JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL
LITERATURE
BOOK ONE
BY
WILLIAM H. ELSON
AUTHOR ELSON READERS AND GOOD ENGLISH SERIES
AND
CHRISTINE M. KECK
HEAD UNION JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL ENGLISH, GRAND RAPIDS, MICHIGAN
SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY
CHICAGO ATLANTA NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT 1919
BY SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY
For permission to use copyrighted material grateful acknowledgment
is made to _The London Times_ for “The Guards Came Through” by Sir
Arthur Conan Doyle; to Thomas Hardy for “Men Who March Away” from
_The London Times_; to John Galsworthy for “England to Free Men” from
_The Westminster Gazette_; to John Masefield for “Spanish Waters”;
to Hamlin Garland for “The Great Blizzard” from _Boy Life on the
Prairie_; to Doubleday Page & Co. for “The Gift of the Magi” by O.
Henry; to G. P. Putnam’s Sons for “Old Ephraim, the Grizzly Bear,”
from _The Wilderness Hunter_ by Theodore Roosevelt; to the George
H. Doran Company for “Trees” from _Trees and Other Poems_ by Joyce
Kilmer; to Mr. R. W. Lillard for “America’s Answer” from _The New
York Evening Post_; to Horace Traubel for “Pioneers! O Pioneers!”, “I
Hear America Singing”, “O Captain! My Captain!” by Walt Whitman; to
Charles Scribner’s Sons for “On a Florida River” by Sidney Lanier,
from _The Lanier Book_, copyright 1904; and to Frederick A. Stokes
Company for “Kilmeny—A Song of the Trawlers” by Alfred Noyes from
_The New Morning_, copyright 1919.
ROBERT O. LAW COMPANY
EDITION BOOK MANUFACTURERS
CHICAGO, U. S. A.
PREFACE
The Junior High School offers exceptional opportunity for relating
literature to life. In addition to the aesthetic and ethical purposes,
long recognized in the study of literature, the World War emphasized
the need for an extension of aims to include the teaching of certain
fundamental American ideals. To marshal the available material, setting
it to work in the service of social and civic ideals, is to give to
literature the “central place in a new humanism.” When we organize
reading in the schools with reference to the teaching of ideals—personal,
social, national, and patriotic—we “put the stress on literature as one
of the chief means through which the child enters on his intellectual and
spiritual inheritance.” Outstanding among these ideals are: freedom, love
of home and country, service, loyalty, courage, thrift, humane treatment
of animals, a sense of humor, love of Nature, and an appreciation of the
dignity of honest work. In a word, to provide a course in the history and
development of civilization, particularly stressing America’s part in it,
is the present-day demand on the school.
The Junior High School Literature Series, of which the present volume
is intended for use in the first year, provides such a course. The
literature brought together in this book is organized with reference
to the social ideal. Nature in its varied relations to human life,
particularly child life, is presented in stories and poems of animals,
birds, flowers, trees, and winter, all abounding in beauty and charm.
Interest in Nature leads to interest in the deeds of men filled with the
spirit of adventure. The heroism of brave men and women from the age of
chivalry to the days of self-sacrifice on Flanders Fields is told in
ballad and romance, thus stimulating qualities of courage, loyalty, and
devotion. Akin to these are the deeds of men who won freedom for their
fellows and gave meaning to the words, “our inheritance of freedom.”
Their heroism is told in story and song, from the time of the Great
Charter and Robert the Bruce to the Declaration of Independence and
the recent treaty of Versailles. The whole culminates in the literature
and life in the homeland, interpreting America’s part in these great
enterprises of the human spirit. Through legend and history the spirit
and thoughts of our developing nation are portrayed in a literature of
compelling interest, distinctively American.
This book supplies material in such generous quantity as to provide in
one volume a complete one-year course of literature. There is material
suited to all the purposes that a collection of literature for this grade
should supply: reading for the story element, silent reading, reading
for expression, intensive reading, memorizing, dramatization, public
reading and recitation, plot study, etc. Moreover, the book offers a
wide variety of literature, representing various types: ballads, lyrics,
short stories, tales, biographies, and the rest. The selections comprise
not only those that have stood the test of time, but also some of the
choicest treasures of the modern creative period. They are given in
complete units, not mere excerpts or garbled “cross-sections.”
The helps to study are more than mere notes; they take into account
the larger purposes of the literature. Especially illuminating are the
selection “The Three Joys of Reading,” pages 9-14, and the Introductions
to Parts II, III, and IV; these should be read by pupils before beginning
the study of the selections in the several groups, for they interpret and
give greater significance to the units. The biographical and historical
notes provide helpful data for interpreting the stories and poems. A
comprehensive glossary, pages 592-626, contains the words and phrases of
the text that offer valuable vocabulary training, either of pronunciation
or meaning. An additional feature that will appeal to many teachers is
the list of common words frequently mispronounced given in connection
with the helps to study. See pages 14, 26, etc.
The Authors.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE iii
THE THREE JOYS OF READING ix
PART I
STORIES AND POEMS OF NATURE
ANIMALS
THE BUFFALO _Francis Parkman_ 1
OLD EPHRAIM, THE GRIZZLY BEAR _Theodore Roosevelt_ 15
MOTI GUJ—MUTINEER _Rudyard Kipling_ 27
THE ELEPHANTS THAT STRUCK _Samuel White Baker_ 35
BIRDS
ROBERT OF LINCOLN _William Cullen Bryant_ 39
THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT _Henry van Dyke_ 43
THE BELFRY PIGEON _Nathaniel Parker Willis_ 45
THE SANDPIPER _Celia Thaxter_ 47
THE THROSTLE _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ 49
TO THE CUCKOO _William Wordsworth_ 50
THE BIRDS’ ORCHESTRA _Celia Thaxter_ 52
FLOWERS AND TREES
TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN _William Cullen Bryant_ 53
VIOLET! SWEET VIOLET! _James Russell Lowell_ 54
TO THE DANDELION _James Russell Lowell_ 56
THE DAFFODILS _William Wordsworth_ 59
THE TRAILING ARBUTUS _John Greenleaf Whittier_ 60
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY _Robert Burns_ 61
SWEET PEAS _John Keats_ 63
CHORUS OF FLOWERS _Leigh Hunt_ 64
TREES _Joyce Kilmer_ 68
WINTER
THE GREAT BLIZZARD _Hamlin Garland_ 69
THE FROST _Hannah F. Gould_ 75
THE FROST SPIRIT _John Greenleaf Whittier_ 76
THE SNOW STORM _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 78
SNOWFLAKES _Henry W. Longfellow_ 80
MIDWINTER _John T. Trowbridge_ 82
BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND _William Shakespeare_ 84
WHEN ICICLES HANG BY THE WALL _William Shakespeare_ 85
PART II
ADVENTURES OLD AND NEW
INTRODUCTION 89
THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY
KING ARTHUR STORIES Adapted from _Sir Thomas Malory_
THE COMING OF ARTHUR 91
THE STORY OF GARETH 105
THE PEERLESS KNIGHT LANCELOT 126
THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 149
NARRATIVES IN VERSE
SIR PATRICK SPENS _Folk Ballad_ 168
THE SKELETON IN ARMOR _Henry W. Longfellow_ 171
THE THREE FISHERS _Charles Kingsley_ 177
LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER _Thomas Campbell_ 178
THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW _John Greenleaf Whittier_ 181
SPANISH WATERS _John Masefield_ 184
KILMENY—A SONG OF THE TRAWLERS _Alfred Noyes_ 186
THE GUARDS CAME THROUGH _Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_ 188
STORIES OF THE SEA
A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM _Edgar Allan Poe_ 191
THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY _Charles Dickens_ 210
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE
AS YOU LIKE IT _Charles and Mary Lamb_ 259
THE TEMPEST _Charles and Mary Lamb_ 275
PART III
IDEALS AND HEROES OF FREEDOM
INTRODUCTION 289
SCOTLAND’S STRUGGLE FOR INDEPENDENCE
TALES OF A GRANDFATHER _Sir Walter Scott_ 293
THE STORY OF SIR WILLIAM WALLACE 293
ROBERT THE BRUCE 301
THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN 311
EXPLOITS OF DOUGLAS AND RANDOLPH 318
