ill; ilii! il.H I'IIiiImi' \i'> i!' t ^ \i " ; jl'-i'l'':'': !!!|i|ili''i;i:;:,i:i^.;k in I.' 'i 1 1 ll'iiLi 1! li iM'fM' i iHi! :'''i'!. i:MlHliH.'l'ir'''ij';i'i!V ill !j''''.|f:ir'' i ill r' I'l'i"' I hill' '!li; in r I" MI'J . InS'-ilirHli':! llll'll'-'l !'iil;!hit!,'i I ..^:''i ,i^:;|l "i.||l iiJ"' hi'' ■' ]\',m 'ii'"'' .1 '' it I :l.!' '!l I ,1 ' r' 111,:-::/ ,11 '•! lj||i|ii|i|i|hi!N,ii iLvli ! i"\'!l' 1 .1' T'l ■IT, tl •-K'.ii 'mT 'ffi:'iiiiih!'i'i!'i'ii''''i''''''MH>ii|iii(,.,Hiv:|i;:i ,lMi Glass BooL CilEHRIGHr DEPOSISk AMERICAS 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. 1 ' Associate Professor of English in The University of Texas Author of "Southern Literary Readings" and "Learn to Spell" • RAND McNALLY & COMPANY Chicago , New York Copyright, IQ17 By Leonidas Warren Payne, Jr, T3 A t FEB -2 1917 3)CIA455410 V > TO HER Through whose self-sacrifice and encourage- ment all my hooks have been made possible THE CONTENTS The figures in parentheses indicate the pages on which the Notes will be found. PAGE 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 (501) 7 4. Westminster Abbey (505) 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) (508) ....... 46 3. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT — 1. Portrait (facing) 56 2. Biographical Sketch . 56 3. Thanatopsis (510) . 62 4. To a Waterfowl (512) . 64 5. The Death of the Flowers (514) 65 6. Robert of Lincoln (514) * 67 4. WALT WHITMAN — I. Portrait (facing) 70 Biographical Sketch 70 Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking (515) ... 80 When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom' d (516) 87 O Captain! My Captain! (520) 96 II. New England Group RALPH WALDO EMERSON — 1 . Portrait (facing) 97 2. Biographical Sketch 97 3. ' Heroism (520) 102 4. Compensation (524) .114 5. Concord Hymn (528) 135 6. The Rhodora (529) 136 7. The Humble-Bee (530) 136 [vii] Vlll American Literary Readings 6. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE — Portrait {facing) 139 Biographical Sketch 139 The Ambitious Guest (531) 145 The Great Carbuncle (532) 154 The Wedding-Knell (534) 170 7. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW I 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 Portrait {facing) 180 Biographical Sketch 180 Evangeline (535) 186 A Psalm of Life (550) . . . : . . . • . . . 252 Hymn to the Night (551) 253 Maidenhood (552) 254 Excelsior (553) 256 The Wreck of the Hesperus (553) 258 The Arrow and the Song (555) 261 Divina Commedia (555) 261 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Portrait {facing) 262 Biographical Sketch 262 Snow-Bound (556) 268 Skipper Ireson's Ride (562) 290 In School-Days (563) 293 9. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES — 1. Portrait {facing) 295 2. Biographical Sketch 295 3. The Last Leaf (564) . 301 4. The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table (Section IV, including "The Chambered Nautilus") (565) . . 302 5. The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table (Section XI, including "The Deacon's Masterpiece") (568) . . 313 10. HENRY DAVID THOREAU — 1. Portrait {facing) . . . ■ 317 2. -Biographical Sketch . . . . .' 317 3. Brute Neighbors (Chapter XII of Walden, or Life in the Woods) (569) 323 II. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL Portrait {facing) . . . 336 Biographical Sketch 336 The Vision of Sir Launfal (572) 342 TheCourtin' (578) • • •' 353 A Fable for Critics (excerpts) (579) ...... 356 The Contents IX III. Southern Group 12. EDGAR ALLAN POE 9 10 Portrait {facing) 365 Biographical Sketch 365 Review of Hawthorne's Twice-told Tales (582) . . 370 The Cask of Amontillado (583) 378 The Purloined Letter (584) ......... 386 To Science (586) 407 To Helen (587) 407 Israfel (588) 408 Ulalume (589) 410 Eldorado (590) 413 13. HENRY TIMROD — 1. Portrait {facing) 414 2. Biographical Sketch . . , 414 3. wSpring (591) 418 4. Ode (592) 420 14. PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE — 1. Portrait {facing) 422 2. Biographical Sketch 422 3. Aspects of the Pines (593) 424 4. Composed in Autumn (594) 425 15. SIDNEY LANIER — 1. Portrait {facing) 426 2. Biographical Sketch 426 3. Song of the Chattahoocheq (594) 431 16. O. HENRY — I. 2. 3- Portrait {facing) 433 Biographical Sketch 433 The Ransom of Red Chief (595) ....... 436 IV. Western Group 17. ABRAHAM LINCOLN — 1. Portrait {facing) 448 2. Biographical Sketch 448 3. Gettysburg Address (596) ' . 449 18. MARK TWAIN 1. Portrait {facing) 450 2. Biographical Sketch . 450 ■ 3. The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County (597) ■ ■ 458 X American Literary Readings 19. BRET HARTE— page 1. Portrait {facing) 465 2. Biographical Sketch 465 3. The Luck of Roaring Camp (598) 468 20. JOAQUIN MILLER — 1. Portrait {facing) 481 2. Biographical Sketch 481 3. Kit Carson's Ride (600) 484 4. Columbus (600) 487 21. EUGENE FIELD 1. Portrait {facing) 489 2. Biographical Sketch 489 3. In the Firelight (601) 491 4. Dutch Lullab}^ (601) 492 22. JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY — 1. Portrait {facing) 494 2. Biographical Sketch 494 3. After whiles (602) 496 4. The Raggedy Man (602) . .' 498 The Notes 501 A Pronouncing List of Proper Names 604 '^An Outline of American Literature 608 A Brief Essay on English Metrics 612 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 and, especially in the case of the more recent writers, the copyright laws would permit. An effort has been made also to conform to the standard texts, but in most cases the original texts were followed. In practically every case, complete works have been given, the exceptions being the chapter from Cooper's The Last of the Mohicans 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 C. 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 literature 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 m}^ gratitude to the publishing houses which have given me permission to reprint certain copyrighted material : To Charles Scribner's Sons for "The Song of the Chattahoo- chee," from Poems of Lanier b}'^ Sidney Lanier, and " Dutch Lullaby" and "In the Firelight" by Eugene Field; The Bobbs-Merrill Company for " Af terwhiles " and "The Raggedy Man" by James Whitcomb Riley; Doubleday [xil xii The Preface Page & Company for "The Ransom of Red Chief," from Whirligigs 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, and "Divina Commedia " by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow are used by permission of and special arrangement with the Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston. 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, IQ17 THE INTRODUCTION I. The Aim of Literary Study The tendency to reduce the study of the history of Ktera- 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. It 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. 608-611.) 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 fxiiil 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 ever\' 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 out from the mass of nineteenth-century American literature certain essential masterpieces which every child should know, and to present them with sufficient critical apparatus to make them easily understood and thoroughly accessible from the literar\^ point of view. It is a well-known fact that the pupil frequent!}^ has no idea how to study an assignment in literatiu-e. About all he knows to do is to read over in a desultor}^ way the required number of lines or pages of an assignment, without making the slightest effort to get below the surface into the r^al import and force and literar}' 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 up 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 ver}' 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 ^ill defeat their own end if they are ever allowed to usurp the main interest of the recitation. Let it be repeated imtil there can be no chance of mistake, the literature itself is the main thing. The notes should be used only in connection \\4th 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. ^lost teachers will prefer to ask their own questions, but it is hoped that the exercises and questions found in the volume The Introduction xv will at least be suggestive to the teacher, and certainly afford a guide for study and interpretation for the pupil. Occasionally the teacher may tvish 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 A^oung minds. Poetry is more concentrated, more suited to minute analysis, more easil}^ 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 numerous 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 shouM be presented rather early in the pupil's preparation for literary study. The natural tendency of thechild 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 take advantage of this instinct in him 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. 612-618 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 enough 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 necessar^^ II. Classification of Selections A number 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 course, 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 lyric, 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 volume 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 — The Introdtictton xyii namely, greater lyrics: (i) ode, (2) eleg3^ (3) idyl; lesser lyrics: (4) song, (5) sonnet. The more detailed classifica- tion of lyrics according to the emotion expressed, such as love, grief, nature, social, humorous, pathetic, patriotic, philosophic, religious, 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, humor, pathos, and the like. POETRY ' 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: Whitman, Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking; Timrod, Ode. 2. Elegy: Bryant, Thanatopsis, Death of the Flowers; Poe, Ulalume; Whitman, When LUacs Last in the Dooryard ■ Bloom'd, O Captain, My Captain! 3. Idyl: Whittier, Snow-Bound. 4. Songs: Bryant, To a Waterfowl, Robert of Lincoln; Poe, To Helen, Israfel, Eldorado; Emerson, Concord Hymn, The Rhodora, The Humble-Bee; Longfellow, A Psalm of Life, Hymn to the Night, Maidenhood, The Arrow and the Song ; Whittier, In School-Days; Holmes, The Last Leaf, The Chambered Nautilus; Field, Dutch Lullaby, In the Fire- light; Miller, Columbus; Lanier, Song of the Chattahoochee; Riley, Afterwhiles, The Raggedy Man; Timrod, Spring; Hayne, Aspects of the Pines. 5. Sonnets: Longfellow, Divina Commedia; Hayne, Composed in Autumn; Poe, To Science. III. 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; Thoreau, Brute Neighbors (Chapter XII of "Walden, or Life in the Woods"). xviii American Literary Readings II. Oration: Lincoln, Gettysburg Speech. III. Story: Irving, Rip Van Winkle; Cooper, "The Last of the Mo- hican?" (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 Frog of Calaveras County; Bret Harte, The Luck of Roaring Camp; 0. Henry, The Ransom of Red Chief. 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 Countr}^" 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 le-tters sent to the Old." The Sketch Book was, in fact, the first positive answer to the tantalizing British guerv, "Who reads an American book?" Irving was born in New York City, April 3, 1783, the year which marked the defeat of Cornwallis 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 bom 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 Knights 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 cotuitr\^ 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 Ir\dng'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 Tvdth the Judge's daughter, IMatilda. 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 seclude himself from society nor become sentimentally morbid; indeed, he was always delighted with the society of wom.en, and the evidence seems to show that he had some serious intentions of marr^dng later in life. But the fact remains that he never married, and after his death there were found among his cherished personal belongings a lock of Miss Hoffman's hair and her Bible and prayerbook. Irvang'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 making 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 literar}'- 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, everybod3/ 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 modern 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. He also visited Baltimore and Philadeli)hia, 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 1 8 1 2 , not in active service but as a military aid to Governor 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 1 83 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 1 8 19 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 Bracehridge Hall (1822), Tales of a Traveler (1824), The Alhamhra (1832), and Woolferfs 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 Alhamhra, called b}^ Prescott "that delightful Spanish Sketch Book," is, next to the original volimie, 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 5 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, 3^et expressively delineated; the familiar and faithful exhibition of scenes in common life ; and the half-concealed vein of humor that is often playing through the v/hole — 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 Avorks, because I choose to take a line of writing peculiar to myself, rather than fall into the manner and school of any other wTiter." 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 v/as 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 Grenada (1829), Legend 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 Lije 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 Ir\ang 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- OA^er, 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 not an American Goldsmith; he is an Anglo-Saxon Irving." Upon Irving's return to America in 1831 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 w^as undertaken with some hesitation, but which proved eminently successful, Irving himself receiving $88,000 in roA'alties 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 feted and sought after and honored in many ways by his admirers. But he was growing tired of it all, and he only hoped now that he might "go down with all sail set." He died at "Sunnyside," November 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 \^ol-Limes. 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 B^^ Woden, God of Saxons, From whence conies Wensday, that is Wodensday. Truth is a thing that ever I will keep Unto thylke day in which I creep into My sepulchre . Cartwright The following Tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie so much among books as among men ; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich in that legendary lore, so invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse,. under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a book-worm. The result of all these researches was a history of the province during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years since. There have been various opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little questioned, on its first appearance, but has since been completely estab- lished; and it is now admitted into all historical collections, as a book of unquestionable authority. The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work, and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory to say, that his time might have been much better employed in weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way; and though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the e3^es of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit of. some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and affection; yet his errors and follies are 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 still held dear by many folk, whose good opinion is worth having; particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their new-year cakes ; and have thus given him a chance for immortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal, or a Queen Anne's Farthing. Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remem.- ber the Kaatskill Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and [7] 8 American Literary Readings 5 lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the 10 weather is fair and settled, they- are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlineson the clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light 15 up like a crown of glor\^ At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland miclt away into the fresh green of 2 the nearer landscape. It is a little village, of great antiquit^^ having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists in the 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 25 settlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weather- cocks. In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadty time-worn and 30 weather-beaten), there lived, miany years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good- natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied 35 him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient hen-pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be 40 owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such Rip Van Winkle 9 universal papularity ; for those men are most apt to be obse- quious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribula- tion; and a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the 45 world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects be con- 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 50 good wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles ; and never failed, when- ever they talked those matters over in their evening gossip- ings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The chil- dren of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he 55 approached. He assisted at their sports, made their play- things, t5.ught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told 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 eo back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighbor- hood. The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be 65 from the want of assiduity or perseverance ; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, 70 trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian com, or building stone-fences; the women of the 75 village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to lo American Literary Readings 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 80 duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible. In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country; everything about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were continually falling 85 to pieces; his cow would either go astray, or get among the cabbages ; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than 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, 90 acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere patch of Indian com and potatoes, yet it was the worst conditioned farm in the neighborhood. His children, too, were as ragged and wild as . if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in 95 his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of 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 100 weather. Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mor- 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 w^ould rather starve on a penn}' 105 than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment ; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his care- lessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morn- ing, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and 110 ever3rthing he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had Rip Van Winkle ii grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife; so that he was 115 fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house — the only side which, in truth, belongs to a hen- pecked husband. Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much hen-pecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle 120 regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods — but what courage can withstand the 125 ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick 130 or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation. Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a. long while he used to con- 135 sole himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village; which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the uo shade through a long lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound discussions that some- times took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell 145 into their hands from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would- listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper learned little 12 American Literary Readings man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word 150 in the dictionary; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months after they had taken place. The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning 155 till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for ever>^ great man 160 has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent and angry puffs; but when pleased, he w^ould inhale the smoke slowly 165 and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds; and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect approbation. From even this strong-hold the unlucky Rip was at length 170 routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage and call the mem- • 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- 175 band in habits of idleness. Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at 180 the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. "Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it ; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!" Rip Van Winkle 13 Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, iss and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the' highest parts of the Kaatskill Mountains. He was after his favorite sport 190 of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could 195 overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich wood- land. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below 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 200 in the blue highlands. On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with frag- ments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the ' reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay 205 musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys ; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and. he heaved a heavy sigh when he >. thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle.'^^io As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a dis- tance, hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" He looked round, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when 215 he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air; "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" — at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked 220 14 American Literary Readings anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange fig- 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 ; 225 but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, w'ith thick bushy hair, and a grizzled 2^0 beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion — a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist — several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of 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 235 signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity ; and mutually relieving each other, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparenth^ the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended. Rip 240 every now and then heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers 245 which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the 250 bright evening cloud. During the whole time Rip and his companion had labored on in silence; for though the former 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, 255 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 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 260 belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar; one had a large beard, broad face, and small piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with 255 a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red 270 stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement. 275 What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of 280 the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. As Rip and his companion approached them, they sud- denly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such 28 5 fixed, statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and 290 trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game. 1 6 American Literary Readings By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste 295 the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excel- lent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in 3oo"his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes — it was a bright, sunny morning. The birds were 305 hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. "Surety," 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 — 310 the wild retreat among the rocks — the wobegone party at nine-pins — the flagon — "Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!" thought Rip — "what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?" He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, 315 well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysters of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. 320 Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him and shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's 325 gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. "These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, "and Rip Van Winkle 17 if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With 330 some difficulty he got down into the glen: he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, 335 made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome* way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, 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. 340 At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheatre ; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks presented a high, impene- trable wall, over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin, black 345 from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their 350 elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be done? the morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his 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 355 mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty fire- lock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. As he approached the village he met a ntunber of people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, seo for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast 1 8 American Literary Readings 365 their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involun- 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 370 of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and . pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered; it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had 375 never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors — 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. 380 Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day before. There stood the Kaatskill Mountains — there ran the silver Hudson at a distance — there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been — Rip was sorely per- plexed — "That flagon last night," thought he, ''has addled 3 85 my poor head sadly!" It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the 390 windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half- starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed — "My very dog," sighed poor Rip, ''has forgotten me!" 395 He entered the house, which, to tell the truth. Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolateness over- came all his connubial fears — he called loudly for his wife and children — the lonely chambers rang for a moment with 400 his voice, and then again all 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 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 405 Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of 410 stars and stripes — ^all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was 415 held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters. General Washington. There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people 420 seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clou4s of tobacco-smoke instead of idle speeches; 425 or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the con- tents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens — elec- tions — members of congress— liberty — Bunker's Hill — 430 heroes of seventy-six — and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his heels, soon attracted the attention 435 of the. tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eying 20 American Literary Readings 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 started in vacant stupidity. 440 Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, "Whether he was Federal or Democrat?" Rip was equally at a loss to com- prehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the 44 5 crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone, ''what brought him to the 450 election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village ? " — "Alas ! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him!" 45 5 Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — "A tory ! a tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away with him!" It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, 460 what he came there for, and whom he was seeking? The poor man hrunbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. "Well — who are they? — name them." 465 Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder?" There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin, piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a 470 wooden tombstone in the church-yard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." "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 475 Nose. I don't know — he never came back again." "Where's Van Btmmiel, the schoolmaster?" "He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and is now in Congress." Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in 4 so his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand: war — Congress — Stony Point; — he had no cour- age to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, 435 "Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?" "Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three, "Oh, to be sure ! that 's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree." Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, 490 as he went up the mountain: apparently as lazy, and cer- tainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewil- derment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, 495 and what was his name. "God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm not myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder— no — that 's somebody else got into my shoes — I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they 've changed 500 my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am!" 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, 505 and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical 22 American Literary Readings moment a fresh, comely woman pressed through the throng 510 to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool; the old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train 515 of recollections in his mind. "What is your name, my good woman?" asked he. , "Judith Gardenier." "And your father's name?" "Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's 520 twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since — his dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." 525 Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a faltering voice: — Where 's your mother ? ' ' "Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New England pedler." 530 There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter 'and her child in his arms. "I am your father!" cried he — "young Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Van Winkle now! — Does nobody know poor Rip Van 535 Winkle?" All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, "Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself! Welcome home again, 540 old neighbor — Why, where have you been these twenty long years?" Rip's stor^^ 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 545 in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had re- turned to the field, screwed down the comers of his mouth, and shook his head — upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old 550 Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the 555 neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, and corrob- orated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed ^own from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill Mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was 56o affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first dis- coverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half -moon; being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river, and the great city 565 called by his name. That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at nine- pins in a hollow of the mountain ; and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder. 570 To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that 575 used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm ; but evinced an hered- itary disposition to attend to any thing else but his business. Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found sso 24 American Literary Readings many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time ; and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor. 585 Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place once more on the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times "before the war." It was some 590 time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had taken place during his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war — that the country had thrown off the yoke of old England — and that, instead of being a sub- 595 ject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of states and empires made but little impression on him; but there was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was — petticoat government. 600 Happily that was at an end; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which 605 might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance. He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points every time he told it, which was, doubtless, 610 owing to his having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood, but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was 615 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- storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaat skill, 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- 620 bands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. NOTE The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a Httle German superstition about the Emperor Frederick der Rothbart, and the Kypphauser mountain; the subjoined note, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an 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 h,eard many stranger stories than 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, 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 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 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, 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 and 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- pice 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 the 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 pond-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 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 am^ong 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 made 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 majest}^ 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. 159s. 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 5 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 hke 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 diml}^ 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 15 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 damps, and crumbling with age ; a coat of hoary moss has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural montiments, 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 keystones have lost their leafy beauty; everything 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 autumnal 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. 1176.) 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 billow, 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 coltmms of gigantic dimensions, with arches spring- ing from them to such an amazing height ; and man wander- ing about their bases, shrunk into insignificance in com- parison 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 corner, 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 85 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 Corner, which occupies an end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The 90 monimients 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 medium 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_iio 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 115 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 monuments 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, 3^et 13 where 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 145 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 overwrought conceits, and allegorical groups, which abound on modem monuments. I have been struck, leo 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 proudty; 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 modern art; but which to me appears horrible rather than 170 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 triimiph 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 surrounded 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 records 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- i9otude; 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 hurrymg 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 sum- 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 \\ath 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 car\^ed of oak, though mth 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 \\dth armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendor of gold and purple and crimson, with the cold gra}^ fretwork of the roof. In the midst of this Westminster Abbey 33 grand mausoleiim 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 onty 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 245 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 250 a monument. Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touching instance of the equalit}^ 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 lovel}^ and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the day but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over the fate" 3 34 American Literary Readings of the latter, mingled with indignation at her oppressor. 2 60 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 2 65 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 moniunent, revolving 270 in my mind the chequered and disastrous story of poor Mar\\ 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 volimie 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 i\,nd 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 pf 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 effig>^ 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 345 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 monimients assimied 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 3 60 the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already fallen into indistinctness 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 emxptiness of renown, and the certainty of oblivion! It is, indeed, the empire of death; Westminster Abbey 37 his great shadowy palacfe, where he sits in state, mocking at the relics 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 38o 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- 3 85 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 mausoleums? 