Hawthorne, preferably one mentioned in this review, and apply these principles to its construction, in order to determine how far Hawthorne fulfills the requirements laid down by Poe. (5) Suggested composition assignment: Write a review of some modern novel or some collection of short stories. The Cask of Amontillado (Poe) INTRODUCTORY: This story was first published in Godey's Lady's Book, November, 1846. It is one of Poe's latest and most perfect horror stories. In a very brief space it presents to us an unforgettable picture of Italian family pride with its implacable spirit of revenge. EXPLANATORY: 391: 37. pipe. A large cask; in modern liquid measure, 126 gallons. 391 : 37. Amontillado. A fine, light-colored Spanish sherry. 392 : 68. roquelaure. A short cloak; so called from the Due de Roquelaure; pronounced rok-16r'. 392: 70. palazzo. Italian for "palace" ; pronounced pa-la'-tzo. 393 : 109. Medoc. A kind of French wine. 394 : 123. foot d'or . . . serpent rampant. A golden foot on a blue background, crushing a springing serpent. 394 : 126. Nemo me impune lacessit. "No one wounds me with impunity." 394: 130. puncheons. ' Large casks, containing 72 gallons at least. 394 : 140. De Grave. Presumably a strong Italian wine. Look up the following words if you do not already know their meaning: impunity, immolation, connoisseurship, virtuoso, sconces, flambeaux, catacombs, rheum, crypt. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) What problem does Poe set himself in this story? (2) Does he state the problem promptly and move swiftly to the action, or does he approach his theme leisurely? (3) Why is so much made of 6i2 American Literary Readings the smile? Of Fortunato's skill in judging wine? (4) What is the advantage of choosing the carnival season for the setting? Consider particularly the irony of Fortunato's costume. (5) What is the ad- vantage of introducing Luchesi's name? How many times is it re- peated and at what points in the story? (6) Do Montresor's servants act in accord with the general spirit of duplicity and insincerity of the Italian character? (7) When is Fortunato's cap and bells first men- tioned? When is it first made to jingle? At what points and with what effect is the jingle of the bells repeated? (8) Why does Montresor continually suggest that they go back? (9) Why is the drinking of the wine introduced? Does Montresor drink as much as Fortunato? (10) What irony is there in Montresor's toast? (11) Describe Mont- resor's coat-of-arms, and then interpret it in terms of the story; that is, tell whom the foot and snake represent, etc. (12) What advantage is gained by the constant allusion to the nitre? To the bones of the dead buried there? (13) By what device is the mason's trowel first introduced? (14) Just how is the victim caught in the niche? (15) What tone is exhibited in Montresor's final plea that they return? What irony is expressed in the "little attentions" .which he promised Fortunato? (16) Describe the walling up of the tomb. What effect did it have on Fortunato? (17) How does Montresor stop his victim from screaming? (18) In the final laugh and words of Fortunato is , he drunk or sober, sane or insane? (Be careful to decide this question with relation to the problem as set down in the first paragraph of the story.) (19) How do such stories affect you? Do you feel the artistic power of this one? (20) Are the characters clearly portrayed? Give your concept of them. (21) Note how much of the action is presented by conversation. Is this easy to do? Is it artistic? (22) Apply to this story Poe's tests of the short story as set forth in his criticism of Hawthorne's Twice-told Tales. (23) Is there any moral purpose to this story? Does this add to or detract from its artistic force? The Purloined Letter (Poe) INTRODUCTORY: "The Purloined Letter" first appeared in The Gift for 1845. It was not the first of Poe's detective stories in which M. Dupin figured, "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" and "The Mystery of Marie Rog§t" having preceded it; but it is more pleasant than the others to read. In its emotional power it is not to be compared with Poe's best horror tales, but it illustrates a distinctive type and is well worth studying as an example of what Poe called stories of ratiocination. EXPLANATORY: 398 : Nil sapienticE, -etc. "There is nothing more hateful to wis- dom than too much cleverness." Seneca was a Roman tragic poet and prose writer of the first century. 398 : 4. au troisieme, etc. On the third (that is, the fourth according to American counting) floor of 33 Donot Street in Faubourg St. Germain (a part of Paris). 398 : 12. Rue Morgue . . . Marie Roget. A reference to Poe's two other famous detective stories. Read them if possible. 398: 16. Monsieur G , the Prefect. Chief of police. Note how Poe uses initials, dashes, etc., to give an air of truth or actuality. This device is rarely used by modern writers of fiction. The Notes 613 402 : 140. minister's hotel. That is, his official residence. 402: 144. au fait. Informed as to fact. 407 : 316. Abernethy. An English surgeon; died 1831. 407 : 345. escritoire. French for "writing-desk." 408 : 372. Procrustean bed. Look up this familiar allusion. 409 : 416. Rochefoucauld, etc. Prangois La Rochefoucauld, a French epigrammatist; died 1680. Jean de La Bruyire, a French moralist; died 1696. Niccolo Machiavelli, an Italian diplomat and political writer; died 1527. Tommaso CampaneUa, an Italian writer; died 1639. 410 : 452. recherches. French ior "carefully sought out, well hidden." The singular form recherche is used just below. 411 : 473. non distributio medii. A term in logic indicating the fallacy of "the undistributed middle." Because all fools are poets, it does not follow that all poets are fools, nor that this particular poet, Minister D , is a fool. 411 : 480. poet and mathematician. Poe was himself both a poet and a good mathematician. 411 : 488. "// y a i parier," etc. "It is a good wager that every public idea, every accepted convention, is a piece of stupidity, since it is received by the greater number of people." Sebastien Chamfort, a French epigrammatist; died 1794. 412:499. 'ambitus,' etc. In Latin omiitei means literally, walk- ing around, as in seeking an office; religio, from re-, back, -f- ligare, bind; homines honesti, distinguished men. 412 : 506. The mathematics are. We would now say "mathematics is." 412 : 525. Bryant. Jacob Bryant, English antiquarian, author of A New System ot An Analysis of Ancient Mythology; died 1804. 413 '• 549- intrigant. Intriguer. 414 ; 584. vis inertia. Force of inertia. 417 : 692. the letter had been turned. To understand the context here, the student should be reminded that the letter was a large double sheet, and that the address was written on the back and the letter then sealed with wax. The gummed envelope had not come in Poe's day. 418 : 733. -facilis descensus Averni. "Easy is the descent into Avernus." Avernus is a volcanic lake near Naples, Italy, once sup- posed to be the gate to Hades, or the lower regions. 418 : 734. Catalani. Angelica Catalani, a noted Italian singer; died 1849. 418: 737. monstrum horrendum. Horrible monster. Used in Ver- gil's Aeneid, Book III, line 658. 419 : 750. MS. Manuscript. The derivative meaning, writing by hand, or handwriting, is here intended. ' 419:752. " Un dessein," etc. " A design so wicked, if not worthy of Atreus, is worthy of Thyestes." The classical story of Atreus and Thyestes relates how two brothers became deadly enemies and strove to take vengeance on each other. 419 : 754. Crebillon's Atree. Prosper Jolyot de Cr^billon was a French poet, author of the tragedy Atree el Thyeste here referred to. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) How does Poe connect this story with the two other detective stories in which M. Dupin played the leading r61e? (2) What is the 6 14 American Literary Readings main purpose of the conversation with the Prefect at the opening of the story? (3) In what way is the solution of the problem hinted by Dupin? (4) Why does Poe make the Prefect laugh so heartily? Is this laugh reverted to again in the story? (5) Explain the problem as outlined by the Prefect. (6) Enumerate his exploits in search of the purloined letter. In this connection explain the Latin motto used as a headpiece for the story. (7) Why does the Prefect visit Dupin the second time? Is Dupin's anecdote of the English surgeon, Dr. Abernethy, apropos? (8) What is the effect on the reader and on the characters of Dupin's sudden proposal to produce the letter? (9) Into what two distinct parts is the story divided, and just where is the point of division? (10) Which is more interesting, the first part or the second? Why? (11) Why does Dupin begin his explanation of how he got the letter with an analysis of the methods of the Parisian police? (12) Why is it necessary to analyze Minister D 's char- acter so fully? (13) Why did Poe make so much of the relation between mathematics and poetry? (14) Does all this learned talk give you an exalted opinion of Dupin's intellectual acuteness? Enumerate some of the points he makes about the adaptation of mathematical axioms to other realms of thought, the law of inertia, the psychology of adver- tising and of solving guessing games, etc. (15) Relate just how Dupin discovered and obtained the letter. (16) What astute trick did Dupin play on Minister D by the inscription he put inside the facsimile letter, and why did he do it? (17) Compare this story with "The Cask of Amontillado." Which is the more interesting? Which the more artistic? Which appeals more to the emotions, and which more to the intellect? (18) Apply to this story Poe's own test of what a short story should be, p. 385. (19) Suggested subjects for composi- tions: A Comparison of A. Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes with Poe's C.Auguste Dupin; Poe's Short Stories by Types ; Poe's Influence on Modern Short-Story Writers; Why I Like Poe's Tales. To Science (Poe) INTRODUCTORY: Poe wrote few sonnets, preferring usually to make up his own verse forms rather than confine himself to established artificial forms like the sonnet. "To Science," however, has been singled out as one of the very finest of the irregular or Shakespearean sonnets produced in America. It first appeared without title as a sort of prelude to the volume Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and Other Poems (1829). It was after- wards printed separately in slightly revised forms in all later editions of Poe's poems, and was republished in the Southern Literary Messenger, May, 1836, under the title " Soimet." The preferred text is that of the 1845 edition of Poe's The Raven and Other Poems. EXPLANATORY: 419 : 3-4. Why preyest thou . . . vulture. An allusion to the punisiiment of Prometheus. Tell the story. 419 : 9. Diana. The Roman goddess of the moon, chastity, and the_ chase. She is usually represented as seated in a bright car with a silver crescent in her hair and a quiver with bow and arrows at her back. 419 : 10. Hamadryad. A wood nymph, the spirit of a tree. The Notes 615 419: 12. Naiad. A water nymph, the spirit of a spring or stream. In what sense is flood used? 419 : 13. Elfin. A poetical form of elf, a kind of fairy. 419 : 14. tamarind. A tree of India and other tropical countries, bearing a pleasing bean-like fruit. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Is there a single well-unified thought in this sonnet? State it in your own words. Where is it first set forth in the sonnet? (2) How is science personified in the first two lines? In the third and fourth lines what picture is suggested? (3) How is the theme developed in the second quatrain? (4) What effects of science are given in the third quatrain? (5) How is the thought of the poem clinched in the final couplet? Notice how the last line returns to the opening thought, thus rounding out the sonnet. (6) In the earliest form of the poem "shrubbery" was used where "tamarind tree" now occurs. Explain why the change is a distinct improvement. (7) This sonnet is written on the irregular or Shakespearean model. Consult the paragraph on the sonnet, in the section on English metrics, and work out care- fully the rime scheme of Poe's sonnet. (8) Compare this sonnet with the regular or Italian model used in Longfellow's " Divina Commedia," p. 265, and the partial Italian model used in Hayne's "Composed in Autumn," p. 437. To Helen (Poe) INTRODUCTORY: This is thought to be one of Poe's earliest poems. It was first printed in what is known as the "second edition" of his poems, in 1 83 1, but it is supposed to have been written much earlier, according to some even in Poe's fourteenth year. Mrs. Jane Craig Stanard, of Richmond, the mother of one of Poe's schoolmates, was doubtless the inspiration of the poem. She was a beautiful, gentle, gracious woman, and when on one occasion she spoke tenderly to Poe there sprang up in his soul what he called his first purely ideal love. Poe made several later revisions in the text, and in its final form the poem has been singled out as one of the finest pure lyrics in the language. EXPLANATORY: 419 : 2. Nician barks. Nic^an may refer to the ancient Greek city and empire in Asia Minor. Professor W. P. Trent suggests that this obscure allusion may be intended for the Phjeacian barks by which the wandering Ulysses was carried to his native shores. 420 : 7. hyacinth. Dark. See Poe's use of the word hyacinthine in the second paragraph of "Ligeia" to describe the Lady Ligeia's raven-black hair. 420:8. Naiad. The Naiads were represented in Greek mythology as lovely nymphs, the guardian spirits of fountains, rivers, etc. 420:9. " To the glory," etc. These two lines show Poe's wonderful power of poetical condensation. They are perhaps the most fre- quently quoted lines in all his poetry. 420 : 14. Psyche. The Greeks personified the human soul by the figure of a beautiful maiden named Psyche, beloved of Cupid, the god of love. 6i6 American Literary Readings THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Give the thought of the poem by stanzas. (2) What is the primary emotion expressed? (3) Why is this poem classed as one of the finest of Poe's pure lyrics? (4) Does it carry out Poe's dictum that poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty? (5) The rhythm is iambic and the meter four-stressed for most of the lines, but there are many artistic variations, especially in the last lines of the stanzas. Note also that the rime scheme constantly varies. What is the general effect of all these irregularities? (6) Read the poem aloud a number of times, visualizing the images and re-creating the emotion as vividly as possible. It would be well to memorize the stanzas as a sort of measuring-rod for pure lyrical expression. Israfel (Poe) INTRODUCTORY: This poem also appeared in the 1831 edition of Poe's poems. According to the poet's habit, the piece was revised and republished from time to time during his life. Edmund Clarence Stedman says of this poem: "Of all these lyrics is not this the most lyrical, — not only charged with music, but with light? For once, and in his freest hour of youth, Poe got above the sepulchres and mists, even beyond the pale-faced moon, and visited the empyrean. There is joy in this carol, and the radiance of the skies, and ecstatic possession of the gift of song If I had any claim to make up a 'Parnassus,' not perhaps of the most famous English lyrics, but of those which appeal strongly to my own poetic sense, and could select but one of Poe's, I confess that I should choose 'Israfel' for pure music, for exaltation, and for its original, satisfying quality of rhythmic art." EXPLANATORY: 420. Israfel. In the Koran, the Mohammedan holy book, Israfel is called the angel of music. The quotation used by Poe as a motto was taken from Thomas Moore's Lalla Rookh; Moore got it from Sale's Preliminary Discourse on the Koran, rather than from the Koran itself. Poe, who frequently tampered with his quotations, has added the words "whose heart-strings are a lute" from his own poem. 420 : 5. giddy stars. Tremblirig, wavering. Giddy is derived from the Anglo-Saxon giddian, to sing, to be merry; Poe may be using the word here with some implication of this original meaning. 420 : 12. levin. The Middle English word for lightning. 420 : 13. Pleiads. The so-called seven stars in the constellation Taurus. Only six of the stars are ordinarily visible to the naked eye; hence the legend of the lost Pleiad, which Poe reverts to here by saying "which were seven." The poet calls them rapid, doubtless because of their apparently quick ascent of the meridian. 421 : 26. Houri. A houri was one of the beautiful and immortal maidens, who, according to Mohammedan belief, attend the spirits of the dead in paradise. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Why are the stars said to become mute when Israfel sings? (2) What is the force of the epithet enamored, line 10? (3) What is the real cause of Israfel's wonderful power? Does Poe use his own The Notes 617 heartstrings as a lute, that is, does he put his own emotions into his lyrics? (4) What images of heaven does Poe present in this song? (5) What is the thought of the last stanza? Does it seem egotistic? (6) Compare the poem with Shelley's "Skylark," particularly the last stanzas of each poem. (7) Note again the irregularity of the metrical and stanzaic forms. Poe seems to follow the impulses of his own genius rather than the established forms of lyrical verse. Ulalume (Poe) INTRODUCTORY: "Ulalume," one of Poe's latest and most original poems, was first pubhshed in the American Whig Review, December, 1847. Virginia Clemm Poe, his child wife, died in this year, and it is well known that Poe was never quite himself after this staggering blow. He had several romantic friendships after Virginia's death, the most prominent being that with Mrs. Sarah H. Whitman, whom, according to her own story, he frantically besought to marry him. The most probable interpretation of "Ulalume" is that it represents the poet's temporary fancy of allowing another love to take the place of his devotion to Virginia. Some have held that the poem is not to be interpreted personally, but impersonally as the poet's devotion to that ideal beauty which he loved and had lost, but which he never ceased to yearn for. At best it is exceedingly mystical and intangible in its intellectual or thought content, but its lyrical appeal is dis- tinctly felt by all readers who have any ear for original and haunting poetic melody. The strange names of places are mere musical coinages to fit the rime and rhythm of the poem. In this respect it may be compared with Coleridge's "Kubla Khan." EXPLANATORY: 422 : 4. lonesome October. Virginia Poe died on January 30, but Poe prefers to place the anniversary of her death in October because that melancholy month better suits his purposes in this poem. 422 : 5. immemorial year. That is, because of its record of deep sorrow this year seemed to reach back beyond memory. 422 : 10. Titanic. Poe uses the capital T here, thus indicating his conscious reference to the Titans, the giants whom the gods on Mount Olympus overthrew. 422 : 12. Psyche. Poe was fond of personifying the soul thus. See "To Helen," line 14. 422 : 14. scoriae rivers. Rivers of lava. Poe apparently coined the adjective from scoria, the slag or dross from melted metal. 422 : 19. boreal pole. According to the Standard Dictionary, which quotes Poe's line in illustration, this means either the north pole or the south pole. Which did Poe probably have in mind? 422 : 25. night of all nights. The anniversary of the death of his beloved. See lines 86 and 89 in corroboration. 422 : 28. tarn. Pool, lake; a favorite word with Poe. 422 : 29. ghoul-haunted. Ghouls were anciently supposed to rob graves and eat corpses. This is another favorite Poe word. 422 : 30. senescent. Growing late; hterally, growing old, from Latin senex, old. 6i8 American Literary Readings 423 '• 37- Astarte's bediamonded crescent. Astarte was the Assyrian and Phcenician goddess of the moon, and was usually represented with a crescent or new moon. Note Poe's beautiful imagery here. 423 : 39. Dian. Diana, the Roman goddess of the moon, the chase, and chastity. 423 : 44. the Lion. The constellation Leo, the fifth sign of the zodiac. 423 : 46. Lethean. Causing forgetfulness. Lethe is the river of oblivion in Hades. 424 : 64. Sibyllic. Prophetic. In classical mythology the Sibyls are women endowed with prophetic powers. 424 : 77. legended tomb. Having a legend inscribed on it. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) What is the tone of this poem? (2) Make a list of the principal words and phrases which help to intensify this tone. Have the selection of the time of year and the strange proper names anything to do with the dominant tone? (3) How do you interpret the poet's companion, Psyche? (4) What is the theme of the poem? (5) Make an outline showing the development of the theme. (Suggestion: the setting; mood or state of mind of the lover; the talk with Psyche; the rising of Astarte ; Psyche's warning and fearful distress ; the calming of Psyche's fears; the tomb of Ulalume; the effect of the memory of her death.) (6) If the rising of Astarte with her crescent, or new moon, means Poe's new love, whom does Dian represent? (7) Could the Lion- be taken as the symbolic guardian of the poet's heart? (8) Interpret Psyche's mistrust and fearful distress. (9) How did the poet quiet her fears? (10) What do you think is the full meaning of "tempted her out of her gloom" and "conquered her scruples"? If Poe was trying to make up his mind to marry, what finally stopped him from doing so? (10) Show why the last stanza is a satisfactory ard artistic close. (Note how it reverts to the opening lines, and how it reechoes parts of the first and third stanzas almost verbatim.) (11) The stanzas range from nine to thirteen lines of three-stressed anapestic rhythrn. Scan one or two stanzas, noting any variations or irregularities that occur. (12) Study the rime scheme. Is the model consistently followed? Notice that each stanza is made on two riming sounds, one feminine and one masculine. (13) What repetition and refrain eflfects do you notice? Eldorado (Poe) INTRODUCTORY: "Eldorado'' is one of Poe's latest poems, appearing first in Flag of Our Country, April 21, 1849. EXPLANATORY: 425 : 6. Eldorado. Prom two Spanish words, el, the, and dorado, gilded, the name of a fictitious city or country of fabulous gold supposed by the Spaniards to be located somewhere in central South America. Poe uses it as a symbol for the unattainable ideal or aspiration of the human spirit. The Notes 619 425; 21. Valley of the Shadow. Referring to Psalms 23:4, and implying that the ideal is reached only after death. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (1) What stages of life do you find recorded in the four stanzas? Make a statement of the theme of the poem, and outline it by giving a topic for each of the stanzas. (2) Give details showing the changing mood and appearance of the knight from stanza to stanza. (3) What is symbolized by the "pilgrim shadow" or "shade"? (4) Give your interpretation of the meaning of the " Mountains of the Moon" and the "Valley of the Shadow." (5) Is there a note of resolution or courage in the last stanza? (6) Apply the thought of the poem to Poe's poetical aspirations. (7) Apply it to your own aspirations. Can you draw a lesson from the poem for your own guidance in life? (8) Compare the poem with Longfellow's "Excelsior." (9) Analyze the meter and stanzaic form, noting all irregularities and their effect on the quality of the verse. Spring (Timrod) INTRODUCTORY: This poem was written in 1862, the first year of the Civil War. It indicates the direction Timrod's genius was taking and gives us some hint of what he might have accomplished in poetry had not the war hastened his decline in health and fortune. The last five stanzas show the state of mind of the poet and the people of the South toward an army of invasion from the North. At the close of the terrible struggle, Timrod, though broken in health and spirit, could still write encour- agingly to his fellow-citizens, " Spring is the true Reconstructionist, — a reconstructionist in the best and most practical sense. There is not a nook in the land in which she is not at this moment exerting her influence in preparing a way for the restoration of the South." EXPLANATORY: 430 • 5- jasmine. This is the yellow jasmine, one of the sweetest of all southern wild flowers. 