THE PARTING OF MARMION AND DOUGLAS _Sir Walter Scott_ 325
BRUCE’S ADDRESS AT BANNOCKBURN _Robert Burns_ 328
ENGLAND AND FREEDOM
THE LAST FIGHT OF THE REVENGE _Sir Walter Raleigh_ 330
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND _Thomas Campbell_ 336
ENGLAND AND AMERICA NATURAL ALLIES _John Richard Green_ 338
ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1782 _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ 340
ENGLAND TO FREE MEN _John Galsworthy_ 341
MEN WHO MARCH AWAY _Thomas Hardy_ 343
EARLY AMERICAN SPIRIT OF FREEDOM
GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 345
HOW NEW ENGLAND WAS GOVERNED 345
THE PINE-TREE SHILLINGS 349
THE STAMP ACT 354
BRITISH SOLDIERS STATIONED IN BOSTON 359
THE BOSTON MASSACRE 364
SOME FAMOUS PORTRAITS 370
THE GRAY CHAMPION _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 376
WARREN’S ADDRESS AT BUNKER HILL _John Pierpont_ 385
LIBERTY OR DEATH _Patrick Henry_ 386
GEORGE WASHINGTON TO HIS WIFE 390
GEORGE WASHINGTON TO GOVERNOR CLINTON 393
SONG OF MARION’S MEN _William Cullen Bryant_ 395
TIMES THAT TRY MEN’S SOULS _Thomas Paine_ 397
PART IV
LITERATURE AND LIFE IN THE HOMELAND
INTRODUCTION 403
EARLY AMERICA
THE CHARACTER OF COLUMBUS _Archbishop Corrigan_ 405
THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS _Felicia Hemans_ 407
PHILIP OF POKANOKET _Washington Irving_ 409
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH _Henry W. Longfellow_ 427
AMERICAN SCENES AND LEGENDS
MY VISIT TO NIAGARA _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 466
ON A FLORIDA RIVER _Sidney Lanier_ 473
I SIGH FOR THE LAND OF THE CYPRESS _Samuel Henry Dickson_ 477
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW _Washington Irving_ 479
THE GREAT STONE FACE _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 510
AMERICAN LITERATURE OF LIGHTER VEIN
THE CELEBRATED JUMPING FROG _Mark Twain_ 531
THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 538
THE GIFT OF THE MAGI _O. Henry_ 541
THE RENOWNED WOUTER VAN TWILLER _Washington Irving_ 547
AMERICAN WORKERS AND THEIR WORK
MAKERS OF THE FLAG _Franklin K. Lane_ 553
I HEAR AMERICA SINGING _Walt Whitman_ 556
PIONEERS! O PIONEERS! _Walt Whitman_ 557
THE BEANFIELD _Henry David Thoreau_ 559
SHIP-BUILDERS _John Greenleaf Whittier_ 562
THE BUILDERS _Henry W. Longfellow_ 566
LOVE OF COUNTRY
THE FLOWER OF LIBERTY _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 568
OLD IRONSIDES _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 570
THE AMERICAN FLAG _Henry Ward Beecher_ 572
THE AMERICAN FLAG _Joseph Rodman Drake_ 574
THE FLAG GOES BY _Henry H. Bennett_ 577
THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER _Francis Scott Key_ 578
CITIZENSHIP _William Pierce Frye_ 580
THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON _Thomas Jefferson_ 583
THE TWENTY-SECOND OF FEBRUARY _William Cullen Bryant_ 586
ABRAHAM LINCOLN _Richard H. Stoddard_ 587
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! _Walt Whitman_ 588
IN FLANDERS FIELDS _John D. McCrae_ 590
AMERICA’S ANSWER _R. W. Lillard_ 591
GLOSSARY 592
THE LITERATURE SERIES
_for the Junior High School_
The complete series includes:
Book One, for the first year.
Book Two, for the second year.
Book Three, for the third year.
THE THREE JOYS OF READING
The picture on this page is called “A Reading from Homer.” Study each of
the people who form the group. Judging from their dress and appearance,
do you think they are people of the present time or of the ancient world?
From what sort of book is the poet reading? Should you think such “books”
could be owned by all sorts of people, or only by a few? Study the
reader’s expression. What sort of story do you think he is reading? Can
you decide anything about the listeners, who they are and what they are
thinking about? Who is most deeply interested in the story, and why?
[Illustration: A READING FROM HOMER]
Men do brave deeds on the sea, in far-off lands, or in war, and these
deeds are the subject of song and story. Youths who are looking forward
to heroic careers, and men and women to whom life has brought few
thrilling experiences, like to hear these tales. A well-told story opens
the door to a new pleasure in living. An animal knows only the present.
He is hungry, or tired, or his life is in danger, or he is well fed and
sleepy. But boys and girls, and grown-ups, too, have not only their
daily experience to draw upon, but through books and magazines and papers
they can enter into the experience of others, so that they may live many
lives in one.
Aladdin had a wonderful lamp. By rubbing it he could be anywhere he
chose or could possess anything he desired. Such a lamp the reader of
good books possesses. You come in from work or play, curl yourself up
in a big chair before the fire, open your book, and in a twinkling you
are whisked away to a new world. Your body is there, curled up before
the fire, but enchantment has come upon you. In imagination you are with
Sindbad the Sailor, or with Robinson Crusoe, or with King Arthur, or you
are in the Indian Jungle, or on a ship sailing the South Seas, or you
are hunting for Treasure Island. And you have it in your power to take
these wonderful trips instantly; no railway tickets are required, no long
delays. You may go on a journey to the other side of the world or into
the South Polar ice or out on a western ranch. What is more wonderful,
you may go back a century, or ten centuries; through this Aladdin’s lamp
of reading you are master not only of space, but also of time. Thus the
first joy of reading is the privilege of taking part in the experiences
of men of every time and every portion of the world. You multiply your
life, and the product is richness and joy.
The second joy of reading is even greater. Not only the world of
adventure is open to you by means of books, but also a life enriched by
the wisdom that has been gathered from a thousand poets and historians as
bees gather honey from a thousand flowers. There is a story of a great
Italian of the sixteenth century who found himself in the prime of life
without a position, without money, and even compelled to become an exile
because of a revolution. He retired to a farm remote from all the scenes
in which his previous life had been passed. All day he worked hard, for
only by hard work could he live. But in the evenings, when work was done,
when horses and oxen and the laborers who had toiled with them all the
day had gone to sleep, this man put on the splendid court dress he had
worn in the days of his prosperity, days when he had associated with
princes and the great ones of the earth, and so garbed he went into his
library and shut the door. And then, he tells us, for four hours he lived
amid the scenes that his books called up before him. He found in books
an Aladdin’s lamp that transported him to past times, that revealed the
secrets of nature, that showed him what men had accomplished. Through
history, he re-created the past. He could call on the wisest of men for
counsel, and he forgot during these hours his weariness and pain.
This story of the great Italian has been paralleled many times. There was
once a boy in a frontier cabin who had no such experience as this man
passed through centuries ago, but who was eager to know all that could
be learned about life. His days were long and hard, but he was dreaming
of things to come. At night by the light of the pine logs blazing in the
fireplace, this boy read and studied. Books were hard to get; sometimes
he tramped for miles to borrow one that he had heard a distant farmer
possessed. Thus Lincoln found the second of the joys of reading, the
stored-up wisdom of the race that he appropriated against the day when he
was to be not merely a student of history but a maker of history as well.
[Illustration: THE SONG OF THE LARK]
The third joy of reading is that through books our eyes are opened to
the beauty of the world in which we live. There is a famous painting
called “The Song of the Lark.” A peasant girl is on her way to work in
the fields, sickle in hand, in early morning. She has stopped to listen
to the flood of melody that pours from the sky above her, and is trying
in vain to see the bird which is singing the glorious song. Her dull,
unexpressive face is lighted up for the moment in the presence of a
beauty that she feels but does not comprehend. So the painter interprets
for us the effect of beauty upon even a dull intelligence. But the poet
translates the song into beautiful language, and we read and are happy.