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 gairish 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 w^ell, 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 ^Adll deny that the majority of his characters, particularly his faultless "fe- males," are more wooden and artificial than real fiesh-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 energ>^ 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 leave of absence from the navy with the privilege of resigning at the end of a year, and in 181 1, 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, HarA^ey 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 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 Fenimore 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 a character like John Paul Jones in a sea tale, but the most remarkable creation in the story is Long Tom Coffin, the rough, uncouth, superstitious, but faithful, honest, and loyal old tar. He stands with Har\^ey 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 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 the 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 Bumppo is presented chronologically in a sort of "drama in five acts." The Deer slayer (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 (1827) his career terminates with his answer "Here ! " to the last simimons. 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 fictive 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 countrymen, 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 literar}^ productions 'and as historical documents. His History of the United States Navy (1839), for example, was condemned as a partisan document 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 novels 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 enmity 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 be read 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 Before these fields were shorn and tilled, Full to the brim our rivers flowed: The melody of waters filled The fresh and boundless wood; And torrents dashed and rivulets played, And fountains snouted 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 5 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 or 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 fotmtains 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- 2 pecker, the discordant cry of some gaudy jay, or a swelling on the air, 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 sunburned 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 pltmie, that crossed his crown, and depended over the left shoulder. A tomahawk and scalping-knife, of English manufacture, 40 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 the warrior would denote that he had reached the vigor 45 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 50 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 summer 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, Chin- 75 gachgook," he said, speaking in the tongue which was known to all the natives who formerly inhabited the countn.- between the Hudson and the Potomac, 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 count^v^ 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 yoin-s; 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 scory 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, and he is an Iroquois, dare n't deny that I am genuine white," the scout replied, surveying, with secret satisfaction, the faded color of his bon}^ 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 115 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 loath 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 50 American Literary Readings his brief tale, with a solemnity that served to heighten 135 its 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 toward his companion, he continued, in 140 a manner that was divided between interrogation and asser- tion: "Does not this stream at our feet run toward the summer, until its waters grow salt, and the current flows upward ? " "It can't be denied that your traditions tell you true in 145 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 ciurent!" demanded the Indian, who expected 150 his reply with that sort of interest that a man feels in the confirmation of testimony at which he mar\^els 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 155 tide, which is a thing soon explained, and clear enough. Six hours the w^aters 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 the highest, and then it runs out again." 160 "The waters in the woods, and on the great lakes, run downward until 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 165 nettled at the implied distrust of his explanation of the myster}^ of the tides: "and I grant that it is true on the small scale, and where the ground is level. But ever}i:hing depends on what scale 3^ou 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 51 manner, pools and ponds, and even the great fresh- water no 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, like the sea, where the earth is round, how in reason can the water be quiet? You might as well expect the river to lie still on the brink of those black rocks a mile 175 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 Alligewi 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 M aquas 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 toward 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-tree 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 sound 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 215 unmixed man. The blood of chiefs is in my veins, where it must stay forever. 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 calm suffering of his com- panion; "and they often aid man in his good intentions; though, for myself, I expect to leave my own bones unburied, to bleachin 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 countr}^ so many simimers 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 valle}^; and, when Uncas follows in m^^ footsteps, there 235 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, 2 40 and made an involuntary movement of the hand toward his rifle, at this sudden interruption; but the Indian sat The Last of the Mohicans 53 composed, and without turning his head at the unex- 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 counsel 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 toward 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 number as many as the fingers of my two hands; but they lie hid like cowards." ''The thieves are outlying for scalps and plunder!" said the white man, whom we shall call Hawk-eye, after- the 260 manner of his companions. "That busy Frenchman, Montcalm, will send his spies into our very camp but he will know what road to travel!" " 'Tis enough!" returned the father, glancing his eye toward 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 learned to be watchful, "I will bet my charger three times full of powder, against a foot of 275 wampum, that I take him atwixt 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 youthful 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?" 285 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 yoiu- 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 gesture of the head, Uncas threw himself on the ground and approached the animal with wsxy 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 300 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 infiuiated animal, Uncas darted to his side, and passed his knife across the throat 305 when, bounding to the edge of the river, it fell, dyeing the waters with its blood. " 'Twas done with Indian skiU," 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." "Ugh!" 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 come within range of a bullet 315 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 325 on the log with his former composure. *' Hawk-eye, they are your brothers, speak to them." "That will I and in English that the kmg 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 ; 't is 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 Cullen 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 ever^^^here evident. Brv^ant has also been called the first distinctively great American poet, the poet who first produced work that was recognized in England as in an}^ way comparable to that of the nine- teenth-century English poets who were his contemporaries. The fact that' the greatest of the English critics, Matthew Arnold, said that Bryant was facile prince ps 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 time, 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. BrA^ant was bom November 3, 1794, in Cummington, a town in the Berkshire Mountains 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 likemse de- scended from a famous Puritan family, that hi 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 Cullen was a remarkably precocious child. It is authoritatively stated that he [56] From a photograph WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT William Cullen Bryant 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 translation. 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 181 5. For nine years he practiced his profession diligently but not enthusiastically, beginning at Plainfield where he had once attended school, but shortly afterward removing to Great Barington, a more promising town near by. Here he met and married Miss Frances Fairchild, and she proved to be 58 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 everywhere 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 181 7 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 prac- tice law in 1 8 18 is also well known. (See tfie introductory notes to these poems in back of book.) 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," and "Death of the Flowers." The last named poem opens with the familiar lines, "The melancholy days have 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 b}^ 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. 357) 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, father, and a loyal friend and citizen. There is certainty 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 melancholy note in much of his verse. It is very true that these elements exist in his poetry, and perhaps to the modern 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 deHght 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 EngUsh 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 5 And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 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 10 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 Hst 15 To Nature's teachings, while from all around — Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,- Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, 20 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, sturendering up 2 5 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 30 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 lie down With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 35 Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods — rivers that move 40 In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; 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, 45 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 sl-umber in its bosom. — Take the wings 50 Of morning, Traverse B area'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 millions in those solitudes, since first 55 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 departture? All that breathe eo 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 emplo3mients, and shall come - 65 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, 7 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 follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves 75 To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls 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, 80 Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. TO A WATERFOWL Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day. Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? 5 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 10 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 65 The desert and illimitable air, — is 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. 20 And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, ' ' Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven - 25 Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He who, from zone to zone. Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 30 In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS The raelancholy 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 eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. Tt.e 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. 4 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 lie, 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 summer glow ; 15 But on the hill 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 daA's will 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 still, 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 beaut}^ died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded b}^ 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. Robert of Lincoln 67 ROBERT OF LINCOLN Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his Httle dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 5 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, 10 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; 15 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, 20 Passing at home a patient life. Broods in the grass while her husband sings : " Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature; you need not fear 25 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, 30 Pouring boasts from his little throat : 68 American Literary Readings Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man ; 3s 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, 40 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. 45 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. 60 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; This new Hfe is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee. 55 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, 60 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 ; es Robert of Lincoln's a hiundrum crone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, 70 Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee. WALT WHIT.MAN 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, 18 19, at the old family home- stead, West Hills, 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 strong, virile, healthy, un- sophisticated 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, Bom here of parents born here, from parents the same, and their parents the same." In this old home on Long Island, or Paumanok, 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] WALT WHITMAN Walt Whitman 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 Brooklyn 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 hundreds 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 w^orking in a lawyer's office 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 office 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 sort of desultory 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 life, 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 deser\^ed 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 AVhitman 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 toiu* 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 wTote later in the "Song of Myself." He worked but little at his regtdar business, but spent many hours in loitering around the streets, riding on the tops of cabs, talking and consorting wdth all sorts and types of people, taking long solitar}^ walks in the woods and smms in the Sound, and letting his imagination brood over all. He often carried some old book with him to brow^se in or to digest at leisiu"e. 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 s-^ims. 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 \\ith 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 jo^^s and the tragedy of illicit Walt Whitman 73 love, he had never been legally married and so had none of the responsibilities 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 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 more 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 w^ho 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 ph^^sicai and psychical 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 3'our 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 appended 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 sublimel}^ egotistical or an uncultured man could have been guilt}^ 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 discoin-agement. 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 b}^ anv 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 was inocu- lated 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 joiu*nalist 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 by no one has he been more fully or enthusi- astically sketched than by his champion, William O'Connor. "For years past, thousands of people in New York, in Brook- lyn, 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 costtune 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- pHcity 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 "0 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 paralytic 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. During 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 an}^ absolute artistic value which may attach to the volumes themselves. As to Whitman's message in his poetrs', his great themes were selfhood, comradeship, love, joy, nattire, God, immor- taUty, 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 vnlh. ever}' atom of his being, "Well, he looks like a man!'' The only serious weakness to be obser\'ed in his poetical output is that it is not always inspired. Wordsworth defined poetr}' as "the spontaneous overflow of powerful emotion recollected in tranquillity." T\Tiitman's poetn,^ seems spontaneous enough, but it does not always express powerful emotion. Like Wordsworth, he was rather self- conscious and imagined that ever}i:hing he felt and saw and thought or dreamed was worthy of preser^^ation. And so, like Wordsworth again, he sometimes reaches banality in- stead of. inspiration. The logical evolution of some of his poems is ven.' 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 described only by the term "balderdash." And yet when we look back on WTiitman 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, -^-ithout model or foreign influ- ence, when he felt the stirrings of genius -^dthin him he made his own instrument of expression merely b}' 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 born 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 list of the creative poets of America. (Among the many lives of Whitman, perhaps the best for general use are those by Bliss Perrj^ in the American Men of Letters Series and by George R. Carpenter in the Enghsh Men of Letters Series. Two 'other sympathetic books should be consulted, the studies by John Addington Symons [Enghsh] 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, ' 5 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, hurriedly, 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 lilac-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, 25 Two feather'd guests from Alabama, two together, And their nest, and four hght-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 curious boy, never too close, never dis- 30 turbing them. Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating. Shine! shine! shine! Pour down your warmth, great sun! While we bask, 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, 4 One forenoon the she-bird crouch 'd not on the nest, Nor return '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, 50 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 55 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 treasvir'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 m}^ 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 lapping, every one close. But my love soothes not me, not me. lb Low hangs the moon, it rose late. It is lagging — I think it is heavy with love, with love. 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 oj the Cradle Endlessly Rocking 83 Loud! loud! loud! Loud I call to you, my love! High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves, . , ' Surely you must know who is here, is here, You must know who I am, my love, ss 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! 90 Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate hack again if you only would. For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look. O rising stars! Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you. throat! trembling throat! .95 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 nighfs carols! 