430 : 26. azure gems. This refers to the tiny little bluets which spring up all over the South in the early spring. 431 '• 35- enamored South. That is, the South Wind in love with the flowers. 431 : 47. Dryad. A spirit or wood nymph whose life is bound up with that of a tree. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) In what tone or mood is the first movement of the poem written? The second? (2) Do you think the two lyric motifs in the poem are successfully blended or do you think the lyric unity would have been better if the last five stanzas had been omitted? (3) What do you understand by "nameless pathos"? (4) Explain the figurative expressions in the second stanza. What do you think of this stanza as to its poetic quality, especially in its appeal to the esthetic sense? (5) In plain prose we say that the sap rises in the trees in the early 620 American Literary Readings spring. How does Timrod express this poetically? (6) How does he present the coloring of the maple and the elm buds? (7) What use does he suggest for the bluets? (8) What other flowers are men- tioned? Does the poet give simply a catalogue of them, or does he designate each by some significant touch of beauty? (9) Explain lines 29-32. (10) Lowell emphasized June as the month of spring in New England. Is Timrod right in presenting May here? Why? (11) What caused the outburst of feeling in the last five stanzas? (12) Draw the contrast of spring in war time and in peace as suggested by the ooem. Ode (Timrod) INTRODUCTORY: This Ode was sung in Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, in 1867, on the occasion of the memorial service held on the day set apart for decorating the graves of the Confederate dead. It is one of the last productions of Timrod, and may in a sense be called his swan song. In its classic restraint and finished beauty it may -well be considered his finest poem. It is called, simply, "Ode," because of its elevated quality and its seriousness of tone. The English poet William Collins wrote a poem very similar in form and theme, which he called "Ode Written in the Beginning of the Year 1746," commemorating the British soldiers who fell in the War of the Austrian Succession. Timrod has often been compared with Collins, in his life and poetic temperament as well as in individual poems, so it seems desirable to reproduce here CoUins's "Ode," that the two poems may be more closely compared. ODE Written in the Beginning of the Year 1746 ' ' How sleep the brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. "By fairyhands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey. To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair. To dwell a weeping hermit there 1" EXPLANATORY: 432 : 2. fallen cause. The cause of State Sovereignty, or the right of the Southern States to secede and form a Confederacy. 432 : 3. marble column. A commemorative bronze figure of a color-bearer upon a granite base has since been erected in Magnolia Cemetery. 432 : 5. In seeds of laurel. The laurel or bay has been from ancient times a symbol of honor. The poet here conceives that the honor due to the southern soldiers is yet only in the seed, but in imagination he sees the full-blown blossoms, even while the seeds are still in the earth. The Notes 621 432 : 9. behalf. A poetical condensation for "in behalf of." 432: 10. storied. Containing or suggestive of the stories of valor. Compare Gray's use of the word in his famous Elegy, where storied means pictured images or inscriptions: " Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? " 433 : 13. shades. Spirits. 433 • 15- cannon-moulded pile. A lofty commemorative monu- ment made or molded from the brass cannon used in the war. 433 : 16. bay. Charleston Bay. Locate it on your map. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) What concrete object is given strong emphasis in line i? This may be called the initial impulse or occasion of the emotion of sorrowful reverence for the dead heroes. (2) Give a phrase for the principal thought in each of the five stanzas. Notice that stanzas I and 2 belong to the first thought movement, while 3 and 4 are the answering thought, and in stanza 5, the most beautiful of all, the two thought movements are united into a grand climax. (3) What figure is suggested by the word craves? (4) Can you think of a full-, blown blossom in a seed that is yet in the earth? Can you think of a shaft in the stone "waiting for its birth"? This is an extremely imaginative stanza. (5) What does the poet mean by "blossom of your fame"? (6) Has the prophecy of stanza 2 been realized? (7) Explain "your sisters." (8) Interpret fully the thought in stanza 4. (9) Exactly what do the words valor and beauty mean? Notice the fine effect of the two adjectives used with these words. (10) Study closely the sad, solemn beauty of the picture in stanza 4. (11) The stanzaic structure is extremely simple and natural, but this quality of simplicity and naturalness adds to the subdued tone and chaste imagery of the whole lyric. Determine the rhythm and the number of stresses in the lines, and read the poem slowly and quietly, to bring out fully its tonal quality. (12) Memorize the last stanza. (13) In a brief composition make a comparison of CoUins's "Ode" (see the intro- ductory note above) with Timrod's. Aspects of the Pines (Hayne) INTRODUCTORY: This is a good sample of Hayne's nature lyrics, of which he wrote, a. great number. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) What is the plan of this poem? Do you think it is a good one? Why? (2) Give a title for each of the three distinct pictures and thus make an outline of the lyric movement. (3) Are the adjectives in the first line well chosen? Why are these adjectives repeated in line 5? (4) Why is the foliage called fad'eless, line 3? (5) Trace the effect of the presence or absence of the breezes throughout the stanzas. (6) Do you admire the picture of twilight in the last two lines? Why is the star called tremulous? 622 American Literary Readings Composed in Autumn (Hayne) INTRODUCTORY: This sonnet was included in the 1857 volume called Sonnets and Other Poems. EXPLANATORY: 437 : 4. augury. Omen of the future, forecast. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) What is the initial impulse of this lyric? (2) Analyze the thought movement by cjuatrains. (Suggestion: The first quatrain suggests the scene or setting and states the adverse analogies suggested to different minds; the second and third quatrains describe in full the optimistic interpretation of life; the final couplet clinches the analogy by making the comparison suggested in the opening quatrain.) (3) What single figurative idea or analogy runs through the entire poem? Does this help to unify the impression? (4) Work out the rime scheme and determine whether it is the regular (Italian) model or the irregular (English) model. (See the paragraph on the sonnet, in the section on English metrics.) Song of the Chattahoochee (Lanier) INTRODUCTORY: This poem first appeared in Scott's Magazine, Atlanta, Georgia, in 1877. It is perhaps the most widely known of all Lanier's works; and naturally, for it is so simple and beautiful in its conception and so musical and artistic in its execution that even the youngest readers find pleasure in it. Professor Callaway speaks of this as "Lanier's most finished nature poem. . . .the most musical of his productions." It is more than a nature poem, being in reality an artistic expression of the ideal of service. EXPLANATORY: 443 : I, 2. Habersham . . . Hall. Locate these counties in Georgia, and trace the entire course of the Chattahoochee. 443 : 6. or . . or. Used for either . . .or, as often in poetry. See if you can find in your reading a similar use of nor . . . nor for neither . . . nor. 443 : 17. for to. An archaic form, used also in line 43. Can you point out instances of the use of this idiom in the King James version of the Bible? 444 : 38. Made lures. Offered allurements for the water to stop. The idea seems to be that the water pouring over the stones makes them more dazzling and attractive. 444 : 43. fain. Willing, yearning. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Make an outline of the poem by stanzas, using the five questions following this one for suggestions. (2) How much of the river's course is summarized in stanza I ? (3) What objects are described in stanza 2 as delaying the water? (4) What objects attract the river in stanza 3? (5) What objects offer allurements in stanza 4? (6) What moral is drawn in stanza 5? (7) Apply the progress of thought in the poem to human life, stating just what allurements at the various periods of life tempt one from the course of service. (8) Who speaks throughout the The Notes 623 poem? Does this give the poet the opportunity to imitate the sound of the water in his verse? Why is the name of the river not given in the poem? (9) Is there a similarity of tone in the first and last stanzas? How does this help to unify the whole? (10) The meter is typically four-stress iambic, but there are many variations and irregularities for artistic effect. Scan the poem. (11) Professor Kent in his analysis of this poem says: "In five stanzas, of ten lines each, alliteration occurs in all save twelve lines." Prove this statement by actual count, mark- ing the non-alliterative lines. (The lines in which Hall occurs alliterate with the preceding lines containing Habersham.) (12) He also says: " In eleven of these twelve lines internal rhyme occurs, sometimes join- ing the parts of a line, sometimes uniting successive lines." Point out the single line which has no internal rime. (13) Memorize the poem. (14) Compare it with Poe's "Eldorado" and Longfellow's "Excelsior." The Ransom of Red Chief (O. Henry) INTRODUCTORY: This story appeared first in the New York World, and is now included in the volume called Whirligigs. It is a fine example of O. Henry's extravagantly humorous productions. EXPLANATORY: 448 : 5. apparition. A malapropism. What is the word intended? 448 : 8. undeleterious. What is the more ordinary synonym? 448 : 10. Bill and me. Point out other examples of bad grammar and determine the effect of these. 448 : 13. Philoprogenitiveness. Love of ofEspring. Give the ety- mology of the word. What is the effect of putting such large words in the mouths of the two desperadoes? Point out other examples. 449 : 61. Geronimo. A celebrated Apache chieftain. 457 ■ 356. the Russian in a Japanese war. In the Russo-Japanese war of 1904-1905, the Russians got the worst of it. 458 : 390. _ "Great pirates of Penzance!" An exclamation which owes its origin to the comic opera of similar title, by Gilbert and Sullivan. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (l) Summarize the plot of this story in a single sentence. (2) Is it based on probability? What kind of story is this, then? Does the subversion of actuality add to the humor? (3) Point out examples of comic exaggeration and extravaganza. (4) Point out other humor- ous effects, such as malapropisms, incongruities, slangy words and expressions, comic situations, burlesque effects. (5) What sort of language do the two desperadoes simulate? Where does Red Chief get his romantic expressions? Is there any satiric irony in these imita- tions? (6) How is the opening sentence echoed in the third and fourth paragraphs? (7) What is the appropriateness of the allusion to David and Goliath in lines 182-184? (8) Why did Sam ask Bill if there was any heart disease in his family (line 342)? (9) At what point is the climax of the story reached? Could there be any more surprising outcome than Ebenezer Dorset's counter proposition? (10) What is the final comic exaggeration? Could anything be more ridiculous than the flight of the two desperadoes? (11) Test this story by Poe's requirements as set forth on p. 385. 