Thousands of people pass unthinkingly by a field filled with the common
daisies. They know the name of the flower; they may even say, or think,
that the flowers make a pretty sight. But a poor young poet plows one up
on his farm and tells us of his sympathy for the little flower he has
destroyed; tells us, too, how the fate of the daisy suggests to him his
own fate, so that all who read the poem by Robert Burns no longer see in
the daisy a common flower, but see instead a symbol of beauty.
Bird-song and flower, the west wind as it drives the dead leaves before
it or hurries the clouds across the sky or piles up in great masses the
waters of the sea; the mountain that rises stark and stern above the
plain, the ocean over which men’s ships pass in safety or into whose
depths they plunge to their grave—all these things the poet helps us to
see and to feel. So once more our Aladdin’s lamp brings us into scenes
of enchantment, multiplies our lives, opens our eyes to things that the
fairy-folk know right well, but which are forbidden to mortal eye and ear
until the spell has worked its will.
These, then, are the three joys of reading: First, to be able to travel
at will in any country and in any period of time and to taste the salt
of adventure; to hear the great stories that the human race has garnered
through centuries of living; to know earth’s heroes and to become a part
of the company that surrounds them. Second, to enter into the inheritance
of wisdom that has come down from ancient times or that animates those
who are the builders of our present world. “Histories make men wise,”
said one of the wisest of men, by which he meant that history records
the experience of men in their attempts to make the world a place where
people may dwell together in safety, and that as men reflect on this
experience they become wiser. And poets and prose writers, too, have
told in books what they have thought to be the meaning of life. They are
like the wise old hermits, dwelling in little cabins by the edge of the
enchanted forest, who told Sir Galahad or Sir Gawain or Sir Lancelot
about the perils of the forest and how to win their way to the enchanted
castle where dwelt the Queen.
And the third joy of reading is that which brings us knowledge of this
enchanted world. For it _is_ a world of wonder in which we live as truly
as that fairy world which so delighted you when Mother told you stories
or when you read your fairy books. The journey of Captain Scott in search
of the South Pole was as thrilling as the voyage of Sinbad. Those brave
men who made the first flight in an airplane across the ocean the other
day were as venturesome as Columbus, and their journey was as wonderful
as that journey in 1492. But Captain Scott did not leave his comfortable
and safe life at home merely to seek adventure. It was an expedition
planned in order that he might bring back exact information about parts
of the earth where men had never been before. And the flight across the
Atlantic was just one more step in the development of a new form of
transportation. So science contributes in many ways to our happiness and
safety. What men do to develop the resources of the earth, what they do
to conquer disease, the inventions and discoveries that give us greater
power than if we possessed the open sesame of our fairy stories—these
also you learn about in your reading.
The book to which you are here introduced is planned in such a way as
to help you find these three joys of reading. It is a big generous
book, filled with good things. It is an Aladdin’s lamp. Take it to your
favorite big chair or to your favorite corner and test it. Do you wish to
get into the Enchanted Forest? The very first selections, about animals
and birds and growing things, take you there where you will find friends
old and new. Do you wish to go on a long journey back to King Arthur’s
time and meet the knights of the Round Table? The power is yours for the
asking. Or if you prefer songs and stories of the sea, here is a ballad
that has been sung for centuries, or you may have ballads about battles
in the war that ended the other day. And no one knew the secrets of the
Enchanted Forest better than William Shakespeare—here are two stories
that he loved.
At some other time your book will take you back to the days of Wallace
and Bruce, or will bring before you some of the things England has
done for Freedom, or will show you what Americans of the old time did
and thought when they were building their free land for you to dwell
in and to protect. And, last of all, there are stories of life in our
America—old legends and stories that will make you smile, and stories of
workers and their work. When you have finished the last section you will
be happier and a better citizen, ready to do your share every chance you
get.
One word more. You know that, in order to work enchantment, people have
had to do certain things. There was the fern-seed, you know, or the charm
like “open sesame,” or you have to rub the wonderful lamp. Now to use
this book rightly, you must not think of it as a lesson book, containing
tasks. If you do that, it will be no Aladdin’s lamp at all but just a
dull old smoky lamp that would not even guide you to the cellar. You must
do these things: First, get that chair or that corner and make yourself
comfortable. Second, _look at the program_. What is that? Why, the “Table
of Contents,” of course. You must know where you are going and what you
are to see. In this book everything is arranged in such a way as to help
the charm to work. Third, you will find little questions and studies
every now and then, and a glossary, guide-posts so that you will not lose
your way. And, last of all, you are to try to see the book as a whole and
not as a sort of scrapbook about all sorts of things. For it all deals,
in one way or another, with the Enchanted Forest and the Castle of Life.
PART I
STORIES AND POEMS OF NATURE
_“Go forth, under the open sky, and list_
_To Nature’s teachings.”_
—William Cullen Bryant.
[Illustration: From a Thistle Print, Copyright Detroit Publishing Co.
AUTUMN WOODS—PAINTING BY GEORGE INNESS]
ANIMALS
[Illustration]
THE BUFFALO
FRANCIS PARKMAN
BRINGING HOME THE MEAT
Four days on the Platte, and yet no buffalo! The wagons one morning had
left the camp; Shaw and I were already on horseback, but Henry Chatillon
still sat cross-legged by the dead embers of the fire, playing pensively
with the lock of his rifle, while his sturdy Wyandot pony stood quietly
behind him, looking over his head. At last he got up, patted the neck of
the pony (whom, from an exaggerated appreciation of his merits, he had
christened “Five Hundred Dollar”), and then mounted with a melancholy air.
“What is it, Henry?”
“Ah, I feel lonesome; I never been here before; but I see away yonder
over the buttes, and down there on the prairie, black—all black with
buffalo!”
In the afternoon he and I left the party in search of an antelope; until,
at the distance of a mile or two on the right, the tall white wagons
and the little black specks of horsemen were just visible, so slowly
advancing that they seemed motionless; and far on the left rose the
broken line of scorched, desolate sand-hills. The vast plain waved with
tall rank grass that swept our horses’ bellies; it swayed to and fro in
billows with the light breeze, and far and near, antelope and wolves were
moving through it, the hairy backs of the latter alternately appearing
and disappearing as they bounded awkwardly along; while the antelope,
with the simple curiosity peculiar to them, would often approach us
closely, their little horns and white throats just visible above the
grass tops as they gazed eagerly at us with their round, black eyes.
I dismounted, and amused myself with firing at the wolves. Henry
attentively scrutinized the surrounding landscape; at length he gave
a shout, and called on me to mount again, pointing in the direction
of the sand-hills. A mile and a half from us, two minute black specks
slowly traversed the face of one of the bare, glaring declivities, and
disappeared behind the summit. “Let us go!” cried Henry, belaboring the
sides of Five Hundred Dollar; and I following in his wake, we galloped
rapidly through the rank grass toward the base of the hills.
From one of their openings descended a deep ravine, widening as it
issued on the prairie. We entered it, and galloping up, in a moment were
surrounded by the bleak sand-hills. Half of their steep sides were bare;
the rest were scantily clothed with clumps of grass and various uncouth
plants, conspicuous among which appeared the reptile-like prickly-pear.
They were gashed with numberless ravines; and as the sky had suddenly
darkened and a cold gusty wind arisen, the strange shrubs and the
dreary hills looked doubly wild and desolate. But Henry’s face was all
eagerness. He tore off a little hair from the piece of buffalo robe
under his saddle, and threw it up, to show the course of the wind. It
blew directly before us. The game were therefore to windward, and it was
necessary to make our best speed to get round them.
We scrambled from this ravine, and galloping away through the hollows,
soon found another, winding like a snake among the hills, and so deep
that it completely concealed us. We rode up the bottom of it, glancing
through the shrubbery at its edge, till Henry abruptly jerked his rein
and slid out of his saddle. Full a quarter of a mile distant, on the
outline of the farthest hill, a long procession of buffalo were walking,
in Indian file, with the utmost gravity and deliberation; then more
appeared, clambering from a hollow not far off, and ascending, one behind
the other, the grassy slope of another hill; then a shaggy head and a
pair of short, broken horns appeared, issuing out of a ravine close at
hand, and with a slow, stately step, one by one, the enormous brutes came
into view, taking their way across the valley, wholly unconscious of an
enemy. In a moment Henry was worming his way, lying flat on the ground,
through grass and prickly-pears, toward his unsuspecting victims. He
had with him both my rifle and his own. He was soon out of sight, and
still the buffalo kept issuing into the valley. For a long time all was
silent; I sat holding his horse, and wondering what he was about, when
suddenly, in rapid succession, came the sharp reports of the two rifles,
and the whole line of buffalo, quickening their pace into a clumsy trot,
gradually disappeared over the ridge of the hill. Henry rose to his feet,
and stood looking after them.