100 Carols of lonesome love! death's carols! Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon! O under that moon where she droops almost down into the sea! reckless despairing carols. But soft! sink low! 105 Soft! let me just murmur, And do you wait a moment you husky-nois'd sea. For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me. 84 American Literary Readings So faint, I must he still, he still to listen, no 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 yoUy 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 tvimul- 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, no 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? us 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. O you singer solitary, singing by yourself, projecting me, 150 O solitary me listening, never more shall I cease perpetuating you, Never more shall I escape, never ;Tiore 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 unknown want, the destiny of me. d give me the clew (it Itirks in the night here somewhere) ! O if I am to have so much, let me have more! A word then (for I will conquer it), leo 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, 3^ou sea- waves '1 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 mourn' 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 — O the black murk that hides the star! O cruel hands that hold me powerless — O helpless soul of me ! 1 O harsh surrounding 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 delicate, 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 settle- ments. 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, 25 If thou wast not granted to sing thou would'st surely die). 5 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 the 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 jotimey, When Lilacs Last, in the Dooryard Bloomed 89 With the tolHng tolling bells' perpetual clang, Here, coffin that slowly passes, I give you my sprig of lilac. _ 45 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, pouring for you. For you and the coffins all of you O death.) 8 O 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. es 9© American Literary Readings 9 Sing on there in the swamp, singer bashful and tender, I hear your notes, I hear your call, 1 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 homes. With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright. With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air. With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific, 85 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. When Lilacs Last in the Door yard Bloom' d 91 And the city at hand with dwelHngs 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 90 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 com. Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty, The violet and purple mom with just-felt breezes. The gentle soft-born 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. ^3 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 himian song, with voice of uttermost woe. j O liquid and free and tender ! O 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 no In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and forests, In the heavenly aerial beauty (after the perturb'd winds atid the storms), Under the arching heavens of the afternoon sw4ft 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 tallied the song of the bird. Come lovely and soothing death, 135 Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each. Sooner or later delicate death. Prais'd he the fathomless universe For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious^ ho ^nd for love, sweet love — hut 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, us I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. Approach, strong deliver ess, 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 O death. iso 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, 155 The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know, And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veiVd death, And the body gratefully nestling close to thee. 94 American Literary Readings Over the tree -tops I float thee a song, 100 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. 15 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 staffs (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 suffer' 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 Door yard Bloom' d 95 16 Passing the visions, passing the night,* i85 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 190 again bursting with 303^ 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 door-^^ard, 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 O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! O 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 ! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; 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 raass, 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 qind sound, its voyage closed and done, 20 From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; "Rxult O shores, and ring, O bells ! . But I with mournful tread. Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. i86s RALPH WALDO EMERSOX 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 born 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, [97] 9 8 American Literary Readings and on September 9 of this 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 Quince}^ 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 and Carlyle, begun at this period, extended to the death of Carlyle in 1881, and the series of letters between these two great masters is one of the most notable in all English and i\.merican 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 Cen- tennial 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 philosoph^^ 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 similar to those expressed by Wordsworth in his poetr}^ 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 99 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 saying 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 stud}^ 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 Representative 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 loo 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 riot 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, sa^^s: "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 his 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 is 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 loi 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 inscribed simply with his name has been placed over 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, Drooping oft in wreaths of dread Lightning-knotted round his head; The hero is not fed on sweets, Dail}^ his own heart he eats; Chambers of the great are jails. 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 easih^ marked in the society of their age as color is' in our Amer- 5 ican population. When any Rodrigo, Pedro or Valeric 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 10 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, 15 rises naturally into poetr}'. 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 20 Sophocles will not ask his life, although assured that a word will save him, and the execution of both proceeds: — [102] Heroism 103 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. 25 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 30 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 35 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 ^^ 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, 45 But with my back toward thee: 't is the last duty This trunk can do the gods. Mar. Strike, strike, Valerius, Or Martins' heart will leap out at his mouth. This is a man, a woman. Kiss thy lord, ^o 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_ urn, Ere thou transgress this knot of piety. ^^ Val. What ails my brother? Soph. Martins, O Martins, 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? ^^ 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 Martins' soul. 65 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 Martins walks now in captivity." [2] I do not readily remember any poem, play, sermon, 70 novel or oration that our press vents in the last few years, which goes to the same tune. We have a great many flutes I04 American Literary Readings and flageolets, but not often the sound of any fife. Yet Wordsworth's "Laodamia," and the ode of "Dion," and 75 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- 80 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 desen^es to be read. And Simon Ockley's History of the Saracens recounts the prodigies of individual valor, with admiration all the more 85 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, 90 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 95 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 100 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 105 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 105 ferocity in nature, which, as it had its inlet by human crime, must have its outlet by human suffering. Unhappily no no man exists who has not in his own person become to some amount 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 115 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 120 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 afhrms his ability to cope single-handed with the infinite army of enemies. To 125 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 130 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; 135 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 ho 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 io6 American Literary Readings 145 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. 150 [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 155 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 160 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. [y] Self -trust is the essence of heroism. It is the state of the soul at war, and its ultimate objects are the last 165 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 an undaunted boldness and of a fortitude not to be 170 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, 175 quarrels, cards and custard, which rack the wit of all society? What joys has kind nature provided for us dear creatures! There seems to be no inter\^al 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- 180 cently, works in it so headlong and believing, is bom red, and Heroism 107 dieSugray, 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- iss 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!" 190 [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 195 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 I 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. 200 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 hour and in whatever number; the master has amply provided for the reception of the men and their animals and is never happier than when they 205 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- 210 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 and not for show, or it pulls 215 down the host. The brave soul rates itself too high to value io8 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 220 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 2 25 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, 23 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. 235 [10] It is told of Brutus, that when he fell on his sword after the battle of Philippi, he quoted a line of Euripides, — " O Virtue ! I have followed thee through life, and I find thee at last but a shade." I doubt not the hero is slandered b}' this report. The heroic soul does not sell its justice and its 240 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 245 class, is the good-htimor 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 2 50 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 109 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 255 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, 26O '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 265 eradication of old and foolish churches and nations which have ciunbered 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 270 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 275 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 280 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, 285 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 no American Literary Readings here we are; and, if we will tarry a little, we may come to 290 learn that here is best. See to it only that thyself is here, and art and nature, 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 29 5 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 00 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 305 national splendor, and act on principles that shotild interest man and nature in the length of oiir 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, 310 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 giant who is sent to work revolutions. But they enter an active profession and the forming Colossus shrinks to the 315 common size of man. The magic they used was the ideal tendencies, which always make 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 203 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 Sevigne, or De Stael, or the cloistered souls who have had Heroism iii genius and cultivation do not satisfy the imagination and 325 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 330 the objects that solicit her eye, that she may learn the power and the charm of her new-born b^ing, 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 335 every beholder with somewhat of her own nobleness. The silent heart encourages her; O 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 refxned by the vision. 340 [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 345 heroic. Yet we have the weakness to expect the sympathy of people in those actions whose excellence is that they outrun sympathy 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 350 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 monoton}/- of a decorous age. It was a high counsel that I once heard given to a young person,^ — "Always do what you are 355 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. 36o 112 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 365 never appear to disadvantage, never make a ridiculous figure? Let us be generous of our dignity as well as of our 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 3 70 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- 375 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 assiaming the penalties of abstinence, of debt, of solitude, of unpopularity, — but it behooves the 380 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, 385 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 hour than perhaps ever before. More freedom exists for culture. It will not now run against an axe at the first step out of 390 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 Love joy gave his breast to the bullets of a mob, for the 395 rights of free speech and opinion, and died when it was better not to live. Heroism 113 [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- 4oo 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 405 of a decay of religion. Coarse slander, iire, 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 410 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: — 415 "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? 420 Who that sees the meanness of our 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 425 no more to suffer from the ttmiults of the natural 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 affirms itself no mortal but a native 430 of the deeps of absolute and inextinguishable being. ir4 American Literary Readings COMPENSATION The wings of Time are black and white, Pied with morning and with night. Mountain 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 lonel}^ Earth amid the balls That hurry through the eternal halls, A makeweight fi3ang to the void, Supplemental asteroid, Or compensatory spark, Shoots across the neutral Dark. 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. Fear not, then, thou child infirm, 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; And all that Nature made thy own. Floating in air or pent in stone. Will rive the hills and swim the sea And, like thy shadow, follow thee. [i] Ever since I was a boy I have wished to write a discourse on Compensation; for it seemed to me when very young that on this subject Hfe was ahead of theology and the people knew more than the preachers taught. The 5 doctmients too from which the doctrine is to be drawn, charmed my fancy by their endless variety, and lay always 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 10 and credits, the influence of character, the nature and endowment of all men. It seemed to me also that in. it 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 115 of eternal love, conversing with that which he knows was 15 always and always must be, because it really is now. It appeared moreover that if this doctrine could be stated in 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, 20 that would not suffer us to lose our way. [2] I was lately confirmed in these desires by hearing 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 25 executed in this world; that the wicked are successful; that the good are miserable; and then urged from reason and 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 30 when the meeting broke up they separated without remark on the sermon. [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, 35 wine, horses, dress, luxury, are had by unprincipled men, whilst the saints are poor and despised; and that a compen- 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 4o compensation intended; for what else? Is it that they are to have leave to pray and praise? to love and serve men? 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 45 import, — 'You sin now, we shall sin by and by; we would sin now, if we could; not being successful we expect our revenge to-morrow.' [4] The fallacy lay in the immense concession that the bad are successful; that justice is not done now. The 50 ii6 American Literary Readings blindness of the preacher consisted in deferring to the base 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 55 of the will ; and so establishing the standard of good and ill, of success and falsehood. [5] I find a similar base tone in the popular religious works of the day and the same doctrines assimied by the literary men when occasionally they treat the related topics. 60 1 think that our popular theolog}^ has gained in decorum, and not in principle, over the superstitions it has displaced. But men are better than their theolog^^ Their daily life gives it the lie. Every ingenuous and aspiring soul leaves the doctrine behind him in his own experience, and all men 65 feel sometimes the falsehood which they cannot demonstrate. For men are wiser than they know. That which they hear 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 70 divine laws, he is answered b}^ a silence which conveys well enough to an obser\*er the dissatisfaction of the hearer, but 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 75 Compensation; happy beyond my expectation if I shall truly draw the smallest arc of this circle. [7] Polarity, or action and reaction, we meet in even.^ part of nattire; in darkness and light; in heat and cold; in the ebb and flow of waters; in male and female; in the 80 inspiration and expiration of plants and animals; in the equation of quantity and quality in the fluids of the animal 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 85 affinity. Superinduce magnetism at one end of a needle. Compensation 117 the opposite magnetism takes place at the other end. If the south attracts, the north repels. To empty here, you must 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- 90 jective, objective; in, out; upper, under; motion, rest; yea, nay. [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 95 ebb and flow of the sea, day and night, man and woman, in a single needle of the pine, in a kernel of corn, in each individual of every animal tribe. The reaction, so grand in , the elements, is repeated within these small boundaries. For example, in the animal kingdom the physiologist has 100 observed that no creatures are favorites, but a certain compensation balances every gift and every defect. A 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. 