624 American Literary Readings The Last Leaf (O. Henry) INTRODUCTORY: "The Last Leaf," now included in the volume called The Trimmed Lamp, is a typical example of the O. Henry surprise-ending story. The blending of humor and pathos gives a distinct significance to the title of the story, as may be readily suggested by a reference to the quality of Oliver Wendell Holmes's poem with the same title. See note on p. 591. EXPLANATORY: 460: I. Washington Square. A section in New York City.. 460: 10. north windows. Why do artists always want north windows? 460: 17. table d'hote. . . . "Delmonico's." A public or common table; a meal as served in a hotel or restaurant. Delmonico's is a famous and expensive restaurant in New York; hence a cheap Eighth Street restaurant may be facetiously called a "Delmonico's." 461: 39. pharmacopeia. The large, authoritative reference book containing the formulae, qualities, doses, etc., of drugs. O. Henry was himself a drug clerk in his youth, and hence he was perfectly familiar with the United States Pharmacopeia. 462: 80. ivy vine. This is the American ivy or Virginia creeper rather than the English ivy, since, the leaves of the latter do not fall off in the winter. See also the reference to "serrated edges" in line 185. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (l) Show how rapidly and yet vividly the setting is sketched in and how deftly the characters are introduced. (2) In what paragraph does the action of the story begin? (3) What is the opposing force as introduced in this paragraph? What advantage is gained by personifying the disease? (4) Why is the doctor so insistent that Johnsy's recovery dejjends largely upon her wanting some particular thing? (5) Sue mentions the painting of the Bay of Naples (line 42), and the doctor suggests that he would like Johiisy to ask a question about styles (line 54). Are these points alluded to again? (See lines 215, 218, and 232.) (6) What humorous eflfect is intended in the passage describing Sue's sketch of the cowboy for the magazine story? Do you think that in the circumstances under which she was drawing she might be pardoned for making such a mistake? (7) How is Johnsy's counting managed so as to arouse the reader's in- terest? Do you understand at first the significance of her counting? (8) Do you think Sue's fib about ten to one was justifiable? (9) Why does Sue make the joke about "selling the editor"? (10) Johnsy speaks of her dying as a turning loose and floating down like One of the ivy leaves. Is this fancy well expressed in the text? At what point is the fancy referred to again? (11) Why is it necessary in the progress of the plot that Sue should go down just before dark to seek Behrman? (12) Give a brief sketch of Behrman's appearance and character as you conceive them from the author's portrayal. (13) Is there any humor intended in Behrman's dialect? Why areliis speeches more pathetic than humorous? (14) At what points in the story is The Notes 625 Behrman's masterpiece referred to? Is this significant in the catas- trophe and denouement of the story? (15) Why did Sue pull down the shade when she entered her room and found Johnsy asleep? Do you think she knew what Behrman was going to do? Give passages to prove your answer. (16) Why is it necessary to describe the last leaf in full on p. 465? Is there a later reference to the colors mentioned here? (17) Do you suspect the truth in regard to the last ivy leaf when you first read of Behrman's case of pneumonia, or are you thoroughly surprised when you read the last paragraph? (18) Why is Behrman's case of illness related in so rapid and sketchy a manner? Is the author probably hurrying to a conclusion before you can guess the outcome? (19) How do you like this type of story? Is there a deeper note underlying the light and half-humorous style of the narrative? (20) Point out five humorous touches, such as the refer- ence to the collector "meeting himself coming back"; and five striking descriptive phrases, such as "the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer." Gettysbiwg Address (Lincoln) INTRODUCTORY: After the battle fought at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, on July 1-2, 1863, thousands of soldiers, northern and southern, were buried on the battlefield. It was decided to make a national cemetery here, and on November 19, 1863, a vast concourse of people met to dedicate the ground. Edward Everett, the distinguished orator from Massachu- setts, made the principal address on this occasion, speaking for about two hours. Then Lincoln rose and spoke briefly, summinjg up in a few words the whole thought and pent-up emotion of the audience and the nation. _ Everett's address is described as a finished and scholarly productionwith all the graces of literary culture; but Lincoln's speech, voicing as it did the real sentiment of the people, in its simple words, direct and straightforward utterance, and profound moral earnestness and sincerity, has become one of the priceless literary heritages of our nation. Perhaps there cannot be found a more striking example of the difference between a faultless literary form without the real breath of life in it and a simple, heart-felt expression of true, throbbing literature. Everett himself in a note to Lincoln the day after the dedicatory exercises remarked on this fact, practically admitting that he_ had not been able in two hours to touch as Lincoln had done in two njinutes the central idea of the occasion. EXPLANATORY: 467 : I. Fourscore and seven years. To just what date and event does Lincoln here refer? 467 : 6. a great battle-field. Look up in your United States history the description of this -battle, and if possible consult a map of the whole region around Gettysburg, a section of which has now become a great national park. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (l) In what terse way is the whole of our history as a nation brought vividly before the minds of the audience? (2) Why would it have been inappropriate to dwell on the details of our past history? (3) By what rhetorical means is the present crisis vitally connected with our first 626 American Literary Readings great national crisis? Repeat the two iihrases which mark this con- nection. (4) What central word is carried over into the third para- graph as a connecting link, and what three strong clauses in parallel construction are placed side by side to emphasize the central thought? (5) In what words does the speaker show his utter unconsciousness of any effort to produce a literary masterpiece? Is the previous oratorical effort of Edward Everett inadvertently judged in this utterance? (6) Do you think that the prophecy that the world will "little note nor long remember" the words uttered on this occasion has been fulfilled? Of course it is, as Lincoln said, the deeds of the brave soldiers that really consecrated the field, — the deeds of southerners as well as northerners, for each side was fighting bravely for right as each conceived it, — but these brave deeds are more effectively enshrined in the consummate art of this short address than they can ever be in marble or bronze or national park. (7) What is the most frequently quoted phrase in the speech? (8) This speech has been called "the greatest oration in American history." Do yotl agree withthis judgment? Give some reasons for your decision. (9) Compare the speech with other notable utterances, such as Patrick Henry's "Speech on Liberty," Washing- ton's "Farewell Address," Webster's "First Bunker Hill Oration," etc. The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County (Mark Twain) INTRODUCTORY: Early in 1865 Mark Twain was in Calaveras County, California, trjring his luck at pocket mining with his friend Jim Gillis. The weather was cold, rainy, and disagreeable, and the two friends worked inter- mittently on their claim. They spent a good deal of time loafing in the tavern at Angel's Camp. A retired Illinois River pilot by the name of Ben Coon, "a solemn, fat-witted person," used to tell stories when- ever he could find willing listeners, and Clemens and Gillis were his most frequent victims. On one dreary, rainy day he told them in his slow, monotonous fashion the story of the jumping frog owned by a man named Coleman. Clemens was particularly struck with the serious style of' the narrator and the humor of the story, and so^he made the following note for future reference: "Coleman with his jumping frog — bet stranger $50 — stranger had no frog, and C. got him one: — in the meantime stranger filled C's frog fuU of shot and he couldn't jump. The stranger's frog won." GUlis and Clemens used to try to keep up their courage in working their claim by repeating over and over parts of this story just as they had heard it, preserving the serious and solemn manner of the narrator, with never a smile or suggestion of humor> The two men finally abandoned their claim just as they were on the verge- of uncovering a rich pocket of gold. Other miners found the treasure, but as Mark Twain's biographer asserts, "The Jumping Frog" nugget was worth more than all the gold in that rich pocket. Charles P. Browne, better known under his nom de plume of Artemus Ward, was publishing a book in New York, and when he heard Mark Twain's "Jumping Prog" story, he asked permission to use it. Twain sent it on to New York; but it arrived too late for the book and was handed over to the Saturday Press, where it appeared November 19, 1865, under the title of "Jim Smiley and His Jumping Prog." Its The Notes 627 success was immediate and astonishing. It was copied, quoted, and retold all over the country. Mark Twain literally jumped into fame on the back of this celebrated frog. The story was published with other sketches in the spring of 1867, and it has remained one of the prime favorites in the public regard. So widely known did the story become that a professor of Greek decided to condense it, put the scene back two thousand years in ancient Boeotia with an Athenian and a Boeotian as the two principal characters, and thus make a good exercise for his book in Greek prose composition. He did not think it necessary to give credit for the source of so well known a story, and so another professor called Mark Twain's attention to the fact that the germ story was found in the Greek and offered to show him the original. It was many years before Mark Twain came to realize that the Greek professor had borrowed his story, and in the meantime he published in the North American Review a sketch called "Private History of the 'Jumping Frog' Story," in which he declared his ignorance of the existence of the Greek story and explained the wonderful similarity between the two versions as a plain case of history repeating itself. Thus the joker was for once made the victim of a double-barreled joke. EXPLANATORY: /fj^. Calaveras. A county in east central California. 477 '• 3- Simon Wheeler. Ben Coon, otherwise called Ros Coon, Coon Drayton, etc. See introductory note. 478 : 46. flume. A trough used to convey water in mining industries. 479 '• 97- ornery. Ordinary, mean, low-down. 482 : 207. hysted. Hoisted; the old pronunciation of oi is still preserved in dialectal usage, as in Ue, bile, for oil, boil, etc. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) What is the main value of the introduction? (The point of the storjr is as largely centered in the character who tells it and in the manner in which it is told as in the humor of the story itself.) (2) Do you see any irony in the name of the camp and in the identification of Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley with Jim Smiley? (3) Describe how Simon Wheeler cornered his victim and told the story (paragraph 3). Why does this add materially to the humor of the story? (4) Discuss the method of development used in bringing out the character of Jim Smiley. (5) Give examples of some of the things that Jim would bet on. Which of these do you think most amusing? (6) What is the appropriateness of naming the biiU pup Andrew Jackson? (7) What climactic effect is there in the order and treatment of the different betting episodes? (8) What humorous effects do you note in the description of "Dan'l Webster"? Why is the frog so named? (9) Tell the whole of the frog episode in your own language. Is the story itself very funny? (10) Now read this episode in Simon Wheeler's style, and note how much is added to it by the dialect, quaint expres- sions, and slow, serious, monotonous drawl in which Simon recited it. (11) Is the conclusion skillfully conceived and executed? How did the visitor finally break away from Simon? (12) Name the four characters in the order of their importance in the story. 628 American lAterary Keaatngs The Luck of Roaring Camp (Harte) INTRODUCTORY: For the genesis of this story, see the biographical sketch of Harte, p. 484. EXPLANATORY: 486: 2. 1850. Gold in large quantities was discovered in Cali- fornia in 1S48, and the great rush of settlers followed in 1849 and 1850. 486 : 12. " Cherokee Sal." The nickname seems to indicate that the woman had some Indian blood in her veins. See the reference to the complexion of her child, line 123, and to the "Ingin baby," line 383. 486 : 30. ace and two bowers in his sleeve. A method of cheating in a card game. The ace and the right and left bowers are the highest cards in the game of euchre. In "Tennessee's Partner" "two bowers and an ace" is used as a slang expression for two revolvers and a bowie-knife. 487 : 35. ab initio. "Prom the beginning." 487 : 44. city of refuge. In ancient Hebrew times, certain cities were set apart to which any one who had committed murder might flee for safety. Harte here is humorously referring to Roaring Camp as a place to which criminals fled as to a city of refuge. 487 : 54. Raphael face. A face like that of the angel Raphael. 487 '• 55- Oakhurst, a gambler. The hero of Harte's next story, "The Outcasts of Poker Flat," which the student should read. 488 : 102. Romulus and Remus. An allusion to the mythical Roman story in which Romiilus and Remus were said to have been suckled by a she-wolf. 489 : 129. went two diamonds better. A gambling term in a game with playing cards. 491 : 182. Red Dog. This camp is the scene of Harte's excellent story, "Tennessee's Partner." 491 : 201. "Jinny" — the mammal before alluded to. See line 99. Jinny appears again in "Tennessee's Partner." 492 : 239. "Boston." Also mentioned in "Tennessee's Partner." 493 • 321. Cockney Simmons. A Londoner, as indicated by the name Cockney and the dropping of initial aspirates in his speech. 49S '• 330- Las Mariposas. Butterfly-lilies, showy lilaceous plants of California and Mexico. 497 : 405. North Fork. The North Fork of Feather River in north central California. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) What is the theme or problem of this story? Do you think it probable that the presence of a baby in a rough mining camp would produce the reformation here portrayed? (2) Why was the place called "Roaring Camp" (see line 296)? Study out similarly the sig- nificance of some- of the other names in the story. (3) Why does the author make Kentuck give the orders to Stumpy in the fourth paragraph? Is he the principal character in the story outside of The Luck? Trace the references to this chciracter from first to last, and give your concept of him as he is presented in the story. (4) Describe some of fhe peculiar contradictions noted in the inhabitants of Roaring Camp (lines 52-64.) Do you think the author carries his The Notes 629 paradoxes too far here? (Examine lines 60-64.) (S) Describe the location of the camp. Why is it necessary in the plan of the story to make the locality seclusive? (6) At what time of the day does the story open? (7) "The suffering woman might have seen it- [the trail] from the rude Ijunk whereon she lay, — seen it winding like a silver thread until it was lost in the stars above." Do you admire this description? Where is the trail, or road, referred to again, and with what pathetic effect? (8) What is the tone of the remarks indulged in by the men outside the cabin during the birth of the child ? (9) Do you note any change at all in the tenor of their remarks and actions as they pass in, look at the baby, and deposit their gifts? What humorous touches do you note in this paragraph? (10) How is Ken- tuck's affection for the child made prominent? (11) What remark first shows a symptom of the camp's regeneration? Trace the process of the change from this point to the conclusion of the story. (12) What do you think of the christening scene? (13) How old do you think Lucie was when the catastrophe occurred? Work out a complete time action for the story, noting the dates in lines 2 and 396, and the references in the story to the changes of season. (14) Is the conclusion a natural and satisfactory one? Is it appropriate for Kentuck to be found with the baby in his arms? (15) Test this story by Poe's requirement of singleness of effect, p. 385. Kit Carson's Ride (Miller) INTRODUCTORY: When Miller published his first volume in London in 1870, it was so well received that the editor of the Oxford Magazine asked him to contribute something to that journal. The result was "Kit Carson's Ride." The poem was later revised, as is indicated in the following note printed in Vol. II of the 1909 edition of his- complete works: "This poem, 'Kit Carson,' was not in any of my four first books, and so has not been rightly revised till now. It was too long for the tumul- tuous and swift action ; and then the end was coarse and unworthy the brave spirit of Kit Carson. I have here cut and changed it much; as I cut and changed all the matter of my three preceding books in London when I cut and compressed ail I had done worth preserving into the Songs of the Sierras." EXPLANATORY: 502. Kit Carson. Christopher Carson was a famous trapper and scout who spent his life in the Far West and became famous as the typical scout and hunter of that country. His life reads like a romance, and many of his adventures have been incorporated in stories of western life. The incident related here is probably purely imaginary. 502 : 16. badger blind. The badger is a burrowing animal, noc- turnal in its habits, and hence cannot see well in the daylight. This has given rise to the popular impression that the badger is blind. Pache, the name of the horse, is probably a reduced form of Apache. 502 : 22. Brazos. A long river in Texas. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) What is the main value of the introductory stanza? Do you think it gives an adequate expression of the poet's enthusiasm for the wild, free, generous western life? (2) After this poem, what plan does 630 American Literary Readings the author choose for the presentation of the story? Who does the talking? (3) Tell the story of the ride. (4) Point out two of the most vivid descriptive passages. (5) Do you catch the rapid galloping movement of the anapestic rhythm? Scan four lines beginning " Not a word," line 71. (6) Compare the form and spirit of this poem with Browning's "How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix." (Miller met Browning at a breakfast at Archbishop Trench's just about the time he got the commission to write this poem, and he asked permission to "borrow the measure and spirit of his 'Good News' for a prairie fire on the plains, driving buflEalo and all other life before it into a river." Browning laughingly asked Miller why he did not borrow the rhythm from Vergil as he himself had done.) Columbus (Miller) INTRODUCTORY: In the final edition of his works Miller says this poem was siagled out by the London Athaeneum as the best American poem. He dissented from this judgment, saying, " It is far from that; even I have done better; too much like a chorus." There are probably more characteristic poems to be found in his work, especially the poems dealing more specifically with western life and scenery, but none of his productions have met a warmer popular response than this stirring presentation of heroic determination. EXPLANATORY: 505.: I. Azores. A group of islands, the last of which is a little more than a thousand miles west of Portugal. 505 : 2. Gates of Hercules. Strait of Gibraltar. Look up the reference to the Pillars of Hercules in a classical mythology. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Visualize the scene and characters and determine just what is the state of affairs on the ships. (2) Why is it a good plan to allow the mate to do the talking for the crew? (3) Why are the words of Columbus, the admiral, always given at the end of the stanzas? (4) The real meaning of the poem is couched in these constantly repeated words. Explain just what the real theme is. (5) How is the emotional tension increased from stanza to stanza? Do you note any climactic effect in the plan? (6) What is the meaning of "a spray of salt wave" in lines II and 12? (7) What is the effect of the repetition in line 25? (8) Expound the figure in lines 26-28, and express your opinion of it. (9) What other striking figure do you find in this stanza? (10) Does the poet make you feel that something dreadful would have happened if land had not been sighted just at the right moment? What do you think might have occurred? (ri) What imaginative touch do you find regarding our future flag in the last stanza? (12) For the sake of its heroic spirit and inspiring optimism in the face of difficulties, the whole class should memorize this poem. In the Firelight (Field) INTRODUCTORY: Field made no pretense to religious convictions and never allied himself with any denomination, but his poems are so full of the Christ The Notes 631 spirit and childHke faith in God that no one can doubt that "he walked in the light of the love of God." This poem -clearly indicates his fundamental belief in God and the efficacy of prayer. The poem was written in 1885. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) What is the mood of the poet? Does the setting of the poem harmonize with this mood? (2) What is the effect of the child's prayer on the poet's musing? (3) Are there any unusual words or strained allusions in the poem? What is it, then, that gives the very high poetical quality to the selection? (4) Do you like this kind ot poetry? (5) Determine the meter and rime scheme. (6) By what device are the first and last stanzas united and the poem thus satisfactorily rounded out? Dutch Lullaby (Field) INTRODUCTORY: This poem was first printed in the Chicago Daily News, March, 1889. It has been exquisitely set to music by Reginald DeKoven, and if possible the class should arrange to hear some good singer interpret the lyric as set to music. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Just what are Wynken, Blynken, Nod, and the wooden shoe intended to symbolize? Where is this revealed? (2) Why are Wynken and Blynken so spelled (see the title)? (3) What is the effect on your imagination as you read the stanzas? Point out some of the exquisite imaginative touches in the description of the fishing voyage. (4) Would you say that this poem has a strong esthetic appeal? Explain in just what its beauty primarily consists. (5) The rhythm is a combination of iambic and anapestic feet arranged in four-stressed and three-stressed lines alternately rimed. The refrain in each stanza is arranged in monometer, or one-stressed lines, for slow rendition, as if the little one were falling to sleep. Scan the first stanza. (6) Read the poem in the most sympathetic approximation to the poet's own mood that you can command. Afterwhiles (RHey) INTRODUCTORY: This poem was written as a Proem for the volume called Afterwhiles published in 1887. It illustrates the soft, dreamy, appealing, senti- mental quality of Riley's more serious verse. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) What thought runs through the entire poem? Work out the progress of this thought from the opening query (stanza i), through the various hopes and intentions that nearly every one has for some "afterwhiles" (stanzas 2, 3, 4), to the concluding stanza which leads out into the afterwhile of eternity. (3) What is the dominant tone and emotional quality of this poem? (4) Does the language harmonize 632 American Literary Keadmgs with this tone and quality? Characterize the style. (5) Do you detect any harsh or. jarring notes in the diction? Would "'graved with" or "carved with" be better in line 56? (6) Do you think the trochaic rhythm is appropriate for a poem of this kind? Give the formula for the meter and rime scheme. The Raggedy Man (Riley) INTRODUCTORY: This, which is, with "Little Orphant Annie," the most popular of all Riley's child-life poems, was first published in the Century Maga- zine, December, 1890, and in the same year included in the volume called Rhymes of Childhood. "The Raggedy Man was not a tramp, nor was he so ragged as people usually seem to think," says Riley. "He was just a farmer boy from some neighboring family." He is else- where called "the hired man," "the boy who lives on our farm," etc. In some editions the third, fourth, sixth, and seventh stanzas are omitted. EXPLANATORY: 516: 8. "Lisabuth Ann." She reappears m "Our Hired Girl" and also in other poems. 516 : 22. rainbos. A kind of late autumn apples. 516: 26. "The Smoot Farm." There was a farm near Riley's boyhood home owned by Warner Smoot. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (l) What is the effect of the child's talk? Is the simulation of boy language natural? (2) What is the effect of the child's artless revelations about the various actions of the Raggedy Man with respect to the hired girl? How is this interest emphasized? (Note that wher- ever the two names are mentioned it is always in conjunction.) (3) In what climactic way is the child's regard for the Raggedy Man finally expressed? (4) Work out the rhythm so as to show how often ana- pestic feet occur, and try to determine just what gives the lilting effect of the poem. Gloucester Moors (Moody) INTRODUCTORY: This excellent lyric was first published in Scribner's Magazine for December, 1900, and in the next year included as the initial poem in Moody's first volume of verse, a position which it retains in the final edition of his complete poems (1912). In its combination of pure lyricism, imaginative power, and genuine sympathy for the toil- ing masses, it is unsurpassed in recent American poetry. EXPLANATORY: 522 : I. Gloucester town. A seaport of Essex County, Massa- chusetts, noted especially for its fishing industries. 522 : 10. Jill-o'er-the-ground. Gill- or jill-over-the-ground is another name for the ground-ivy, a creeping herb having bluish- purple flowers and kidney-shaped leaves. 522 : II. quaker-maid. The quaker-ladies or -maids are the tiny The Notes 633 blue flowers of the plaijt Houstonia caerulea, commonly called bluets. 523 : 40. phosphor wake. That is, the moon floats in the phos- phorescent wake of the earth — namely, the milky way. 523 • 55- battened hatch. A hatch is an opening in the deck of a ship through which passengers or freight may be lowered into the hold. A battened hatch is such an opening covered with coarse canvas held in place by iron or wood strips called battens. 524 : 68. moiling.^ Toiling, defiled. 524 : 89. slaver's pen. The hold of a slave ship. THOUGHT QUESTIONS AND LITERARY ANALYSIS: (i) Give the initial impulse of this lyric as expressed in the first stanza. Does the poet seem to be writing with his eye on the objects he describes? (2) Point out some of the most suggestive images in the first stanza. At what time of day and year is the scene drawn? (3) What elements of decoration or beauty are added to the picture in the second stanza? In the third? Can you visualize each of the flowers and the birds from the brief suggestions here given? (4) Note how the poet has built up the beautiful scene which is the inspiration of the imaginative journey through space which is to follow. Into what mood has he exalted himself? (5) Work out in detail the won- derfully imaginative sweep of the figure in the fourth, fifth, sixth, and sevfenth stanzas, explaining for example, "With velvet plunge and soft upreel," "pinnace frail," "The star fleets tack and wheel and veer." (6) What criticism is laid upon the captains of the great world ship in stanza six? (7) The seventh stanza contains the real message of the poem. How do you interpret it? What does the "noisome hold" represent? Why did those on the deck refuse to give help? (8) In the last three stanzas the poet returns to the opening motive, but iriakes the application to the deeper thought of social sympathy for earth's unhappy masses, thus uniting the two parts of the poem in a vital way. Note particularly how the last two stanzas are balanced against each other so as to bring out the connection betv/een the two parts, the fishing fleet coming into harbor suggesting the final harbor of the world ship. What two ideals are contrasted in the last stanza? (9) Read the poem over as many times as may be necessary to make you begin to comprehend its wonderful melody and beauty, its imagi- native power, and its deeper message of love and brotherhood. (10) Study the plan of the nine-line stanza, and give the formula for the rime scheme and meter. A PRONOUNCING LIST OF PROPER NAMES FOUND IN THE TEXT DiACRITICALLY MARKED ACCORDING TO WeBSTER's INTERNATIONAL Dictionary, 1916; and Other Standard Authorities Abernethy (S,b'er nS th?) Acadian (dka'dlan) Acadie (a'ka'de') Achilles (o kfl'ez) Adayes (a da'yes) Aeneas Sylvius (S ne'os sll'vl lis) Aeschylus (es'k! Ivis) Agassiz (ag'o s6) Aladdin (alSd'ln) Al-Borak (arbdrSk') Alcott (dl'kMt) Alhamhra (8.1 h8.m'bm) Alligewi (al \ je'wl) Alpine (S,l'pln) ^weiiwry (amz'bSr \) Amonoosuck (am 6 noo'suk; Amontillado (a mOn'tfel ya'tho) Amun (a 'moon) Angelus Domini (Sn'jfe 1ms d6m'I nl) Apollonius (ap'o lo'nJ «s) Appalachian (ap'd ISch'! on, Apuleius (ap'ii le'yMs) Araxes (S. rak'sSz) Argonauta (ar'g6n6'td) A riadne (ar'I Sd'ne) Aristophanes (ar'ls tof'i nez) i4 tchafalaya (ach'd f d ll'd) Athenian (d the'nl an) i4//-ee (atra') ^M6er (o'ber) Austerlitz (ds'ter IJts, /lue Maria (a'va ma rE'a) Avolio (a vo'll o) Azores (d zOrz') Babylonish (bib Uo'nlsh) Bacchantes (ba kan'tez) Bacchus (b4k'«s) Balfour (bSl'fd&r) Barca (bar'ka) Barclay (bar'kld) Sosj7 (baz'lUba'zll) Bayard (ba'drd; Fr. ba'yar') Beaumont (b5'm6nt) Beau Sejour (bO sa zhoor') Beethoven (ba'to ven) Benedicite (bSn'S dls'K tS) Benedict Bellefontaine (ben'fe dlkt bSl'fSn tan') Berkshire (bflrk'sWr) Blomidon (bl6m'!d6n) Bonduca (bon du'kd) Bonneville (b5n'vll) Bowdoin (bo'd'n) Brasidas (br&s'l dSs) Brazos (bra'zOs) Bruges (broo'jSz; Pr. briizh) Brutus (broo't«s) Bukharia (bfl ka re'a) Bulwer (bS&l'wer) Burgundian (blir giin'dl on) Cacaphodel (cd caf '5 del) Calaveras (kal'd va'rds) Camanches (same as Comanches) Cambyses (kam bl'sSz) Campbell (kSm'bel; kS,m'el) Canterbury (kan'ter bSr K) Carthusian (kar tha'zhdn) Castaly (kas'to U) Catalani (ka'tala'ne) Cervantes (ser vS,n'tez; Sp. ther van'tas) Chaleur Bay (sha loor') Chalkley (chak'll) Chamfort (shaN'f&r') Chartres (shar'tr') Chingachgook (chin ga gook') Christiern (kris'tfi 6rn) Christina (kris ts'na) Cincinnatus (sin'sl na'tws) Cochecho (cS chek'o) Coleridge (kol'rlj) Colossus (k& ISs'iifs) Comanches (k6 mSn'chfez) [634] A Pronouncing List of Proper Names 63 s Comslock (kiim'stSk) Concord (kS^'kord) Coureur-des-Bois (koo'r1ir'-da-bwa') Cowley (kou'll; formerly koo'lJ) Craigie (krag'I) Crayon, Geoffrey {yki'vi kra'on) CreUllon (kra'be'y6N') Creoles (krs'olz) Dante (dSn'tS; It. dan'ta) De Beranger (de ba'raN'zha') De Quincey (dfe kwIn'sJ) Derby (dar'M) De Sanclo Matrimonio (ma trfe mo'nfe o) De Stael (sta'el; Pr. de stal') Dion (dl'on) Divina Commedia (dfeve'na k6m ma'dy'a) Dominie Van Schaick, see Van Schaick Dupin (du'pa,N') Easter-Beurrh (bA'ra') Eldorado (SI 6.6 ra'do) Elysian (SHzh'cn) Epaminondas (6 p2,m'i[ n6n'das) Epicurean (Sp'il kiS re'an) Eihnogenesis (eth'no jen'fe sis) Eugenius (li je'ni ws) Eulalie, see Saint Eulalie Euripides (u rfp'K dez) Evangeline (6 v3,n'jS lln) Faerie Queene (fa'er !) /^a/o Morgana (fa'ta m6r ga'na) Faubourg St. Germain (fo'boorg [Fr. fa'boof'saN] zher maN') Faustus (f6s'tMs) Felician (fe Ush'l an) Fontaine qui-bout (f oN'tan kebooO Fordham (for'dom) Fortunate (for tu na'to) Fougue (foo'ka') Froissart (froi'sart; Fr. frwa'sar') Gabriel Lajeunesse (la zhe nes') Gambia (gam'bl d) Gardinier (gar'dJ nit'er) Gascon (gSs'kon) Gaspereau (gas pe ro') Cislebertus Crispinus (gKs IS ber'tws cris pl'njis) Gloucester (gl6s'ter) Grand-Pre (graN'pra') Great Mogul (m6 giil') Grenada (grS na'dd) Habersham (hSb'er sham) Hagar (ha'gdr) Hamadryad (ham'd drl'S,d) Hampden (hSm'den) Harleian (harle'dn) Haverhill (ha'yeril) Hawaiian (ha wi'yon) Heidegger (hi'deg er) Heine (hi'ne) Heinrich (hin'rlK) Hercules (hfir'kd lez) Hesiod (he's! od) Hesperius (hSs pe'rl >is) Hesperus (hSs'per ms) Hiawatha (hl'd wt'thd or he'd w6'thd) Hotel des Invalides (6'tel' d_a zaN'va'led') Houri (hoo'rl) Hyperion (hi ps'rJ on) Ibn Haukal (Ib'n how'k'' Ichabod (ik'd bod) Iliad (Il'Iad) Ishmael (Jsh'maSl) Islam (ils'ldm) Israfel (Jz'rd f el ; ilz'rd fel; Jaalam (ja'a lim) Jargonelles (jar'go nSlz') Joaquin (wa ken') Kaaterskill (kd'ter skil) Kaatskill (kats'kU) Kanaka (kan'd kd; kd nS,k'd) Kavanagh (kav'd na) Lanier (lo ner') Laodamia (IS, od'd mi'd) Las Mariposas (mar'I po'sd) Launfal (lan'fal; 16n') Le Bruyere (la bru'yS.r') Le Carillon de Dunkerque (le ka'rt y6N' de dun'kSrk') Leonainie (l5 o na'ne"* Lethean (It the'an) Letiche (la tSsh') 636 American Literary Readings Leyden (ll'den) Lilinau {VSi'int') Lochiel (16k el') Lockerbie (lock'er bl) Louisburg (loo'l bflrg) Loup-garou (loo'ga'roo') Luchesi (Ifl cha'se) Lutzen (lut'sen) Mabinogion (mab'K no'gl on) MachiavelU (ma'kya vel'le) Maenads (ms'nadz) Magna (mo'gwa) Mahomet (mo hSm'et) Mainole (mi'not) Manitou (man'I too) Maguas (ma'kwdz) Marseillaise (mar'se laz' ; Fr. mar'se'ydz') Marlins (mar'sM ms) Mazzini (mat se'ne) Medoc (ma'dok') Melesigenes (mSl e slj'e nes) Melita (mSl'lto; me le'td) Memphremagog (mem'frS ma'g6g) Methusale. t (m6 thQ'sa lem) Michael (mi'kgl; Bib. mi'ki SI) Minas (mi'nds) Minerva (m! n^r'vd) Mizraim (mlz'ra Im ; mJz ra'im) Mohican (mo he'kdn) Montaigne (m6n tan' ; Fr. mdN'tan'y') Montcalm (mont kam' ; Fr m6N kalm') Montreal (mont'rS 61') Montresor (Fr. m6N'tra's6r') Moravian (mo ra'vl an) Mowis (mO'wes) Myrmidons (mdr'ml dSnz) Naiad (na'ySd) Natchitoches (nak'l tosh'; r&kl tosh') JVa«3i Bumppo (bum'po) Nautilus (n6'tllMs) Neapolitan (ne'd pol'i ton) Nelis (nel'Js) Nemesis (nSm'fe sis) Nepenthe (n4 pe'n'thS) Nibelungen (ne'be loong'en) Nicaragua (nlk'd ra'gwd) Nicean (nl se'on) Odyssey (5d'l si) 0/oMi Magnus (o la'iis) Olympus (6 llm'pMs) Opelousas (op'S loo'sds) Oregon (6r'6g6n) Orestes (6 res'tez) Onore (6 ri'on) Ossian (osh'on) Ow/re JWer (oo'tre m4r') Owyhee (6 wl'h6) Poc^e (pSch'S) Patroclus (patro'klus) Paumanok (pawmdn'6c) Pedro (pa'dro) Pericles (pSr'I klez) Petruchio (pfe troo' cM o ; ki o) Pharaoh (fa'ro; fa'ra o) Phi Beta Kappa (fibe'ta kap'd; commonly fiba'td kap'd) Phidias (fid'! os) Philippi (ft Hp'l) Phocion (fo'shl on) Physalia (fl sa'U d) Pisa (ps'sa) Piscataqua (pis kat'd kwd) Pisioriensis (pis'to rl Sn'sis) Plaquemine, Bayou of (plak'mgn', bi'oo of) Pleiads (ple'yadz) Plotinus (plo tl'n«s) Plutarch (ploo'tark) Polycrates (p6 Uk'rd tsz) Porto Rique (por'to r5k') Prometheus (pr6 mg'thQs ; com- monly tliS «s) Prytaneum (prtt'd ne'am) Psyche (si'kfe) Pythoness (plth'6 nSs) Rene Leblanc (re na' le blank) Rhodora (r6 do'rd) Rochefoucauld (rosh'foo'ko') Rodrigo (r6 dre'go) , Roget (r6'zha') Romulus (r6m'u liis) Rosselti (r6 set'e) Roubillac (roo'be'yak') Rtie Donot (Fr. roo'dftn o') Rue Morgue (Fr. rdo'morg') Saco (s6'ko) Saginaw (sag' i n6) A Pronouncing