“You have missed them,” said I.
“Yes,” said Henry; “let us go.” He descended into the ravine, loaded the
rifles, and mounted his horse.
We rode up the hill after the buffalo. The herd was out of sight when
we reached the top, but lying on the grass not far off was one quite
lifeless, and another violently struggling in the death agony.
“You see I miss him!” remarked Henry. He had fired from a distance of
more than a hundred and fifty yards, and both balls had passed through
the lungs—the true mark in shooting buffalo.
The darkness increased, and a driving storm came on. Tying our
horses to the horns of the victims, Henry began the bloody work of
dissection, slashing away with the science of a connoisseur, while I
vainly endeavored to imitate him. Old Hendrick recoiled with horror and
indignation when I endeavored to tie the meat to the strings of rawhide,
always carried for this purpose, dangling at the back of the saddle.
After some difficulty we overcame his scruples; and heavily burdened with
the more eligible portions of the buffalo, we set out on our return.
Scarcely had we emerged from the labyrinth of gorges and ravines, and
issued upon the open prairie, when the pricking sleet came driving, gust
upon gust, directly in our faces. It was strangely dark, though wanting
still an hour of sunset. The freezing storm soon penetrated to the skin,
but the uneasy trot of our heavy-gaited horses kept us warm enough, as
we forced them unwillingly in the teeth of the sleet and rain by the
powerful suasion of our Indian whips. The prairie in this place was hard
and level. A flourishing colony of prairie dogs had burrowed into it
in every direction, and the little mounds of fresh earth around their
holes were about as numerous as the hills in a cornfield; but not a yelp
was to be heard; not the nose of a single citizen was visible; all had
retired to the depths of their burrows, and we envied them their dry and
comfortable habitations. An hour’s hard riding showed us our tent dimly
looming through the storm, one side puffed out by the force of the wind,
and the other collapsed in proportion, while the disconsolate horses
stood shivering close around, and the wind kept up a dismal whistling in
the boughs of three old, half-dead trees above. Shaw, like a patriarch,
sat on his saddle in the entrance, with a pipe in his mouth and his arms
folded, contemplating with cool satisfaction the piles of meat that we
flung on the ground before him. A dark and dreary night succeeded; but
the sun rose with a heat so sultry and languid that the captain excused
himself on that account from waylaying an old buffalo bull, who with
stupid gravity was walking over the prairie to drink at the river. So
much for the climate of the Platte!
AN UNSUCCESSFUL HUNT
But it was not the weather alone that had produced this sudden abatement
of the sportsmanlike zeal which the captain had always professed. He had
been out on the afternoon before, together with several members of his
party; but their hunting was attended with no other result than the loss
of one of their best horses, severely injured by Sorel in vainly chasing
a wounded bull. The captain, whose ideas of hard riding were all derived
from transatlantic sources, expressed the utmost amazement at the feats
of Sorel, who went leaping ravines and dashing at full speed up and down
the sides of precipitous hills, lashing his horse with the recklessness
of a Rocky Mountain rider. Unfortunately for the poor animal, he was the
property of R., against whom Sorel entertained an unbounded aversion. The
captain himself, it seemed, had also attempted to “run” a buffalo, but
though a good and practiced horseman, he had soon given over the attempt,
being astonished and utterly disgusted at the nature of the ground he was
required to ride over.
Nothing unusual occurred on that day; but on the following morning Henry
Chatillon, looking over the ocean-like expanse, saw near the foot of the
distant hills something that looked like a band of buffalo. He was not
sure, he said, but at all events, if they were buffalo there was a fine
chance for a race. Shaw and I at once determined to try the speed of our
horses.
“Come, captain; we’ll see which can ride hardest, a Yankee or an
Irishman.”
But the captain maintained a grave and austere countenance. He mounted
his led horse, however, though very slowly, and we set out at a trot. The
game appeared about three miles distant. As we proceeded, the captain
made various remarks of doubt and indecision, and at length declared he
would have nothing to do with such a breakneck business; protesting that
he had ridden plenty of steeple-chases in his day, but he never knew what
riding was till he found himself behind a band of buffalo the day before
yesterday. “I am convinced,” said the captain, “that ‘running’ is out of
the question. Take my advice now and don’t attempt it. It’s dangerous,
and of no use at all.”
“Then why did you come out with us? What do you mean to do?”
“I shall ‘approach,’” replied the captain.
“You don’t mean to ‘approach’ with your pistols, do you? We have all of
us left our rifles in the wagons.”
The captain seemed staggered at the suggestion. In his characteristic
indecision, at setting out, pistols, rifles, “running,” and “approaching”
were mingled in an inextricable medley in his brain. He trotted on in
silence between us for a while; but at length he dropped behind, and
slowly walked his horse back to rejoin the party. Shaw and I kept on;
when lo! as we advanced, the band of buffalo were transformed into
certain clumps of tall bushes, dotting the prairie for a considerable
distance. At this ludicrous termination of our chase, we followed
the example of our late ally and turned back toward the party. We
were skirting the brink of a deep ravine, when we saw Henry and the
broad-chested pony coming toward us at a gallop.
“Here’s old Papin and Frederic, down from Fort Laramie!” shouted Henry,
long before he came up. We had for some days expected this encounter.
Papin was the _bourgeois_ of Fort Laramie. He had come down the river
with the buffalo robes and the beaver, the produce of the last winter’s
trading. I had among our baggage a letter which I wished to commit to
their hands; so, requesting Henry to detain the boats if he could until
my return, I set out after the wagons. They were about four miles in
advance. In half an hour I overtook them, got the letter, trotted back
upon the trail, and looking carefully as I rode, saw a patch of broken,
storm-blasted trees, and moving near them some little black specks like
men and horses. Arriving at the place, I found a strange assembly. The
boats, eleven in number, deep-laden with the skins, hugged close to
the shore to escape being borne down by the swift current. The rowers,
swarthy, ignoble Mexicans, turned their brutish faces upward to look as
I reached the bank. Papin sat in the middle of one of the boats upon the
canvas covering that protected the robes. He was a stout, robust fellow,
with a little gray eye that had a peculiarly sly twinkle. “Frederic”
also stretched his tall, rawboned proportions close by the _bourgeois_,
and “mountain-men” completed the group; some lounging in the boats, some
strolling on shore; some attired in gayly painted buffalo robes like
Indian dandies; some with hair saturated with red paint, and beplastered
with glue to their temples; and one bedaubed with vermilion upon his
forehead and each cheek. They were a mongrel race, yet the French blood
seemed to predominate; in a few, indeed, might be seen the black, snaky
eye of the Indian half-breed; and one and all, they seemed to aim at
assimilating themselves to their savage associates.
I shook hands with the _bourgeois_ and delivered the letter; then the
boats swung around into the stream and floated away. They had reason
for haste, for already the voyage from Fort Laramie had occupied a full
month, and the river was growing daily more shallow. Fifty times a
day the boats had been aground; indeed, those who navigate the Platte
invariably spend half their time upon sand-bars. Two of these boats,
the property of private traders, afterward separating from the rest,
got hopelessly involved in the shallows, not very far from the Pawnee
villages, and were soon surrounded by a swarm of the inhabitants. They
carried off everything that they considered valuable, including most of
the robes; and amused themselves by tying up the men left on guard, and
soundly whipping them with sticks.
We encamped that night upon the bank of the river. Among the emigrants
there was an overgrown boy, some eighteen years old, with a head as round
and about as large as a pumpkin, and fever-and-ague fits had dyed his
face of a corresponding color. He wore an old white hat, tied under his
chin with a handkerchief; his body was short and stout, but his legs of
disproportioned and appalling length. I observed him at sunset breasting
the hill with gigantic strides, and standing against the sky on the
summit like a colossal pair of tongs. In a moment after, we heard him
screaming frantically behind the ridge, and nothing doubting that he was
in the clutches of Indians or grizzly bears, some of the party caught up
their rifles and ran to the rescue. His outcries, however, proved but an
ebullition of joyous excitement; he had chased two little wolf pups to
their burrow, and he was on his knees, grubbing away like a dog at the
mouth of the hole, to get at them.