105 [9] The theory of the mechanic forces is another example. What we gain in power is lost in time, and the 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- no orates. The barren soil does not breed fevers, crocodiles, tigers or scorpions. [10] The same dualism underlies 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. 115 Every faculty which is a receiver of pleasure has an equal penalty put on its abuse. It is to answer for its moderation with its life. For every grain of wit there is a grain of folly. For everything you have missed, you have gained something else; and for everything you gain, you lose something. If 120 riches increase, they are increased that use them. If the ii8 American Literary Readings gatherer gathers too much, Nature 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 125 sea do not more speedily seek a level from their loftiest tossing than the varieties of condition tend to equalize them- 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 130 a man too strong and fierce for society and by temper and position a bad citizen, — a morose ruffian, with a dash of the pirate in him? — Nature 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 135 his grim scowl to courtesy. Thus she contrives to intenerate the granite and felspar, takes the boar out and puts the lamb 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 140 House. It has commonly cost him all his peace, and the best of his manly attributes. To preserve for a short time so 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 145 permanent grandeur of genius? Neither has this an immun- ity. He who by force of will or of thought is great and 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 150 that sympathy which gives him such keen satisfaction, by his fidelity to new revelations of the incessant soul. He must 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 155 to his truth, and become a byword and a hissing. [12] This law writes the laws of cities and nations. It is in vain to build or plot or combine against it. Things Compensation 119 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 leo governor's life is not safe. If you tax too high, the revenue will yield nothing. If you make the criminal code san- guinary, 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 les energy in the citizen, and life glows with a fiercer flame. The true life and satisfactions of man seem to elude the utmost 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 170 the same, — in Turkey and in New England about alike. Under the primeval despots of Egypt, history honestly confesses that man must have been as free as culture could make him. [13] These appearances indicate the fact that the 175 universe is represented in every one of its particles. Every thing in nature contains all the powers of nature. Every thmg 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 iso 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 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 iss of every other. Each one is an entire emblem of human life; of its good and ill, its trials, its enemies, its course and 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 190 microscope cannot find the animalcule which is less perfect for being little. Eyes, ears, taste, smell, motion, resistance, appetite, and organs of reproduction that take hold on 120 American Literary Readings eternity, — all find room to consist in the small creature. 195 So do we put our life into every act. The true doctrine of omnipresence is that God reappears with all his parts in every 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 200 limitation. [15] Thus is the universe alive. All things are moral. That soul which within us is a sentiment, outside of us is a law. We feel its inspiration; there in history we can see its fatal strength. "It is in the world, and the world was 205 made by it." Justice is not postponed. A perfect equity adjusts its balance in all parts of life. '^^^ r«P «^ TtiTtrov6iv 01 Aioi Kvfioi,. — The dice of God are always loaded. The world looks like a multiplication-table, or a mathe- matical equation, which, turn it how you will, balances 210 itself. Take what figure you will, its exact value, nor more nor less, still returns to you. Every secret is told, every crime is punished, ever}^ virtue rewarded, every wrong redressed, in silence and certainty. What we call retribution is the universal necessity by which the whole appears wher- 215 ever a part appears. If you see smoke, there must be fire. If you see a hand or a limb, 3^ou 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 220 real nature; and secondly in the circiunstance, or in apparent nature. Men call the circumstance the retribution. The causal retribution is in the thing and is seen by the soul. The retribution in the circiamstance is seen by the under- standing ; it is inseparable from the thing, but is often spread 225 over a long time and so does not become distinct until after many years. The specific stripes may follow late after the offence, but they follow because the}^ accompany it. Crime and punishment grow out of one stem. Punishment is a fruit that unsuspected ripens within the flower of the pleasure Compensation . 121 which concealed it. Cause and effect, means and ends, 230 seed and fruit, cannot be severed; for the effect already blooms in the cause, the end preexists in the means, the 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 235 appropriate; for example, — to gratify the senses we sever the pleasure of the senses from the needs of the character. 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 240 sweet, the moral deep, the moral fair; that is, again, to contrive to cut clean off this upper surface so thin as to leave 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 245 body would join the flesh only. The soul says, 'Have dominion over all things to the ends of virtue'; the body would 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 250 added unto it, — power, pleasure, knowledge, beauty. The particular man aims to be somebody; to set up for himself; 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. 255 Men seek to be great ; they would have offices, wealth, power, and fame. They think that to be great is to possess one side 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 260 had the smallest success. The parted water reunites behind our hand. Pleasure is taken out of pleasant things, proflt 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, 265 122 American Literary Readings than we can get an inside that shall have no outside, or a light without a shadow. "Drive out Nature with a fork, she comes running back." [20] Life invests itself with inevitable conditions, which 270 the unwise seek to dodge, which one and another brags that he does not know, that they do not touch him; — but the 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 275 appearance, it is because he has resisted his life and fled from himself, and the retribution is so much death. So signal 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- 2 80 stance that when' the disease began in the will, of rebellion and separation, the intellect is at once infected, so that the 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 2 85 tail, and thinks he can cut off that which he would have from that which he would not have. "How secret art thou who 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 ! ' ' 290 [21] The human soul is true to these facts in the paint- ing of fable, of history, of law, of proverbs, of conversation. 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 295 amends to reason by tying up the hands of so bad a god. He is made as helpless as a king of England. Prometheus knows one secret which Jove must bargain for; Minerva, another. He cannot get his own thunders; Minerva keeps the kev of them: — 300 "Of all the gods, I only know the keys That ope the solid doors within whose vaults His thunders sleep." Compensation 123 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 305 and get any currency which w^as not moral. Aurora forgot to ask youth for her lover, and though Tithonus is immortal, 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 310 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 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 315 the human fancy attempted to make bold holiday and to shake itself free of the old laws, — this back-stroke, this kick 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 320 watch in the universe and lets no offence go unchastised. 'J'he Furies they said are attendants on justice, and if the 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 sympathy with the wrongs 325 of their owners; that the belt which Ajax gave Hector dragged the Trojan hero over the field at the wheels of the car of 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, 330 one of his rivals went to it by night and endeavored to throw it down by repeated blows, until at last he moved it from its pedestal and was crushed to death beneath its fall. [23] This voice of fable has in it somewhat divine. It 335 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 124 American Literary Readings constitution and not from his too active invention ; that which 340 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 Hellenic world that I would know. The name and circum- stance of Phidias, however convenient for history, embarrass *345 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 volitions of Phidias, of Dante, of Shakespeare, the organ whereby man at the moment wrought. 350 [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 qualification. Proverbs, like the sacred books of each nation, are the sanctuary of the intuitions. That which 355 the droning world, chained to appearances, will not allow the realist to say in his own words, it will suffer him to say in proverbs without contradiction. And this law of laws, which the pulpit, the senate and the college deny, is hourly preache4 in all markets and workshops by flights of proverbs, whose 360 teaching is as true and 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 blood; measure for measure; love for love. — Give, and it shall 365 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 shalt be paid exactly for what thou hast done, no more, no less. — Who doth not work shall not eat.- — Harm watch, harm catch. — Curses 370 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. [26] It is thus written, because it is thus in life. Our Compensation . 125 action is overmastered and characterized above our will by 375 the law of nature. We aim at a petty end quite aside from the public good, but our act arranges itself by irresistible magnetism in a line with the poles of the world. [27] A man cannot speak but he judges himself. With his will or against his will he draws his portrait to the eye ssj of his companions by every word. 'Ever}^ 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, a coil of cord in the boat, and, if the harpoon is not good, or sss 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 to him, " said Burke. The exclusive in fashionable life does 390 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 you shall suffer as well as they. If you leave out their heart, 395 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. [29] All infractions of love and equity in our social 400 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 perfect diffusion and interpenetration of nature. But as 405 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 between us; there is hate in him and fear in me. 410 126 American Literary Readings [30] All the old abuses in society, universal and partic- ular, all unjust acciunulations of property and power, are avenged in the same manner. Fear is an instructor of great sagacity and the herald of all revolutions. One thing he 415 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 ages has boded and mowed and gibbered over government 420 and property. That obscene bird is not there for nothing. He indicates great wTongs w^hich must be revised. [31] Of the like nature is that expectation of change which instantly follows the suspension of our voluntary activity. The terror of cloudless noon, the emerald of 425 Poly crates, 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. [32] Experienced men of the world know very well that 430 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 mian gained any thing who has received a hundred favors and rendered none? Has he gained by borrowing, through indolence or cunning, his neighbor's 435 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 neighbor; and every new transaction alters according to its 440 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." [33] A wise man will extend this lesson to all parts of 445 life, and know that it is the part of prudence to face every claimant and pa}' every just demand on your time, your Compensation . 127 talents, -or your heart. Always pay; for first or last you must pay your entire debt. Persons and events may stand for a time between you and justice, but it is only a postpone- ment. You must pay at last your own debt. If you are 450 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 thing in the universe, — to receive favors and render none. 455 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 good staying in your hand. It will fast corrupt and worm 46o 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 of good sense to a common want. It is best to pay in your 465 land a skilful gardener, or to buy good sense applied to gardening; 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 accounts and affairs. So do you multiply your presence, or spread yourself through- 4-0 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 wealth and credit are signs. These signs, like paper money, 475 may be counterfeited or stolen, but that which they repre- sent, nardely, 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. The cheat, the defaulter, the gambler, cannot extort the 48o knowledge of material and moral nature which his honest care and pains yield to the operative. The law of nature is. 128 American Literary Readings Do the thing, and you shall have the power; but they who do not the thing have not the power. 485 [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 doctrine that every thing has its price, — and if that price 49 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 colimms of a leger than in the budgets of states, in the laws of light and darkness, in all the action and reaction of nature. I cannot doubt that the high 495 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 pliunb and foot- rule, which stand as manifest in the footing of the shop-bill as in the history of a state, — do recommend to him his trade, 500 and though seldom named, exalt his business to his imagination. [36] The league between virtue and nature engages all things to asstime a hostile front to vice. The beautiful laws and substances of the world persecute and whip the traitor. 505 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 510 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- 515 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 Compensation 129 algebraic equation. The good man has absolute good, which like fire turns every thing to its own nature, so that you can- 520 not do him any harm; but as the royal armies sent against 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 525 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 530 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 faults. As no man thoroughly under- 535 stands a truth until he has contended against it, so no man has a thorough acquaintance with the hindrances or talents of men until 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? 540 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 545 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; 550 h^ has gained facts; learns his ignorance; 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. 6 130 American Literary Readings 655 The wound cicatrizes and falls off from him like a dead skin and when they would triumph, lo! he has passed on invul- nerable. Blame is safer than praise. I hate to be defended 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 560 honeyed words of praise are spoken for me I feel as one that lies unprotected before his enemies. In general, ever^- 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 5 65 of the temptation we resist. [40] The same guards which protect us from disaster, defect and enmity, defend tis, 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 570 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 part}- to all our bargains. The nature and soul of things takes 575 on itself the guaranty of the fulfilment of every contract, so that honest service cannot come to loss. If you serve an ungrateful 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 580 interest on 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 mam- 5 85 or one, a tyrant or a mob. A mob is a society of bodies 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 590 a principle; it would whip a right; it would tar and feather Compensation 131 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 their spite against the wrongdoers. The martyr cannot be 595 dishonored. Every lash inflicted is a tongue of fame; every 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- eoo munities, as to individuals, when the truth is seen and the martyrs are justifled. [42] Thus do all things preach the indiflerency of circumstances. The man is all. Every thing has two sides, a good and an evil. Every advantage has its tax. I learn 605 to be content. But the doctrine of compensation is not the doctrine of indift^erency. 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 Icse any good I gain some other; all actions are eio indifferent. [43] There is a deeper fact in the soul than compensa- 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 eis balance, lies the aboriginal abyss of real Being. Essence, or God, is not a relation or a part, but the whole. Being 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. 620 Vice is the -absence or departure of the same. Nothing, Falsehood, may indeed stand as the great Night or shade on which as a background 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. 625 It is harm inasmuch as it is worse not to be than to be. 132 American Literary Readings [44] We feel defrauded of the retribution due to evil acts, because the criminal adheres to his vice and contumacy and does not come to a crisis or judgment anywhere in 630 visible nature. There is no stunning confutation of his nonsense before men and angels. Has he therefore out- witted 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 635 understanding also; but, should we not see it, this deadly deduction makes square the eternal account. [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 o4o additions of being. In a virtuous action I properly am; in a virtuous act I add to the world ; I plant into deserts conquered 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 645 are considered in the purest sense. The soul refuses limits, and always afhrms an Optimism, never a Pessimism. [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 650 its absence; the brave man is greater than the coward; the true, the benevolent, the wise, is more a man and not less, 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 655 its tax, and if it came without desert or sweat, has no root in me, and the next wind will blow it away. Bul all the good 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 660 example to find a pot of buried gold, knowing that it brings with it new burdens. I do not wish more external goods, — neither possessions, nor honors, nor powers, nor persons. Compensation 133 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 ees a serene eternal peace. I contract the boundaries of possible mischief. I learn the wisdom of St. Bernard, — "Nothing can work me damage except myself; the harm that I sustain I carry about with me, and never am a real sufferer but by my own fault." 