List of Proper Names 637 St. Bernard (ber nard'; Fr. s3.N bSr'nar') Saint Eulalie (ii'la'Is') St. Francois (fraN'swa') St. Maur (mor) Salisbury (sdlz'ber i) Salmagundi (sal 'mo gun'dl) Sanchez (san'chSz) Sappho (saf 5) Saracens (sar'a senz) Sartor Resartus (sar'tor rfe sar'tus) Scipio (sip'! o) Sevigne (sa'vSn'ya') Shawnee (sh6 ne') Sibyllic (slMl'ik) Siegfried (seg'frsd; Ger. tzeK'fret) Siena (se a'na) Sierras (si er'dz) Sinai (si'ni ; si'nS, l) Smyrna (smiir'nd) Socrates (s5k'rd tsz) 5ogd (sog) Sophocles (s6f '6 klez) Southey (siith'l) Stoicism (sto'I siz'm) Strauss (shtrous) Stuyvesant (sti've sant) Syrian (slr'i an) Taygetos (taJj'gtus) Taylor, Bayard (ba'erd) rfc/ie (t&h) Thanatopsis (than'd top'sis) Thasians (tha'sM dnz) Theagenes' (th& aj'6 nez) Themis (the'mls) Theocritus (thS ok'rl tics) Thetis (the'tis) Thoreau (ths'rO; tho ro') Thyeste (the'est') Tieck (tek) Tithonus (tl tho'nas) Tous le Bourgeois de Chartres (too la boor zhwa dfe shar'tr') Trojan (tro'jan) Uncas (iin'kds) Upharsin {ii far'sin) Urania (u ra'ni a) Ury (oo'rS) Valeria (vala'reo) Van Bummel (van tiim'el) Vanderdonck (van'der donk) Van Shaick, Dominie (dom'J ni van skoik') Vedder (ved'er) Vitalis (vite'lSs; vUa'Hs) Vizetelli (vSz'i tel'i) Voyageur (vwa'ya'zMr') Wachita (wSsh'Staw) Walleway (wol'S wa) Weir (w5r) Wicaco (wi ca'cO) Woden (wo'den) Xenophon (zen'd ion) Yaanek, Mount (yan'ek) Ypsilanti (Ip'sfe lan'tS) AN OUTLINE OF AMERICAN LITERATURE I. COLONIAL PERIOD, 1607-1765 The Colonial Period from the founding of the Virginia Colony, 1607, to the First Continental Congress, 1765,. was the period of beginnings. It was characterized largely by descriptive and historical, didactic and satirical, philosophic and religious writings. Puritanism and Calvinistic theology were dominant, especially in New England, and the Cavalier spirit and ritualistic theology in the southern colonies. There was no fiction or drama, and what little poetry there was, was crude and inartistic. I. Southern Colonies Captain John Smith (1579-1631), A True Relation [Virginia] (1608) and General History [Virginia] (1624) William Byrd (1674-1744), Westover MSS [The history of the dividing line] (1841) n. New England Colonies The Bay Psalm Book (1640) William Bradford (1588-1657) and John Winthrop (1587- 1649), historians Cotton Mather (1663-1728), Magnolia Christi Americana; or The Ecclesiastical History of New England (1702) Jonathan Edwards (1703-1758), Freedom of the Will (1754) Mrs. Anne Bradstreet (1613-1672), The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung up in America, or Several Poems (1650) Michael Wigglesworth (1631-1705), The Day of Doom, or a Poetical Description of the Great and Last Jiidgment (1662) m. Central Colonies Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790), Poor Richard's Almanac (1732 -1757); Autobiography (written 1771-1789, published 1817 and 1868); may be classed also in the following division John Woolman (1720-1772), Journal (1774) n. REVOLUTIONARY AND FORMATIVE PERIOD, 1765-1800 From the First Continental Congress, 1765, to the close of the century may be called the Revolutionary or Formative Period. During this period the colonies gradually united, declared their independence, and set up a new democratic government, winning their final release from English influence in the War of 1812. The literature was largely polemical and political in character. This is the period par excellence of the orator and statesman. The single lyric of this period that is still widely read and admired is Freneau's "The Wild Honeysuckle." Our first novelist and distinctly literary man was Charles Brockden Brown. [638I An Outline oj American Literature 639 I. Polemical Prose Hector Saint John de CrSvecoeur (1731-1813)1 Letters jrom an American Farmer (1782) Patrick Henry (1736-1799), Speech on Liberty {yn^ Thomas Paine (1737-1809), Common Sense (1776), The [Ameri- can] Crisis (1776-1783), The Rights of Man (1791), The Age of Reason (i794-i795)- Thomas JeflEerson {1^^^-1826) Declaration of Independence (1776) Alexander Hamilton (1737-1804), James Madison (1751-1836), and John Jay (1745-1829), The Federalist (collected and published, 1788) George Washington (1732-1799), Farewell Address (1796) William Wirt (1772-1834), Letters of a British Spy (1803) n. Poetry John Trumbull (1750-1831), The Progress of Dulness (1772- 1773), McFingal (1775-1782) Philip Preneau (1752-1832), Poems (1786; 1795; 1809) Timothy Dwight (1752-1817), Columbia (1778), The Conquest of Canaan (1785), Greenfield Hill (1794) Joel Barlow (1754-1812), The Vision of Columbus (1787), later extended into The Columbiad (1807), Hasty Pudding (1793) Francis Hopkinson (1737-1791), The Battle of the Kegs (1777) Joseph Hopkinson (1770-1842), Hail, Columbia (1798) m. Fiction Charles Brockden Brown (1771-1810), Wieland (1798), Ormond (1799). Arthur Mervyn (1800), Edgar Huntley (1801), Clara Howard (1801), Jane Talbot (1804) m. PERIOD OF ARTISTIC OR CREATIVE LITERATURE, 1800-1900 The nineteenth century may be said to mark the beginning of creative literature in America. Hardly anything which precedes the year 1800 has a purely artistic value. The surviving literature of our first two centuries is now read more for its antique or historical flavor than for any permanent literary power which it possesses. No single poem or work of creative art rises to a commanding height, and the one prose classic of the two earlier periods that is still widely read, Franklin's Autobiography, though translated into the French by some unknown hand in 1791 and retranslated into English in 1793, was not printed from Franklin's own manuscript until 1817, and even then not in an accurate and complete form. Charles Brockden Brown began to write creative prose just at the turn of the century, Irving's fame crossed the Atlantic in the second decade, and with his work and the romances of Cooper, the poems of Bryant, and the poems and tales of Poe, American literature for the first time may be said to have entered upon an artistic or creative period. The chief schools and movements have revolved pretty definitely around the Middle Atlantic States with New York as the center; New England with Boston and its 640 American Literary Readings environs as the center; and the larger aspects of the more strictly national or democratic movements and the development of the literature of locality have been widely diffused over the West and the South. Hence our chief authors may be readily grouped in four divisions. We can only mention the more prominent writers here, trusting that the student will consult the biographical sketches scattered through this volume and, as his interests and reading broaden, the general reference books and histories of our literature which are everywhere accessible. MAJOR WRITERS I. New York and Middle States Group MINOR WRITERS Washington Irving (1783-1859) James Fenimore Cooper (1789- 1851) William Cullen Bryant (1794- 1878) Walt Whitman (1819-1892) II. New England Group Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803- 1882) Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804- 1864) Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) John Greenleaf Whittier (1807- 1892) Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809- 1894) Henry David Thoreau (1817- 1862) James Russell Lowell (1819- 1891) Fitz-Greene Halleck (1790- 1867) Joseph Rodman Drake (1795- 1820) Nathaniel Parker Willis (1806- 1867) George W. Curtis (1824-1892) Bayard Taylor (1825-1878) Charles Dudley Warner (1829-1900) Edmund Clarence Stedman (I 833-1908) Frank R. Stockton (1834- 1902) S. Weir Mitchell (1829-1914) John Burroughs (1837 — ) P. Marion Crawford (1854- 1909) Richard Watson Gilder (1844- 1909) Owen Wister (i860—) Stephen Crane (i 870-1900) Richard Harding Davis (1864-1916) Daniel Webster (1782-1852) William H. Prescott (1796- 1859) Harriet Beecher Stowe (181 1- 1896) John Lothrop Motley (1814- 1877) Francis Parkman (1823-1893) Louisa M. Alcott (1832-1888) Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836- 1907) William Dean Howells (i 837—) Henry James, Jr. (1843-1915) Sarah Orne Jewett (1849- 1909) Mary E. Wilkins Freeman (1862—) An Outline of American Literature 641 MAJOR WRITERS in. Southern Group Edgar Allen Poe (i 809-1 849) Henry Timrod ( 1 829-1 867) Paul Hamilton Hayne (1830- 1886) Sidney Lanier (i 842-1 881) Joel Chandler Harris (1848- 1908) O. Henry (William Sidney Porter) (1862-1910) rV. Central and Western Group Mark Twain (Samuel L. Clemens) (1835-1910) Bret Harte (1839-1902) Joaquin Miller (1842-19 1 3) James Whitcomb Riley (1849- 1916) William Vaughn Moody(i869- 1910) MINOR WRITERS John Pendleton Kennedy (1795-1870) William Gilmore Smims (1806-1870) Richard Malcolm Johnston (1 822-1 898) Abram J. (Father) Ryan ( I 839-1 886) John EstenCooke(l 830-1 886) F. Hopkinson Smith (1838- 1916) George W. Cable (1844—) James Lane Allen (1849 — ) Charles Egbert Craddock (MaryN.Murfree) (1850—) Irwin Russell (1853-1879) Thomas Nelsor Page (1853— ) Madison J. Cawein (1865- 1914) Cale Young Rice (1872—) Abraham Lincoln (l 809-1 865) Lew Wallace (1827-1905) Edward Eggleston (1837- 1902) John Hay (1838-1905) Edward Rowland Sill (1841- 1887) Maurice Thompson (1844- 1901) Eugene Field (1850-1895) Edwin Markham (1852 — ) Winston Churchill (1871— ) Frank Norris (1870-1902) A BRIEF ESSAY ON ENGLISH METRICS Rhythm. Poetry is written in measured rhythmical language. Meter means primarily measure; and rhythm means wave movement. A line of poetry, technically called a verse, is composed of individual wave movements which are called feet. In English poetry there are four basal rhythms or types of wave movement, namely, the iambic, the anapestic, the trochaic, the dactylic. The first two of these are called rising rhythms because they begin with an unstressed syllable and close with a stressed syllable, the iambic foot (— /) being com- posed of one unstressed syllable and one stressed syllable, and the anapest (-' ^ /) being composed of two unstressed syllables and one stressed syllable. The other two basal rhythms are called falling because they begin with stressed syllables and close with unstressed syllables, the trochee (/ --) being composed of one stressed and one unstressed syllable, and the dactyl (/ -^ —) being composed of one stressed and two unstressed syllables. In addition to these basal rhythms we have two level or even rhythms which are sometimes substituted in a single foot for one of the regular types of rhythm in order to prevent monot- ony and add variety to the flow of the verse. The level or even rhythms are the pyrrhic (^^ -'), composed of two light syllables, one of them taking a slight metrical ' stress according to the prevailing rhythm of the verse; and spondaic ( ), composed of two heavy or stressed syllables, one of them taking a slightly stronger stress than the other according to the prevailing type of rhythm employed. Both types of level stress may be illustrated by the verse. By the 1 rude bridge 1 that arched 1 the flood. The first foot is a pyrrhic, the second a spondee, and the third and fourth iambs. The even rhythms are sometimes spoken of as having divided or hovering stress, the voice, as it were, hovering over the two syllables or being evenly divided between them. Summarizing, then, we find four fundamental types of rhythm and two occasional types of level or even rhythm, as follows: RISING RHYTHMS FALLING RHYTHMS Iambic {-' /), as compose Trochaic (/ -'), as lily Anapestic {-^ — f), as undefiled Dactylic (/ — ^), as whispering LEVEL RHYTHMS Pyrrhic (-' ^), as by the Spondaic (— — ), as rude bridge Pauses. Pauses frequently occur as a part of the rhythm of the verse, and sometimes they become an organic part of the verse structure, occurring at regular intervals throughout the lines. When a pause [642] A Brief Essay on English Metrics 643 occurs within the verse, or line, it is called a, medial or cesural pause. In the longer meters the cesural pause becomes organic, but in the shorter meters there is rarely a medial pause. If a natural rhetorical pause occurs at the end of a line, in which case it is usually, though not always, marked by some sign of punctuation, the line is said to be end-stopped. If no pause occurs at the end of the line, the line is said to be run-on; and in reading, the voice should be carried over to the next line with but the slightest break. Sometimes a pause occurs to take the place of an omitted syllable, or even to fill the time of several feet, and in such cases it is called a compensating pause. The following passages will illustrate the various kinds of pauses. For the moon | never beams. 