Before morning he caused more serious disquiet in the camp. It was his
turn to hold the middle guard; but no sooner was he called up than he
coolly arranged a pair of saddle-bags under a wagon, laid his head upon
them, closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and fell asleep. The guard on
our side of the camp, thinking it no part of his duty to look after
the cattle of the emigrants, contented himself with watching our own
horses and mules; the wolves, he said, were unusually noisy; but still
no mischief was anticipated, until the sun rose, and not a hoof or horn
was in sight! The cattle were gone! While Tom was quietly slumbering, the
wolves had driven them away.
Then we reaped the fruits of R.’s precious plan of traveling in company
with emigrants. To leave them in their distress was not to be thought
of, and we felt bound to wait until the cattle could be searched for,
and, if possible, recovered. But the reader may be curious to know
what punishment awaited the faithless Tom. By the wholesome law of
the prairie, he who falls asleep on guard is condemned to walk all
day, leading his horse by the bridle, and we found much fault with
our companions for not enforcing such a sentence on the offender.
Nevertheless, had he been of our own party, I have no doubt he would
in like manner have escaped scot-free. But the emigrants went further
than mere forbearance; they decreed that since Tom couldn’t stand guard
without falling asleep, he shouldn’t stand guard at all, and henceforward
his slumbers were unbroken. Establishing such a premium on drowsiness
could have no very beneficial effect upon the vigilance of our sentinels;
for it is far from agreeable, after riding from sunrise to sunset, to
feel your slumbers interrupted by the butt of a rifle nudging your side,
and a sleepy voice growling in your ear that you must get up, to shiver
and freeze for three weary hours at midnight.
LOST ON THE GREAT PLAINS
“Buffalo! buffalo!” It was but a grim old bull, roaming the prairie by
himself in misanthropic seclusion; but there might be more behind the
hills. Dreading the monotony and languor of the camp, Shaw and I saddled
our horses, buckled our holsters in their places, and set out with Henry
Chatillon in search of the game. Henry, not intending to take part in the
chase, but merely conducting us, carried his rifle with him, while we
left ours behind as incumbrances. We rode for some five or six miles, and
saw no living thing but wolves, snakes, and prairie dogs.
“This won’t do at all,” said Shaw.
“What won’t do?”
“There’s no wood about here to make a litter for the wounded man; I have
an idea that one of us will need something of the sort before the day is
over.”
There was some foundation for such an apprehension, for the ground was
none of the best for a race, and grew worse continually as we proceeded;
indeed it soon became desperately bad, consisting of abrupt hills and
deep hollows, cut by frequent ravines not easy to pass. At length, a mile
in advance, we saw a band of bulls. Some were scattered grazing over a
green declivity, while the rest were crowded more densely together in
the wide hollow below. Making a circuit to keep out of sight, we rode
toward them until we ascended a hill within a furlong of them, beyond
which nothing intervened that could possibly screen us from their view.
We dismounted behind the ridge just out of sight, drew our saddle-girths,
examined our pistols, and mounting again rode over the hill and descended
at a canter toward them, bending close to our horses’ necks. Instantly
they took the alarm; those on the hill descended; those below gathered
into a mass, and the whole got in motion, shouldering each other along
at a clumsy gallop. We followed, spurring our horses to full speed; and
as the herd rushed, crowding and trampling in terror through an opening
in the hills, we were close at their heels, half suffocated by the
clouds of dust. But as we drew near, their alarm and speed increased;
our horses showed signs of the utmost fear, bounding violently aside as
we approached, and refusing to enter among the herd. The buffalo now
broke into several small bodies, scampering over the hills in different
directions, and I lost sight of Shaw; neither of us knew where the other
had gone. Old Pontiac ran like a frantic elephant up hill and down hill,
his ponderous hoofs striking the prairie like sledge-hammers. He showed
a curious mixture of eagerness and terror, straining to overtake the
panic-stricken herd, but constantly recoiling in dismay as we drew near.
The fugitives, indeed, offered no very attractive spectacle, with their
enormous size and weight, their shaggy manes and the tattered remnants
of their last winter’s hair covering their backs in irregular shreds
and patches, and flying off in the wind as they ran. At length I urged
my horse close behind a bull, and after trying in vain, by blows and
spurring, to bring him alongside, I shot a bullet into the buffalo from
this disadvantageous position. At the report, Pontiac swerved so much
that I was again thrown a little behind the game. The bullet, entering
too much in the rear, failed to disable the bull, for a buffalo requires
to be shot at particular points or he will certainly escape. The herd ran
up a hill, and I followed in pursuit. As Pontiac rushed headlong down on
the other side, I saw Shaw and Henry descending the hollow on the right
at a leisurely gallop; and in front, the buffalo were just disappearing
behind the crest of the next hill, their short tails erect and their
hoofs twinkling through a cloud of dust.
At that moment I heard Shaw and Henry shouting to me; but the muscles
of a stronger arm than mine could not have checked at once the furious
course of Pontiac, whose mouth was as insensible as leather. Added to
this, I rode him that morning with a common snaffle, having the day
before, for the benefit of my other horse, unbuckled from my bridle the
curb which I ordinarily used. A stronger and hardier brute never trod
the prairie; but the novel sight of the buffalo filled him with terror,
and when at full speed he was almost incontrollable. Gaining the top
of the ridge, I saw nothing of the buffalo; they had all vanished amid
the intricacies of the hills and hollows. Reloading my pistols in the
best way I could, I galloped on until I saw them again scuttling along
at the base of the hill, their panic somewhat abated. Down went old
Pontiac among them, scattering them to the right and left, and then we
had another long chase. About a dozen bulls were before us, scouring
over the hills, rushing down the declivities with tremendous weight and
impetuosity, and then laboring with a weary gallop upward. Still Pontiac,
in spite of spurring and beating, would not close with them. One bull at
length fell a little behind the rest, and by dint of much effort I urged
my horse within six or eight yards of his side. His back was darkened
with sweat, and he was panting heavily, while his tongue lolled out a
foot from his jaws. Gradually I came up abreast of him, urging Pontiac
with leg and rein nearer to his side, when suddenly he did what buffalo
in such circumstances will always do: he slackened his gallop, and
turning toward us with an aspect of mingled rage and distress, lowered
his huge shaggy head for a charge. Pontiac, with a snort, leaped aside
in terror, nearly throwing me to the ground, as I was wholly unprepared
for such an evolution. I raised my pistol in a passion to strike him on
the head, but thinking better of it, fired the bullet after the bull,
who had resumed his flight; then drew rein, and determined to rejoin
my companions. It was high time. The breath blew hard from Pontiac’s
nostrils, and the sweat rolled in big drops down his sides; I myself
felt as if drenched in warm water. Pledging myself (and I redeemed the
pledge) to take my revenge at a future opportunity, I looked round for
some indications to show me where I was, and what course I ought to
pursue. I might as well have looked for landmarks in the midst of the
ocean. How many miles I had run or in what direction, I had no idea; and
around me the prairie was rolling in steep swells and pitches, without a
single distinctive feature to guide me. I had a little compass hung at my
neck; and ignorant that the Platte at this point diverged considerably
from its easterly course, I thought that by keeping to the northward
I should certainly reach it. So I turned and rode about two hours in
that direction. The prairie changed as I advanced, softening away into
easier undulations, but nothing like the Platte appeared, nor any sign
of a human being; the same wild endless expanse lay around me still; and
to all appearance I was as far from my object as ever. I began now to
consider myself in danger of being lost; and therefore, reining in my
horse, summoned the scanty share of woodcraft that I possessed (if that
term be applicable upon the prairie) to extricate me. Looking round, it
occurred to me that the buffalo might prove my best guides. I soon found
one of the paths made by them in their passage to the river; it ran
nearly at right angles to my course; but turning my horse’s head in the
direction it indicated, his freer gait and erected ears assured me that I
was right.