67o [47] In the nature of the soul is the compensation for the inequalities of condition. The radical tragedy of nature 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 675 faculty, and one feels sad and knows not well what to make of it. He almost shuns their eye; he fears they will upbraid 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 eso 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 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 6 85 loves. Thereby I make the discovery that my brother is my guardian, acting for me with the friendliest designs, and 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 69 and incorporate them in my own conscious domain. His virtue, — is not that mine? His wit,--- if it cannot be made 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 695 men are advertisements of a nature whose law is growth. Every soul is by this intrinsic necessity quitting its whole system of things, its friends and home and laws and faith, 134 American Literary Readings as the shell-fish crawls out of its beautiful but stony case, 700 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 the}^ are incessant and all worldly relations hang very loosely about him, becoming as it were a transparant fluid 7 05 membrane through which the living form is seen, and not, as in most men, an indurated heterogeneous fabric of many 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 710 such should be the outward biography of man in time, a putting off of dead circumstances day by day, as he renews his raiment day by day. But to us, in our lapsed estate, resting, not advancing, resisting, not cooperating with the divine expansion, this growth comes by shocks. 715 [49] We cannot part with our friends. We cannot let our angels go. We do not see that they only go out that 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 an}" force in 72 to-day to rival or recreate that beautiful yesterday. We linger in the ruins of t^ie old tent where once we had bread 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. 725 The voice of the Almighty saith, ' Up and onward for ever- more!' We cannot stay amid the ruins. Neither will we 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 73 apparent to the understanding also, after long intervals of time. A fever, a mutilation, a cruel disappointment, a loss 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 Concord Hymn 135 friend, wife, brother, lover, which seemed nothing but 735 privation, somewhat later assumes the aspect of a guide or 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 household, or style of living, and allows the formation of 740 new ones more friendly to the growth of character. It permits or constrains the formation of new acquaintances 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 745 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 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 ; 5 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; 10 That memory may their deed redeem. When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 136 American Literary Readings Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, 15 Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee. 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. 5 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 10 This charm is wasted on the earth and sk}^ 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: 15 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 ! The Humhle-Bee 137 Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, Let me chase thy waving Hnes; Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, Singing over shrubs and vines. 10 Insect lover of the sun, Joy of thy dominion! ; Sailor of the atmosphere; Swimmer through the waves of air; Voyager of light and noon; 15 Epicurean of June; Wait, I prithee, till I come Within earshot of thy hum, — All without is martyrdom. When the south wind, in May days, 20 With a net of shining haze Silvers the horizon wall, And with softness touching all. Tints the htiman countenance With a color of romance, 25 And infusing subtle heats, Turns the sod to violets, Thou, in sunny solitudes, Rover of the underwoods. The green silence dost displace 30 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; 35 Of gulfs of sweetness without bound In Indian wildernesses found; Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, Finnest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 138 American Literary Readings 40 Aught unsavory or unclean Hath my insect never seen; But violets and bilberry bells, Maple-sap and daffodels, Grass ^vith green flag half-mast high, 45 Succory to match the sky, Colimibine with horn of honey, Scented fern, and agrimony. Clover, catchfiy, adder' s-tongue, And brier-roses, dwelt among; 50 All beside was unknown waste; All was Picture as he passed. Wiser far than human seer, Yellow-breeched philosopher 1 Seeing only what is fair, 55 Sipping only what is sweet, Thou dost mock at fate and care, Leave the chaff and take the wheat. When the fierce northwestern blast Cools sea and land so far and fast, fio Thou already slumberest deep ; Woe and want thou canst outsleep; Want and woe, which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 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 caste of Haw- thorne'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 gea voyage, and his mother shut herself up from the world in a sort of life-long grief. After several years she moved to the large Manning land holdings on Sebago Lake, Maine, arid 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, too, on the rainy da3^s, 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 [139] I40 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) followed later. 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 htmian life. Part of them are mere sketches or essays, others are based on historical incidents, but most of them are pure works of 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 volimies seems to light upon different ones as the best, and no two persons are found to agree. We have selected for our purpose two stories that have met with general approval and certainly Nathaniel Hawthorne 141 two that well represent Hawthorne's art at its best — "The Great Carbuncle" and ''The Ambitious Guest." 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 the exquisite Twice-told Tales, and through her friendship with Haw- thorne'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 love letters, which are unmatched on this side of the Atlantic, is one of the sweet- est and happiest in the annals of literature. She gave him encouragement and stimulus and love, and he gave her life and home and happiness. Her health improved 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 gauger at the Boston Custom House. He labored at this, to him, unsavory 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 there, and now made doubly so by Hawthorne's stay in it; 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 142 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 Ha\\i:home was appointed collector, or surveyor, of the port of Salem. This gave them a better immediate income, but it cut off Ha\A^horne's literar\^ 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 satis- factorily. When he announced' his removal from office in 1849, Mrs. Hawthorne complacentty 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 gold 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 OA^er from Boston toAA^ard the end of the year and found the germ of the manuscript already in shape, and in 1850 the enlarged rom.ance was published. It took the public by storm and has CA^er since retained its position as the greatest American noA^el. After the phenomenal success of The Scarlet Letter, Haw- thorne's period of being AA^hat he called "the obscurest man of letters in America" was OA^er. He moA^ed to "the little red cottage!' near Lennox in the Berkshire Hills of western Massachusetts, and here he Avrote the second of his four great romances. The House of the Seven Gables (185 1). Here, also, those delightful books for young readers. The Wonder -Book (1852) and Tanglewood Tales (1853), both based on the old Greek and Roman hero mAi;hs, were pro- duced. Grandfather' s Chair ( 1 84 1 ) and seA^eral other juA'enile books had been Avritten much earlier; and with these new volumes and scA^eral other childhood pieces, like "The SnoAV Image" and "Little DaffydoAAmdilly," the contributions of HaAAi:home to our juA^enile classics are A^ery important. Nathaniel Hawthorne 143 During 1852 Hawthorne moved his family to West Newton, a suburb of Boston, and here he produced his third great novel, The Blithedale 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 some 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 ca'rriage 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 near Emerson and Thoreau, his grave being now marked with a plain marble headboard not over a foot high engraved with 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 144 American Literary Readings these conceptions; and third, the supreme artistry of the 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 it with the utmost purity of con- ception. 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, Haw- thorne 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 conception which gave it birth. The picturesqueness, the vivid character portrayal, the music and rhythm of his prose cadences, the apt and pre- cise diction, the dominant tone of spirituality, the sugges- tive other- worldliness — in short, the pure artistry of his style — all this undoubtedly makes him the greatest of Ameri- can 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 all 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 arid lamentation, before it passed into the valley. For a moment it saddened them, though there was nothing unusual in the tones. But the 2; family were glad again when they perceived that the latch was lifted by some traveller, whose footsteps had been unheard amid the dreary blast which 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 [145] 146 American Literary Readings Natch is a great artery, through which the Hfe-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 to Portland market, would put up for the night; and, if a bachelor, might sit an hour 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 Hnked with theirs. The door was opened by a young man. His face at first wore the melancholy 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 benumbed ; for the Notch is just like the pipe of a great pair of bellows ; it has blown a terrible blast in my face all the way 65 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 147 "Yes; to Burlington, and far enough beyond," replied he. "I meant to have been at Ethan Crawford's to-night; but 70 a pedestria ■ lingers along such a road as this. It is no matter; for, .vhen 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 80 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 the landlord, recovering himself. "He sometimes nods his head and threatens to come down; 85 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 felicity 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 fireside. In the household of the Notch he found warmth and sim- plicity of feeling, the pervading intelligence of New England and a poetry of native growth, which they had gathered when they little 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 solitary path; for, with the lofty caution of his nature, he had kept himself apart from those 14S 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 yoiuig 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 he 120 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 would 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 mth 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 would 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 till I have achieved my destiny. Then, let Death come! I shall have built my monument!" There was a continual flow of natural emotion, gushing forth amid abstracted reverie, which enabled the family to understand this young man's sentiments, though so foreign 140 from their own. With quick sensibility of the ludicrous,. he The Ambitious Guest 149 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 me 145 from the country round about. 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 yotir 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 where they could tumble on our heads. I should want to stand well with my neighbors and be called Squire, and sent to General Court 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 all crying around me. A slate gravestone would suit me no as well as a marble one — with just my name and age, and a verse of a hymn, and something to let people know that I Hved an honest man and died a Christian." "There now!" exclaimed the stranger; "it is om: 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." 150 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 3'ou 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 I ' ' Nobody could help laughing at 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 tumbles over the precipice, deep wdthin 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 with the rough 200 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 unwilling to show himself too soHcitous of gain by inviting people to patronize his house. He therefore did not huTTA' to the door; and the lash being soon appHed, the travellers plunged 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." The Ambitious Guest 151 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, 215 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," replied 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, con- 235 templative, yet kindly soul is oftenest captivated by sira- 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 dwelling among these mountains, and made their heights and recesses' a sacred region. There was a wail 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, 152 American Literary Readings and caressed them all. There were the little 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 fingers ever 255 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 your 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 will haunt me night and day till 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 round the fire, informed them that she had provided her grave-clothes some years before, — a nice Hnen shroud, a cap with a muslin ruff, and everything of a finer sort than she had worn since her wedding day. But this evening an old superstition had strangely reoured to her. 270 It used to be said, in her younger 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, wdth singular earnestness, yet smiHng 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 2 80 over my face. Who knows but I may take a glimpse at myself, and see whether all's right?" "Old and young, 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 153 undistinguished, are to be buried together in the ocean — 2 85 J that wide and nameless sepulchre?" I 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 r wild glance, and remained an instant, pale, affrighted, with- T out utterance, or power to move. Then the same shriek 295 burst simultaneously from all their lips. "The Slide! 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 the great Slide had ceased to roar among the mountains, the mortal agony had been endured, and 310 the 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 320 154 American Literary Readings forever be a legend of these mountains. Poets have sung their fate. There were circumstances which led some to suppose that a stranger had been received into the cottage on this awful 325 night, and had shared the catastrophe of all its inmates. Others denied that there were sufficient grounds for such a conjecture. 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 th^t death moment? THE GREAT CARBUNCLE ^ 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 adventiurers were refreshing themselves, after a toilsome and fruitless quest for the Great Carbuncle. They had come thither, not as 5 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 155 ascended. A vast extent of wilderness lay between them and the nearest settlement, while a scant 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 all 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 fellowship 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 35 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, weather-beaten 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 ill-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. All 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 156 American Literary Readings lust after the Great Carbuncle, he had been condemned to wander among the mountains till the end of time, still with 55 the same feverish hopes at sunrise — the same despair at eve. Near this miserable Seeker sat a little 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 mimimy by continually 60 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 adventurers 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 7 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 nattire, 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 wofully 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 85 poetry which flowed from him had a smack of all 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 157 glittered on the rich embroidery of his dress, and gleamed intensely 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 whom 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 hus- 100 band'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 105 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 115 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 158 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 allay their too sanguine hopes, they 130 recurred 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 hung. 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 bound 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 pursuit 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 159 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 Natiire. Mine is the sole purpose for which a wise man may desire the possession of the Great Carbuncle. 170 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 blow-pipe. By these various methods I shall gain an acciu-ate analysis, and finally bestow the result of my labors upon the world in a iso folio volume." "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 i85 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 190 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 i6o 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 Carbimcle, 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 stim. Wherefore, I am minded to put the Great Carbimcle on shipboard, and vo^^age 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 cro\\Ti jewels. If any of ye have a -^^iser plan, let him expound it." 215 "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 waUowest in already? For myself, hiding the jewel under my cloak, I shall hie me back to my attic chamber, 22 in one of the darksome aUeys of London. There, night and day, will I gaze upon it; my soul shall drink its radiance; it shah be diffused throughout my intellectual powers, and gleam brightty in ever>" 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 wih gleam through the holes, and make thee look like a jack-o'-lantern ! " "To think!" ejaculated the Lord de Vere, rather to him- 230 self than his companions, the best of whom he held utterh^ imworthy of his intercoiirse — "to think that a fehow in a tattered cloak should talk of conveying the Great Carbuncle The Great Carbuncle i6i 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 surprise. "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 Hills, 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 will shine through the house so that we may pick up a pin in any comer, and will 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 young couple's project in regard to this wondrous and invaluable stone, with which the greatest 7 i62 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 turn, now twasted his visage into such an expression of ill-nat-ured mirth, that Matthew asked him, rather peevishly, what he himself meant to do ^xixh the Great Carbiincle. 2 75 "The Great Carbuncle!" answered the Cynic, wdth inef- fable scorn. "Why, you blockhead, there is no such thing in renim natura. I have come three thousand miles, and am resolved to set my foot on ever\' peak of these mountains, and poke my head into ever^^ chasm, for the sole purpose of 2 80 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 Crv^stal Hills; but none so vain, so foolish, and so impious too, as that of the scoffer with the 285 prodigious spectacles. He was one of those ^Tetched 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 coiint the midnight gloom their chief est glory. As the Cynic spoke, 290 several of the party were startled b}^ 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 illumination unlike that of their fire on the trunks and black boughs of the forest trees. They listened for the roll of 295 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. 