11 without bring | ing me dreams i (medial pause) (run-on line) Of my beau [ tiful An | nabel Lee; || (end-stopped line) 'Twas down, [ a down, I straight down; (compensating pause) .The breakers whisper under their breath 1 1 (end-stopped line) /I "Death, I A DeathI" (compensating pauses) Substitution and inversion. Another kind of irregularity frequently practiced by poets in order to give variety to the rhythm is the siib- stitution of one type of foot for another. Either one of the rising rhythms may be freely substituted for the other, or either one of the falling rhythms may be substituted for the other, as iambic for ana- pestic, or trochaic for dactylic. If opposite types, that is a rising for a falling rhythm or vice versa, are substituted, as when a trochaic foot is used for an iambic, or a dactylic foot for an anapestic, or vice versa, the irregularity is called inversion. The first foot in the following quotation is an example of inversion. Lifeless, | but beau | tiful, | he lay. Inversion occurs almost invariably at the beginning of a line or imme- diately after a medial pause. - Anacrusis and catalexis. Occasionally an extra or hypermetrical light syllable is added at the beginning of a trochaic or dactylic line. This is called anacrusis. It occurs rarely, and will give the pupil little trouble. An example may be seen in the following trochaic line: And 1 all with | pearl and I ruby | glowing. Here the and may be disregarded in maiking the scansion. Some- times also the final syllable, or syllables, of trochaic or dactylic verse is omitted or cut off. This is called catalexis, and a. verse which shows this irregularity is called catalectic. Catalexis occurs very frequently in trochaic tetrameter and makes what is sometimes called heptasyllabic (seven-syllabled) verse. The reason catalexis occurs so frequently in English trochaic rhythm is that the feminine rimes are sometimes difficult to find. Examples of catalexis wiU be found in the quotations on pp. 645-646. Feminine ending. Another common variation is the addition of one or sometimes two unstressed syllables at the end of an iambic or anapestic foot. The addition occurs rarely just before a medial pause and frequently at the end of the line. When it occurs at the 644 American Literary Readings end of the line, it is called feminine ending. The extra syllable should not be counted as part of a new foot, but merely as an additional syllable in the foot to which it is attached. The following is an example of feminine ending: The day | is cold 1 and dark | and dreary Stress. Metrical stress is usually determined by the ordinary ety- mological pronunciation of the words. The three degrees of stress are denominated primary, secondary, and no-stress; these may all be illustrated in a single word, as ponderous, the primary stress being ordinarily marked by the acute accent (/), the secondary by the grave accent (\), and the light or no-stress syllable by the breve (^). In the following line the syllable in receives the secondary stress, the syllables found, fresh, do, and woods take the primary stress, and the remaining syllables are light or unstressed. I found 1 the fresh 1 Rhode I ra in | the woods. Hovering or divided stress has already been explained under the terms pyrrhic and spondaic in the discussion of the various kinds of rhythm above. These stresses may be indicated by the double breve and double macron respectively, with a grave accent over the heavier syllable, as {-' ^) and (— — ). Wrenched accent. Ordinarily the i-egular prose or etymological pronunciation of the word determines its metrical pronunciation, but occasionally the metrical stress prevails over the word stress, and we have what is known as wrenched accent. An example of this may be found in "The Haunted Palace": , In the greenest of our valleys. By good angels tenan/ed. Once a fair and stately palace — Radiant pMace — reared its head. Here the syllable -ted in tenanted receives a primary instead of a second- ary accent in order to bring out clearly the rime with head. Sometimes syllables which are not pronounced or accented in prose take a light or even a secondary stress on account of the meter. The commonest example of this is the pronunciation of the final syllable -ed in such words as loved, winged, blessed. This is another case in which the metrical stress prevails over the ordinary pronunciation; and to make sure that the proper rhythmic pronunciation is given, the editors of most modern books mark such syllables with a grave accent, as loved. Slurring. Syllables are sometimes slurred or run together when two vowels are conjoined, as in ponderous, pronounced in two syllables. Slurring may also occur between words if one ends and the other begins with an open sound, as Ovec many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore Here many a is pronounced in two syllables, as if written manya. The two unaccented syllables in curious are pronounced very quickly, so as to consume the time of but one short syllable. Closely akin to slurring are the poetical contractions which are allowable in such words as e'en, e'er, o'er, and 'tis, for even, ever, over, and it is. On the A Brief Essay on English Metrics 645 other hand some words may be pronounced as two syllables instead of one, such as real, fire, and the like, as in the following examples: Life is re-al, life is earnest In mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fi-re. Leaping higher, higher, high-er. Meter. The length of the line or verse, that is,, the number of feet it contains, determines the meter. Lines range from one foot to eight, and are called, respectively, monometer, dimeter, trimeter, tetrameter, pentameter, hexameter, heptameter, octameter; or one-stress, two- gtress, etc. To designate the meter of a selection, the pupil should give the typical rhythm or kind of foot, the number of feet, and such irregularities as may be necessary to describe the verse adequately. The following list of typical meters is by no means exhaustive. (i) Anapestic monometer: They are Ghouls (2) Iambic dimeter: If 1 1 co~uld dweU Where Is | ra fel (3) Iambic trimeter: That sailed 1 the win 1 try sea (4) Anapestic trimeter: 'T is the part | of a cow | ard to brood (5) Iambic tetrameter with feminine ending: The day [ is cold | and dark | and dreary (6) Anapestic tetrameter: O'er the land | of the free I and the home I of the brave (7) Trochaic tetrameter: Tell me I not in | mournful | nimiibers (8) Dactylic tetrameter catalectic: / WW / w w / w w / Merrily 1 swinging on | brier and [ weed (9) Iambic pentameter, blank verse: w ; w / w / w ; w ; To him 1 who in | the love ! of Na | ture holds (10) Iambic pentameter, heroic couplet: w / W //WW/ _ X Now far, 1 now near, |1 borne as 1 the soft | winds will, / WW / W \ W / w / Comes the | low rush 1 ing of | the wa | ter-mill. (11) Dactylic hexameter, with cesural pause: Ww/ww/w w /WW / WW __ This is the I forest pri | meval. 1 1 The | murmuring | pines and the | hemlocks 646 ' American Literary Readings (12) Iambic heptameter with medial pause: The mel | ancho | ly days | have come, 1 1 the sad 1 dest of | the year (13) Trochaic octameter with cesural pause and internal rime: Once up I on a | midnight | dreary, || while 1 1 ponder'd | weak and | weary (14) Trochaic octameter catalectic: Over I many a | quaint and | curious | volume | of for | gotten I lore The longer meters, such as the heptameter, or seven-stress, and the octameter, or eight-stress, are frequently broken up into two verses, four-stress -|- three-stress, and four-stress + four-stress respectively. When broken in this way, the iambic heptameter gives the common ballad meter, as seen in the old Scottish ballad "Sir Patrick Spens" (p. 580), in "The Wreck of the Hesperus" (p. 262), and "In School- Days" (p. 299). Stanzas. The stanza (commonly but inaccurately called verse) is composed of any number of lines from two upward. Stanzas are described by giving the number of lines and by indicating the arrange- ment of the rimes. A two-line stanza is called a couplet, a three-line stanza a triplet or tercet, and a four-line stanza is frequently called a quatrain. We also have five-, six-, seven-, eight-, and nine-line stanzas. The Spenserian stanza is a nine-line stanza riming ababbcbcc, the first eight lines being iambic pentameter and the ninth line being iambic hexameter. No example of the Spenserian stanza occurs in this book. Sonnet. The soimet is a poem consisting of fourteen lines of iambic five-stress verse, the rimes being arranged according to a definite, yet somewhat widely varying, scheme. This verse form was introduced from the Italian by Sir Thomas Wyatt in the sixteenth century, and under the improved forms practiced by his friend and co-author, Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, the sonnet became extremely popular toward the end of the century. When the original Italian models ,are more or less closely followed, we have what is called the regular or Italian sonnet. This consists of an octave, or eight lines, usually made up on two rime sounds, as dbbaabba; and a sextet or six lines, usually arranged in two tercets, or three-line groups, on two or three rimes variously interlaced, as cde cde; cdc dcd, etc. Occasionally a third and even a fourth rime is introduced in the octave, and this leads to the English or irregular sonnet, sometimes called also the Shakespearean sonnet, because Shakespeare practiced this form exclusively. ' It con- sists of three quatrains with a final couplet, the rime scheme usually running abab, cdcd, efef, gg. Rime. Rime is one of the chief devices for binding or fixing the form of the stanza. If the rime follows in immediate sequence, we call it couplet, triplet, and so forth. Whittier's "Maud MuUer" is written in couplets, and Longfellow's "Maidenhood" in triplets. When the rime occurs on every other line, we call it alternate, and when a quatrain shows the first and fourth lines riming and the second and third, we call this inclosed rime. The combinations and arrangements of rime schemes are so numerous that it is impossible to treat them here. As to form, rime is called masculine when only one syllable rimes, and feminine when two or more syllables rime. For example. A Brief Essay on English Metrics ' 647 hand — land is a masculine rime, while tender — slender and tenderly — slenderly are feminine rimes. When a word in the middle of a line rimes with another at or near the end of the line, we call this internal rime. Sometimes internal rime becomes organic; that is, it occurs regularly at certain places in the verse. An identical or perfect rime is the exact repetition of the sound of an entire syllable, including the initial consonant, as week — weak. This is usually considered a blemish, but it is sometimes permitted. A good method of indicating the rime scheme of a stanza is to write out a formula, using small letters for masculine rimes and capital letters for feminine rimes, as (l) trochaic tetrameter, AbAb ("A Psalm of Life"); (2) dactylic tetrameter catalectic, ababccdde ("Robert of Lincoln"); (3) anapestic trimeter, AbbAcAcAc ("Ulalume"); (4) iambic dimeter (i, 2, 4, 5) and trimeter (3,6),aaBccB ("Eldorado"); (5) iambic trimeter (1,4) and pentameter (2, 3), abab ("To a Waterfowl"). Blank verse. Any verse which does not rime may be called blank, but the term blank verse is applied specifically to imrimed iambic pentameter, as in Bryant's "Thanatopsis."