But in the meantime my ride had been by no means a solitary one. The
whole face of the country was dotted far and wide with countless hundreds
of buffalo. They trooped along in files and columns, bulls, cows, and
calves, on the green faces of the declivities in front. They scrambled
away over the hills to the right and left; and far off, the pale blue
swells in the extreme distance were dotted with innumerable specks.
Sometimes I surprised shaggy old bulls grazing alone, or sleeping behind
the ridges I ascended. They would leap up at my approach, stare stupidly
at me through their tangled manes, and then gallop heavily away. The
antelope were very numerous; and as they are always bold when in the
neighborhood of buffalo, they would approach quite near to look at me,
gazing intently with their great round eyes, then suddenly leap aside and
stretch lightly away over the prairie as swiftly as a racehorse. Squalid,
ruffian-like wolves sneaked through the hollows and sandy ravines.
Several times I passed through villages of prairie dogs, who sat, each at
the mouth of his burrow, holding his paws before him in a supplicating
attitude and yelping away most vehemently, energetically whisking his
little tail with every squeaking cry he uttered. Prairie dogs are not
fastidious in their choice of companions; various long, checkered snakes
were sunning themselves in the midst of the village, and demure little
gray owls, with a large white ring around each eye, were perched side by
side with the rightful inhabitants. The prairie teemed with life. Again
and again I looked toward the crowded hillsides, and was sure I saw
horsemen; and riding near, with a mixture of hope and dread, for Indians
were abroad, I found them transformed into a group of buffalo. There was
nothing in human shape amid all this vast congregation of brute forms.
When I turned down the buffalo path, the prairie seemed changed; only
a wolf or two glided past at intervals, like conscious felons, never
looking to the right or left. Being now free from anxiety, I was at
leisure to observe minutely the objects around me; and here, for the
first time, I noticed insects wholly different from any of the varieties
found farther to the eastward. Gaudy butterflies fluttered about my
horse’s head; strangely formed beetles, glittering with metallic luster,
were crawling upon plants that I had never seen before; multitudes of
lizards, too, were darting like lightning over the sand.
I had run to a great distance from the river. It cost me a long ride
on the buffalo path before I saw from the ridge of a sand-hill the pale
surface of the Platte glistening in the midst of its desert valleys, and
the faint outline of the hills beyond waving along the sky. From where I
stood, not a tree nor a bush nor a living thing was visible throughout
the whole extent of the sun-scorched landscape. In half an hour I came
upon the trail, not far from the river; and seeing that the party had not
yet passed, I turned eastward to meet them, old Pontiac’s long, swinging
trot again assuring me that I was right in doing so. Having been slightly
ill on leaving camp in the morning, six or seven hours of rough riding
had fatigued me extremely. I soon stopped, therefore; flung my saddle on
the ground, and with my head resting on it, and my horse’s trail-rope
tied loosely to my arm, lay waiting the arrival of the party, speculating
meanwhile on the extent of the injuries Pontiac had received. At length
the white wagon coverings rose from the verge of the plain. By a singular
coincidence, almost at the same moment two horsemen appeared coming down
from the hills. They were Shaw and Henry, who had searched for me a while
in the morning, but well knowing the futility of the attempt in such a
broken country, had placed themselves on the top of the highest hill they
could find, and picketing their horses near them, as a signal to me, had
lain down and fallen asleep.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biographical and Historical Note.= Francis Parkman (1823-1893)
was an American writer, born in Boston, where his father was a
well-known clergyman. At the age of eight years he went to live
with his grandfather on a wild tract of land near Boston, and there
developed the fondness for outdoor life which is shown in all his
writings. Parkman was graduated from Harvard College in 1844, and
from the Harvard Law School two years later, but he never practiced
law. The journey related in his book, _The Oregon Trail_, from which
“The Buffalo” is taken, was made immediately after Parkman completed
his law studies. His purpose was to gain an intimate knowledge of
Indian life. From the Missouri River two great overland routes led
across the country to the Pacific. One, the Santa Fe trail, carried
a large overland trade with northern Mexico and southern California;
the other, the Oregon trail, was commonly used by emigrants on their
way to the northwest coast. Parkman’s journey occupied about five
months. He left Boston in April, 1846, accompanied by Quincy Adams
Shaw, a relative, and went first to St. Louis, the trip by railroad,
steamboat, and stage requiring about two weeks. Here they engaged two
guides and procured an outfit, including a supply of presents for
the Indians. After eight days on a river steamboat they arrived at
Independence, Missouri, where the land journey began.
In a newspaper item of March tenth, 1919, the following appeared:
“For the first time in half a century bisons are on sale in Omaha.
A herd of thirty-three, raised on a Colorado ranch, arrived at the
stock yards yesterday. The meat will sell for around $1.00 a pound.”
=Discussion.= 1. Locate on a map the Platte River and the region
mentioned in the story. 2. What picture do you see as you read
the fourth paragraph? 3. Briefly relate the incident of the first
afternoon’s hunting trip. 4. What objections to traveling with
emigrants did the party find? 5. What do you learn of prairie animals
from this story? 6. Read the description of the prairie dog found on
page 12; why is this description a good one? 7. What insects that
differ from those found farther east does the author mention? 8.
Point out lines that show Parkman to be excellent in description. 9.
Compare travel at the time the author made this trip with travel at
the present time. 10. Pronounce the following: alternately; minute;
reptile; patriarch; inextricably; ally; robust; squalid; pumpkin;
lolled; applicable; vehemently; buttes; gorges; circuit.
=Phrases=
(_The numbers in heavy type refer to pages; numbers in light type to
lines._)
Transcriber’s Note: This notation has not been reproduced in this
e-text. The first number refers to the page, the second to the line.
However, as the original pages and lines have not been preserved in
this text version, you will need to search for words or phrases (or
use the HTML version, in which links are provided to each phrase).
exaggerated appreciation, 1, 7
attentively scrutinized, 2, 11
in his wake, 2, 17
issued on the prairie, 2, 20
gashed with numberless ravines, 2, 24
doubly wild, 2, 27
to windward, 2, 30
Indian file, 3, 1
worming his way, 3, 8
science of a connoisseur, 3, 30
overcame his scruples, 3, 35
more eligible portions, 3, 35
in the teeth of the sleet, 4, 5
collapsed in proportion, 4, 15
transatlantic sources, 4, 34
an unbounded aversion, 5, 3
to “run” a buffalo, 5, 4
I shall “approach,” 5, 29
staggered at the suggestion, 5, 32
characteristic indecision, 5, 32
_bourgeois_ of Fort Laramie, 6, 9
rawboned proportions, 6, 26
assimilating themselves, 6, 35
involved in the shallows, 7, 8
disproportioned and appalling, 7, 19
breasting the hill, 7, 20
hold the middle guard, 7, 31
reaped the fruits, 8, 4
precious plan, 8, 4
wholesome law of the prairie, 8, 9
such an apprehension, 9, 3
drew our saddle-girths, 9, 14
laboring with a weary gallop, 10, 28
dint of much effort, 10, 31
high time, 11, 7
supplicating attitude, 12, 15
rightful inhabitants, 12, 21
vast congregation, 12, 26
OLD EPHRAIM, THE GRIZZLY BEAR
THEODORE ROOSEVELT
VARIETIES OF BEAR
The king of the game beasts of temperate North America, because the most
dangerous to the hunter, is the grizzly bear; known to the few remaining
old-time trappers of the Rockies and the Great Plains, sometimes as “Old
Ephraim” and sometimes as “Moccasin Joe”—the last in allusion to his
queer, half-human footprints, which look as if made by some misshapen
giant, walking in moccasins.
Bear vary greatly in size and color, no less than in temper and habits.