3 00 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 curiously woven twigs, such as might have hung, in deep festoons, around the bridal- bower of Eve. The modest little wife had wTought this piece The Great Carbuncle 163 of tapestry while the other guests were talking. She and her 305 husband fell asleep with hands tenderly clasped, and awoke from visions of unearthly radiance to meet the more blessed light of one another's eyes. They awoke at the same instant, and with one happy smile beaming over their two faces, which grew brighter with their consciousness of the 310 reality of life 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 lured them thither, that they had slept peacefully all night, and till the simimits 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 325 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 trunks and heavy foliage of the trees had 335 hitherto shut in their thoughts, which now shrank affrighted from the region of wind and cloud and naked rocks and desolate sunshine, that rose immeasurably above them. They gazed back at the obscure wilderness which they had traversed, and longed to be buried again in its depths rather 340 164 American Literary Readings 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 by drawing her close to it. 345 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. "Let us climb a little higher," whispered she, yet tremu- 350 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. And upward, accordingly, went the pilgrims of the Great 355 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 of naked rock heaped confusedly together, like a cairn reared 3 60 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 concentrated in their two hearts; they had climbed so high that Nature herself seemed no longer to keep them company. She lingered beneath them, within 3 65 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, casting black spots of shadow on the vast landscape, and 370 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 might have trodden, but where they would vainly have 375 sought an avenue to the blessed earth which they had lost. And the lovers yearned to behold that green earth again, The Great Carbuncle 165 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 the mountain, concealed its lonely peak, and thus anni- 3 so 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 been resolute to climb 385 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 herself each time 390 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 shall 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!" 400 "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 brilliant particles were interfused with the gloom. Now, 4io also, the cloud began to roll away from the mountain, while, as it heavily withdrew, one object after another started out 1 66 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 verv^ 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 glon- flashed across its surface. The pilgrims looked whence it should proceed, but closed their eyes with a thrill of aw^ul admiration, to exclude the fer\dd splendor that glowed from the brow of a cliff impending over the enchanted lake. For the simple pair had reached 425 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 memor\^ they felt themseh^es 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 fir-e 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 Alatthew, trembling violently. "Or, perhaps, the very light of the Great Carbuncle was death!" The Great Carbuncle 167 "The Great Carbuncle," cried a peevish voice behind them. *' The Great Humbug ! If you have found it, prithee 450 point it out to me." They turned their heads, and there was the Cynic, 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 convinced 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 towards the illuminated cliff. "Take off those abominable spectacles, and you 465 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 475 other light on earth, nor Hght 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 forever. 48 "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 1 68 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 our humble cottage. The blessed sunshine and the quiet moon- 490 light shall come through our 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 495 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 500 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 towards the cliff, and beheld the vapors gathering in dense volumes, through which the gem burned 505 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, 510 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 wofully subtracted from his hoard of pine- 515 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 5 20 powder, dissolved in acids, melted in the crucible, and burned The Great Carbuncle 169 with the blow-pipe, and pubHshed the result of his experi- ments in one of the heaviest folios of the day. And, for all these purposes, the gem itself could 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 mountains, 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 all the coldness of the ice. The Lord de Vere went back to his ancestral hall, where he contented himself with 530 a wax-lighted chandelier, and filled, in due course of time, another coffin in the ancestral vault. As the funeral 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 light, 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 kindling earth and heaven. 545 Matthew and his bride spent many peaceful 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 cliff, they found only an opaque stone, with particles of mica glittering on its surface. 555 There is also a tradition that, as the youthful pair departed, lyo American Literary Readings « the gem was loosened from the forehead of the cHff , and fell into the enchanted lake, and that, at noontide, the Seeker's form may still be seen to bend over its quenchless gleam. 560 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 lightning, 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 simimits, and was 565 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 lad}^ 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 surrounded 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. Ellenwood was a shy but not quite a secluded man; selfish, like all men who The Wedding-Knell 171 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 rules 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 an 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- 4o groom, in everything 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 uncom- 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 unkindness 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 172 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 fraihy 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 w4th 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 raarriage of this woman of the world with such an unworldly man as Mr. Ellenwood 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 considerations of expediency which she would be far more likely to 75 appreciate than Mr. Ellenwood, 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, 85 with a degree of publicity that attracted many spectators, who occupied the front seats of the galleries, and the pews near the alter 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 gridegroom was a little less punctual 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 173 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 pillars 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 brilliant 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 swung 105 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. no "On my honor," replied the gentleman, "I believe 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 funeral-knell for her." us 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, all 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 beautiful around her? On they 130 174 American Literary Readings went, however, and had gHttered 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 till it shone forth again as from a mist. 135 This time the party wavered, stopped and huddled closer together, while a slight 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 bridemaids. But her heroism was admirable. She had started with an irrepressible shudder, as if the stroke 145 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. 150 " My young friends here have their nerves a little 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 bells, 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 coffln-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 life's chief est business. Thus we may draw a sad 165 but profitable moral from this funeral-knell." But, though the clergyman might have given his moral even The Wedding-Knell i75 a keener point, he did not fail to despatch an attendant to inquire 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 nc suppressed titterings among the wedding-party and the spectators, who after the first shock were disposed to draw an ill-natured merriment from the affair. The young have less charity for aged follies than the old for those of youth. The widow's glance was observed to wander for an instant 175 toward a window of the church, as if searching for the time- worn marble that she had dedicated to her first husband; then her eyehds 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 180 calling her to lie down beside them. Perhaps, with momen- tary truth of feeling, she thought how rauch happier had been her fate if, after years of bliss, 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 i85 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 churchyard, 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 fair 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 176 American Literary Readings get rid of. I am expecting my bridegroom to come into the church 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 all 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 funeral-bell. While these aged motimers 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 wdth 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 could have befitted such a 23 5 death-like aspect. The eyes, indeed, had the wild gleam of a sepulchral lamp; all else was fixed in the stem calmness which old men wear in the coffin. The corpse stood motion- less, but addressed the \^ddow in accents that seemed to melt The Wedding-Knell 177 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 ghastliness 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 gilded 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 3^ou sire 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 hollow 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 lips 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 255 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 heart stricken bride. "Cruel?" repeated he; then, losing his deathhke compos- ure in a wild bitterness, "Heaven judge which of us has been cruel to the other! In youth you deprived me of my 178 American Literary Readings 2 75 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 perv^ading gloom, through which I walked wearily and cared not whither. But after forty years, when I have built 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, yoiu- beauty, your warmth of heart and all that could be termed 3^our life. What is there for me but your decay 2S5 and death? And therefore I have bidden these funeral- friends, and bespoken the sexton's deepest knell, and am come in my shroud to wed you as with a burial servdce, 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 wTought upon the bride. The stem lesson of the day had done its work ; her worldhness was gone. She seized the bridegroom's hand. 295 "Yes!" cried she; "let us wed even at the door of the sepulchre. My hfe is gone in vanity and emptiness, but at its 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 a long and deep regard the bridegroom looked into her eyes, while a tear was gathering in his own. How strange that gush of human 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 305 despair of my whole Hfetime 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 179 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 triumph drowned the 325 wedding-knell. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 1807-1882 Whenever American poets are mentioned, the name that flashes at once into the mind at the head of the Hst 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 countrymen." 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 wadely 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 of Massachusetts. His birthplace was Portland, Maine, and the date of his birth February 27, 1807. He studied at Bowdoin College, and was graduated in 1825 along with Nathaniel Haw- thorne and several other men who rose to prominence. Longfellow's father was a lawwer, and he had proposed to give his son a legal education after he finished college; but in his senior yecLT the 3^oung man professed in a letter to his father his aspiration for future eminence in litera- ture. "Whether Nature has given me an}^ 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 stud\4ng what was then called belles-lettres, or polite literature, at Har\'ard College. His father consented, but the trustees of Bowdoin College offered the young graduate a professorship in modern 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 and [180] From a painting by Healy in the possession of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW Henry Wadsworth Longfellow i8i 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 1831 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 summer 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 literary 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), 3- realistic novel of rural New England life. These have been overshadowed by the greater popularity of his 1 82 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 1S82. His first volume of verse, Voices of the Night, was published in 1839; ini84i 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," "The Rainy Day," "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 mentioned 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 \i^$%), 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 Wadsworih Longfellow 183 Evangeline. It 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," was praised by Emerson as "serene, happy, and immortal." Longfellow wrote some dramas, but he did not have the 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 (185 1), later included as the second part of the Christus triology, is in dramatic form, but it is merely a poem on "Der Arme Heinrich" legend which interprets rather beautifully some phases of medieval life. The other two parts of the Christus, namely, The New England Trage- dies (1868) and The Divine Tragedy (18^2), 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 w^as 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 published 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. Longfellow went abroad for the third time in 1868. He was received ever3rwhere with enthusiasm. In England 184 American Literary Readings 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 them 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 he knew life through books better than he knew men and life through actual contact with the busy world. 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 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 con- trolled 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 he was a calm, sober-minded, 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 behind the insinuating query, "But is it art?" To all such Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 185 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 hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct 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. [186] Evangeline 187 Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of 15 Grand-Pre. 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 turbulent 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 30 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 88 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. 33 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. 4 5 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 belfrA' Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village .50 Columns 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 189 Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of repubHcs. 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 Hved 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 I go 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, 75 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 191 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 barns, 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 192 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 hymns of the church and the plain-song. But when the hymn was sung, 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 plaA'-thing, 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 autumnal 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 bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow. Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters. Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow Evangeline 193 Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledghngs ; Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow ! Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were ho 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 155 honey Till the hives overflowed;' and the Indian hunters asserted Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes. 8 194 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 murmurs 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 affection and stillness. Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending ■ Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead. Pawing the ground 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 195 Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar, Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human 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, is 5 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 heavy with 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 barns. 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 wavS silent. 196 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, cltimsily carv^ed 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- s,hine. ' 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 corner 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 swning back on its hinges. Evangeline 197 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! Cotoe, 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 Sntoke 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 cheerfullest 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 235 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. igS 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 B}^ untimety rains or untimelier heat have been blighted, And from oiir btirsting 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 Sejoiu*, nor Port Royal. 250 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 sc3i:he of the mower." Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer: — 255 "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 i99 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 260 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. Rene 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 265 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. 200 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 m.ay be, I know not better than others. 29 5 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 201 But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary 300 pubhc: — "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 305 them. " Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember. Raised aloft on a coliimn, 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 315 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 found the nest of a magpie. 202 American Literary Readings 325 Into whose clay-btdlt 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-Pre; While from his pocket the notary drew 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 sun 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 and departed, While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside. Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its comer. 3 45 Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre, Evangeline 203 Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row. Meanwhile apart, in the twiHght 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 hour of nine, the village curfew, and straight- way Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the 355 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, ■saa Up the staircase moved a Itmiinous 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 ses 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. 204 American Literary Readings Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight 3 70 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, 375 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 380 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 sun on the village of Grand-Pre. 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 countr^^ around, from the farms and the neighboring hamlets, Evangeline ' 205 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 numerous 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; 4oo Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness Fell from her beautiful lips, 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 2o6 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. 415 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 from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat. j 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. 425 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 spakefrom the steps of the altar, Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal com- mission. Evangeline 207 "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 corn 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 2o8 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 oiu" 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. 4 60 In the midst of the strife and tiunult of angr\^ 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 alarum, 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 '1 Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness ? Evangeline 209 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! how those lips still repeat the prayer, 'O 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, *'0 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. 210 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 dair\"; 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, 500 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 theii 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 Angelus sounded. Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the chtirch Evangeline lingered. 510 All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windows Evangeline 211 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 515 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- 525 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. 212 American Literary Readings Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings, 530 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 540 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 213 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-wa}^ 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 56o 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 ses 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 214 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 unto 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 575 Deepened and darkened around; 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. 585 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 chiu^ch no Angelus sounded, 590 Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows. Evangeline 215 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 parish. 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 face 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 awful presence of sorrow. Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden. 2i6 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 autumn 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. Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were 62 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. 62 5 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-3"ards. Thinking the day had dawned ; and anon the lowing of cattle Evangeline 217 Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs inter- rupted. Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping eso 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 535 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 ! fromx his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shore Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed. 64o Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless 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. 65o 2i8 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 funeral torches, But without bell or book, they buried 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- Pre, When on the falling 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. 67 Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed; Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the northeast Evangeline 219 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 675 Father of Waters Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean. Deep in their sands to bury 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 churchyards. 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, ego Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen. 2 20 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 churchyards 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 slumber 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; "O 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 221 Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and 715 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, 7?o "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 733 valley : 22 2 American Literary Readings t 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 750 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 223 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 plimies, large flocks of pelicans waded. Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river, 76o 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 summer, Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron. Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward. 765 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 unbroken, 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. I 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; 2 24 American Literary Readings And o'er their spirits there came a feehng of wonder and sadness, — 7 80 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 per adventure 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, like a sense of pain was the silence. Evangeline 225 Then Evangeline slept ; but the boatmen rowed through the soo 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 805 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 slumber. Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were si 5 suspended. Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew by the margin. Safely their boat was moored; and scattered about on the greensward, Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slum- 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 Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob, Qn whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending, 9 226 American Literary Readings Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom. Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it. 825 Filled 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 ntunberless islands, Darted a Hght, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water. Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers. 83 Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver. At the helra 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, unhappy and restless, 83 5 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 undistiurbed 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, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie. After the sound 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 Felician! Evangeline 227 Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders. 845 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 Teche, are the towns of St. Main* 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 fruit- 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 continued their journey. Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape ; 86 5 Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest 2 28 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, Avith its dripping oars, on the motionless water. 870 Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness. Touched b}^ the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling Glowed with the light 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 listen. 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 winA 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 -^dth emotion, Slowly they entered the T^che, where it flows through the green Opelousas, 885 And through the amber 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 229 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 Yule- sqo tide, Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. A garden Girded it round about with a belt of luxtiriant 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- 895 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 i Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grape-vines. 910 Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie. 230 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 nimiberless 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 turned 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 recognized 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 231 Thoughtfiil, 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, conceaUng 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 endure the calm of this quiet existence. Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever. Ever silent, 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 will follow the fugitive lover; 955 He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him. 232 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, 9 60 Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the • fiddler. Long under 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 Basil, enraptured. Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips. Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters. 9 70 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 climate. 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 alread}^ the supper of Basil Waited his late return; and they rested and feasted together. Evangeline 233 Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended. All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver. Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but within qso 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 935 they Hstened: — "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 990 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 summer. Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed 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 your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests. No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads, 234 American Literary Readings Burning yotir dwellings and bams, and stealing your farms and yoiir 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 all 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 milder 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. Cured 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 summoned 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 exile, became straightway as friends to each other. Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together. 1015 But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, proceeding From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious fiddle, Broke 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 235 Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsman Sat, conversing together of past and present and future; While EvangeHne stood like one entranced, for within her Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music Heard she the soiind 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 1035 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. 10 40 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, 236 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: "O 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 sltmibers ! When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?" Loud and sudden and near the notes of a whippoorwill sounded 1055 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 moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, "To- morrow!" Bright rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the garden 1060 Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal. Evangeline 237 "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 Foolish 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, 1070 Found 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 tlirough a wild and desolate country ; Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes, Weary and worn, they alighted, 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 luminous sum- mits. Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like loso a gateway. Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's wagon. 238 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 ; 1085 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 Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine. Bright with luxuriant 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 blight, and winds that are weary with travel ; 1095 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 in battle. By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens. 1100 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 239 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 luo camp-fire Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but at nightfall. When they had reached the place, they found 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 light, that retreated and vanished 1115 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 returning home to her people, From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches, 1120 Where her Canadian husband, a Couretir-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 240 American Literary Readings On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers. 1125 But when their meal was done, and Basil and all 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 like 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 into the forest. Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation, Evangelme 241 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 twilight, 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 1150 To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her Seemed like enchanted ground, 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 neo swallow. It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region gi 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 m6rrow the march was resumed; and the nes Shawnee Said, as they journeyed along: "On the western slope of these mountains 242 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, and 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. 1186 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 243 Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade them Welcome; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression, Hearing the homelike sounds 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 return again to the Mission." Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and sub- missive, "Let me remain with thee, for my soul 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 Evangeline stayed at the Mission. 244 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 ground 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 would say; "have faith, and thy prayer will 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 fuller of fragrance. But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadty. 1225 Only this himible 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 ^^inter, yet Gabriel came not; Evangeline 245 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 ghde 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 joimiey; 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, b i 246 American Literary Readings Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. 1255 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 Rene Leblanc had died; and when he departed, Saw at his side only one of all his him.dred 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, 1265 For it recalled the past, the old Acadian coiintry, Where all 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 Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us, Sim.-illimiined, 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 illtimined with love ; and the pathway 1276 Which she had climbed 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 247 Only more beautifiil 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 12 so 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 filling the air with 1235 aroma. Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. Thus many years she Uved 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 sunlight. 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 light of her taper. Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the 1295 subiu-bs Plodded the German farmer, 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, 248 American Literary Readings Flooding some silver stream, till 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 alike 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 himible 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 Hght 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. lAito 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 249 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 sickness. 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 filled already by strangers. Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped 1345 from her fingers, And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning. 250 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. 13 50 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, 13 55 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 multipHed reverbera- tions. Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, "Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into silence. Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his child- hood; 1365 Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them. Village, ar^d mountain, and woodlands; and, walking imder their shadow. As in the days of her youth, EvangeHne rose in his vision. Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyeHds, Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt b}^ his bedside. 1370 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 251 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 All 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 13 so 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 Catholic churchyard, In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed. Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, 1335 Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and for ever, Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy. Thousands of toiling 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. In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy; 1395 252 American Literary Readings Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun, 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. 6 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 enjoyment, and not sorrow, 10 Is our 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 our hearts, though stout and brave, 15 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! 20 Be a hero in the strife! Hymn to the Night 253 Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! Let the dead Past bury its dead ! Act, — act in the Hving Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead ! Lives of great men all remind us 25 We can make our lives sublime. And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time ; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 30 A forlorn and shipwrecked brother. Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, 35 Learn to labor and to wait. HYMN TO THE NIGHT ^ ^6'ita6irj, rpiXki6ro