Old hunters speak much of them in their endless talks over the camp-fires
and in the snow-bound winter huts. They insist on many species; not
merely the black and the grizzly, but the brown, the cinnamon, the gray,
the silver-tip, and others with names known only in certain localities,
such as the range bear, the roach-back, and the smut-face. But, in
spite of popular opinion to the contrary, most old hunters are very
untrustworthy in dealing with points of natural history. They usually
know only so much about any given game animal as will enable them to
kill it. They study its habits solely with this end in view; and once
slain they only examine it to see about its condition and fur. With rare
exceptions they are quite incapable of passing judgment upon questions of
specific identity or difference. When questioned, they not only advance
perfectly impossible theories and facts in support of their views, but
they rarely even agree as to the views themselves. One hunter will assert
that the true grizzly is only found in California, heedless of the fact
that the name was first used by Lewis and Clark as one of the titles
they applied to the large bears of the plains country round the Upper
Missouri, a quarter of a century before the California grizzly was known
to fame. Another hunter will call any big brindled bear a grizzly no
matter where it is found; and he and his companions will dispute by the
hour as to whether a bear of large, but not extreme, size is a grizzly
or a silver-tip. In Oregon the cinnamon bear is a phase of the small
black bear; in Montana it is the plains variety of the large mountain
silver-tip. I have myself seen the skins of two bears killed on the upper
waters of Tongue River; one was that of a male, one of a female, and they
had evidently just mated; yet one was distinctly a “silver-tip” and the
other a “cinnamon.” The skin of one very big bear which I killed in the
Bighorn has proved a standing puzzle to almost all the old hunters to
whom I have shown it; rarely do any two of them agree as to whether it
is a grizzly, a silver-tip, a cinnamon, or a “smut-face.” Any bear with
unusually long hair on the spine and shoulders, especially if killed in
the spring, when the fur is shaggy, is forthwith dubbed a “roach-back.”
The average sporting writer, moreover, joins with the more imaginative
members of the “old hunter” variety in ascribing wildly various traits
to these different bears. One comments on the superior prowess of the
roach-back; the explanation being that a bear in early spring is apt to
be ravenous from hunger. The next insists that the California grizzly is
the only really dangerous bear; while another stoutly maintains that it
does not compare in ferocity with what he calls the “smaller” silver-tip
or cinnamon. And so on, and so on, without end. All of which is mere
nonsense.
Nevertheless, it is no easy task to determine how many species or
varieties of bear actually do exist in the United States, and I cannot
even say without doubt that a very large set of skins and skulls would
not show a nearly complete intergradation between the most widely
separated individuals. However, there are certainly two very distinct
types, which differ almost as widely from each other as a wapiti does
from a mule deer, and which exist in the same localities in most heavily
timbered portions of the Rockies. One is the small black bear, a bear
which will average about two hundred pounds weight, with fine, glossy,
black fur, and the foreclaws but little longer than the hinder ones;
in fact, the hairs of the forepaw often reach to their tips. This bear
is a tree climber. It is the only kind found east of the great plains,
and it is also plentiful in the forest-clad portions of the Rockies,
being common in most heavily timbered tracts throughout the United
States. The other is the grizzly, which weighs three or four times as
much as the black, and has a pelt of coarse hair, which is in color
gray, grizzled, or brown of various shades. It is not a tree climber,
and the foreclaws are very long, much longer than the hinder ones. It
is found from the great plains west of the Mississippi to the Pacific
coast. This bear inhabits indifferently lowland and mountain; the deep
woods and the barren plains where the only cover is the stunted growth
fringing the streams. These two types are very distinct in every way,
and their differences are not at all dependent upon mere geographical
considerations; for they are often found in the same district. Thus I
found them both in the Bighorn Mountains, each type being in extreme
form, while the specimens I shot showed no trace of intergradation.
The huge, grizzled, long-clawed beast, and its little, glossy-coated,
short-clawed, tree-climbing brother roamed over exactly the same country
in those mountains; but they were as distinct in habits, and mixed as
little together as moose and caribou.
On the other hand, when a sufficient number of bears from widely
separated regions are examined, the various distinguishing marks are
found to be inconstant and to show a tendency—exactly how strong I cannot
say—to fade into one another. The differentiation of the two species
seems to be as yet scarcely completed; there are more or less imperfect
connecting links, and as regards the grizzly it almost seems as if the
specific characters were still unstable. In the far Northwest, in the
basin of the Columbia, the “black” bear is as often brown as any other
color; and I have seen the skins of two cubs, one black and one brown,
which were shot when following the same dam. When these brown bears
have coarser hair than usual their skins are with difficulty to be
distinguished from those of certain varieties of the grizzly. Moreover,
all bears vary greatly in size; and I have seen the bodies of very large
black or brown bears with short foreclaws which were fully as heavy as,
or perhaps heavier than, some small but full-grown grizzlies with long
foreclaws. These very large bears with short claws are very reluctant to
climb a tree; and are almost as clumsy about it as is a young grizzly.
Among the grizzlies the fur varies much in color and texture even among
bears of the same locality; it is of course richest in the deep forest,
while the bears of the dry plains and mountains are of a lighter, more
washed-out hue.
A full-grown grizzly will usually weigh from five to seven hundred
pounds; but exceptional individuals undoubtedly reach more than twelve
hundredweight. The California bears are said to be much the largest.
This I think is so, but I cannot say it with certainty—at any rate, I
have examined several skins of full-grown Californian bears which were
no larger than those of many I have seen from the northern Rockies. The
Alaskan bears, particularly those of the peninsula, are even bigger
beasts; the skin of one which I saw in the possession of Mr. Webster,
the taxidermist, was a good deal larger than the average polar bear
skin; and the animal when alive, if in good condition, could hardly have
weighed less than 1400 pounds. Bears vary wonderfully in weight, even to
the extent of becoming half as heavy again, according as they are fat or
lean; in this respect they are more like hogs than like any other animals.
HABITS OF BEAR
The grizzly is now chiefly a beast of the high hills and heavy timber;
but this is merely because he has learned that he must rely on cover to
guard him from man, and has forsaken the open ground accordingly. In old
days, and in one or two very out-of-the-way places almost to the present
time, he wandered at will over the plains. It is only the wariness born
of fear which nowadays causes him to cling to the thick brush of the
large river bottoms throughout the plains country. When there were no
rifle-bearing hunters in the land, to harass him and make him afraid,
he roved hither and thither at will, in burly self-confidence. Then he
cared little for cover, unless as a weather-break, or because it happened
to contain food he liked. If the humor seized him he would roam for
days over the rolling or broken prairie, searching for roots, digging
up gophers, or perhaps following the great buffalo herds either to prey
on some unwary straggler which he was able to catch at a disadvantage
in a washout, or else to feast on the carcasses of those which died by
accident. Old hunters, survivors of the long-vanished ages when the
vast herds thronged the high plains and were followed by the wild red
tribes, and by bands of whites who were scarcely less savage, have told
me that they often met bears under such circumstances; and these bears
were accustomed to sleep in a patch of rank sage bush, in the niche of a
washout, or under the lee of a bowlder, seeking their food abroad even in
full daylight. The bears of the Upper Missouri basin—which were so light
in color that the early explorers often alluded to them as gray or even
as “white”—were particularly given to this life in the open. To this day
that close kinsman of the grizzly known as the bear of the barren grounds
continues to lead this same kind of life, in the far north. My friend,
Mr. Rockhill, of Maryland, who was the first white man to explore eastern
Tibet, describes the large grizzly-like bear of those desolate uplands as
having similar habits.
However, the grizzly is a shrewd beast and shows the usual bear-like
capacity for adapting himself to changed conditions. He has in most
places become a cover-haunting animal, sly in his ways, wary to a degree,
and clinging to the shelter of the deepest forests in the mountains and
of the most tangled thickets in the plains. Hence he has held his own
far better than such game as the bison and elk. He is much less common
than formerly, but he is still to be found throughout most of his former
range; save, of course, in the immediate neighborhood of the large towns.
In most places the grizzly hibernates, or, as old hunters say, “holes
up,” during the cold season, precisely as does the black bear; but, as
with the latter species, those animals which live farthest south spend
the whole year abroad in mild seasons. The grizzly rarely chooses that
favorite den of his little black brother, a hollow tree or log, for
his winter sleep, seeking or making some cavernous hole in the ground
instead. The hole is sometimes in a slight hillock in a river bottom,
but more often on a hill-side, and may be either shallow or deep. In
the mountains it is generally a natural cave in the rock, but among the
foot-hills and on the plains the bear usually has to take some hollow or
opening, and then fashion it into a burrow to his liking with his big
digging claws.
Before the cold weather sets in, the bear begins to grow restless, and to
roam about seeking for a good place in which to hole up. One will often
try and abandon several caves or partially dug-out burrows in succession
before finding a place to its taste. It always endeavors to choose a spot
where there is little chance of discovery or molestation, taking great
care to avoid leaving too evident trace of its work. Hence it is not
often that the dens are found.
Once in its den the bear passes the cold months in lethargic sleep; yet,
in all but the coldest weather, and sometimes even then, its slumber is
but light, and if disturbed it will promptly leave its den, prepared for
fight or flight as the occasion may require. Many times when a hunter
has stumbled on the winter resting-place of a bear and has left it, as
he thought, without his presence being discovered, he has returned only
to find that the crafty old fellow was aware of the danger all the time,
and sneaked off as soon as the coast was clear. But in very cold weather
hibernating bears can hardly be wakened from their torpid lethargy.
The length of time a bear stays in its den depends of course upon the
severity of the season and the latitude and altitude of the country.
When the bear first leaves its den the fur is in very fine order, but it
speedily becomes thin and poor, and does not recover its condition until
the fall. Sometimes the bear does not betray any great hunger for a few
days after its appearance; but in a short while it becomes ravenous.
During the early spring, when the woods are still entirely barren and
lifeless, while the snow yet lies in deep drifts, the lean, hungry brute,
both maddened and weakened by long fasting, is more of a flesh eater than
at any other time. It is at this period that it is most apt to turn true
beast of prey, and show its prowess either at the expense of the wild
game, or of the flocks of the settler and the herds of the ranchman.
Bears are very capricious in this respect, however. Some are confirmed
game and cattle killers; others are not; while yet others either are or
are not, accordingly as the freak seizes them, and their ravages vary
almost unaccountably, both with the season and the locality.
AN EXCITING BEAR HUNT
I spent much of the fall of 1889 hunting on the head-waters of the Salmon
and Snake in Idaho, and along the Montana boundary line from the Big Hole
Basin and the head of the Wisdom River to the neighborhood of Red Rock
Pass and to the north and west of Henry’s Lake. During the last fortnight
my companion was the old mountain man named Griffeth or Griffin—I cannot
tell which, as he was always called either “Hank” or “Griff.” He was
a crabbedly honest old fellow, and a very skillful hunter; but he was
worn out with age and rheumatism, and his temper had failed even faster
than his bodily strength. He showed me a greater variety of game than
I had ever seen before in so short a time; nor did I ever before or
after make so successful a hunt. But he was an exceedingly disagreeable
companion on account of his surly, moody ways. I generally had to get
up first, to kindle the fire and make ready breakfast, and he was very
quarrelsome. Finally, during my absence from camp one day, while not very
far from Red Rock Pass, he found my whiskey-flask, which I kept purely
for emergencies, and drank all the contents. When I came back he was
quite drunk. This was unbearable, and after some high words I left him,
and struck off homeward through the woods on my own account. We had with
us four pack and saddle horses; and of these I took a very intelligent
and gentle little bronco mare, which possessed the invaluable trait of
always staying near camp, even when not hobbled. I was not hampered with
much of an outfit, having only my buffalo sleeping-bag, a fur coat,
and my washing-kit, with a couple of spare pairs of socks and some
handkerchiefs. A frying-pan, some salt, flour, baking-powder, a small
chunk of salt pork, and a hatchet made up a light pack, which, with the
bedding, I fastened across the stock saddle by means of a rope and a
spare packing cinch. My cartridges and knife were in my belt; my compass
and matches, as always, in my pocket. I walked, while the little mare
followed almost like a dog, often without my having to hold the lariat
which served as halter.
The country was for the most part fairly open, as I kept near the
foot-hills where glades and little prairies broke the pine forest. The
trees were of small size. There was no regular trail, but the course was
easy to keep, and I had no trouble of any kind save on the second day.
That afternoon I was following a stream which at last “canyoned up”—that
is, sank to the bottom of a canyon-like ravine impassable for a horse.
I started up a side valley, intending to cross from its head coulies to
those of another valley which would lead in below the canyon.
However, I got enmeshed in the tangle of winding valleys at the foot of
the steep mountains, and as dusk was coming on I halted and camped in a
little open spot by the side of a small, noisy brook, with crystal water.
The place was carpeted with soft, wet, green moss, dotted red with the
kinnikinnic berries, and at its edge, under the trees where the ground
was dry, I threw down the buffalo bed on the mat of sweet-smelling pine
needles. Making camp took but a moment. I opened the pack, tossed the
bedding on a smooth spot, knee-haltered the little mare, dragged up a few
dry logs, and then strolled off, rifle on shoulder, through the frosty
gloaming, to see if I could pick up a grouse for supper.
For half a mile I walked quickly and silently over the pine needles,
across a succession of slight ridges separated by narrow, shallow
valleys. The forest here was composed of lodge-pole pines, which on
the ridges grew close together, with tall slender trunks, while in the
valleys the growth was more open. Though the sun was behind the mountains
there was yet plenty of light by which to shoot, but it was fading
rapidly.
At last, as I was thinking of turning toward camp, I stole up to the
crest of one of the ridges, and looked over into the valley some sixty
yards off. Immediately I caught the loom of some large, dark object; and
another glance showed me a big grizzly walking slowly off with his head
down. He was quartering to me, and I fired into his flank, the bullet,
as I afterward found, ranging forward and piercing one lung. At the shot
he uttered a loud, moaning grunt and plunged forward at a heavy gallop,
while I raced obliquely down the hill to cut him off. After going a
few hundred feet he reached a laurel thicket, some thirty yards broad,
and two or three times as long, which he did not leave. I ran up to the
edge and there halted, not liking to venture into the mass of twisted,
close-growing stems and glossy foliage. Moreover, as I halted, I heard
him utter a peculiar, savage kind of whine from the heart of the brush.
Accordingly, I began to skirt the edge, standing on tiptoe and gazing
earnestly to see if I could not catch a glimpse of his hide. When I
was at the narrowest part of the thicket, he suddenly left it directly
opposite, and then wheeled and stood broadside to me on the hill-side, a
little above. He turned his head stiffly toward me; scarlet strings of
froth hung from his lips; his eyes burned like embers in the gloom.
I held true, aiming behind the shoulder, and my bullet shattered the
point or lower end of his heart, taking out a big nick. Instantly the
great bear turned with a harsh roar of fury and challenge, blowing the
bloody foam from his mouth, so that I saw the gleam of his white fangs;
and then he charged straight at me, crashing and bounding through the
laurel bushes, so that it was hard to aim. I waited until he came to a
fallen tree, raking him as he topped it with a ball which entered his
chest and went through the cavity of his body, but he neither swerved
nor flinched, and at the moment I did not know that I had struck him. He
came steadily on, and in another second was almost upon me. I fired for
his forehead, but my bullet went low, entering his open mouth, smashing
his lower jaw and going into the neck. I leaped to one side almost as I
pulled trigger; and through the hanging smoke the first thing I saw was
his paw as he made a vicious side blow at me. The rush of his charge
carried him past. As he struck he lurched forward, leaving a pool of
bright blood where his muzzle hit the ground; but he recovered himself
and made two or three jumps onward, while I hurriedly jammed a couple of
cartridges into the magazine, my rifle holding only four, all of which I
had fired. Then he tried to pull up, but as he did so his muscles seemed
suddenly to give way, his head drooped, and he rolled over and over like
a shot rabbit. Each of my first three bullets had inflicted a mortal
wound.
It was already twilight, and I merely opened the carcass, and then
trotted back to camp. Next morning I returned and with much labor took
off the skin. The fur was very fine, the animal being in excellent trim,
and unusually bright-colored. Unfortunately, in packing it out I lost the
skull, and had to supply its place with one of plaster. The beauty of the
trophy, and the memory of the circumstances under which I procured it,
make me value it perhaps more highly than any other in my house.
This is the only instance in which I have been regularly charged by a
grizzly. On the whole, the danger of hunting these great bears has been
much exaggerated. At the beginning of the present century, when white
hunters first encountered the grizzly, he was doubtless an exceedingly
savage beast, prone to attack without provocation, and a redoubtable foe
to persons armed with the clumsy, small-bore, muzzle-loading rifles of
the day. But at present, bitter experience has taught him caution. He
has been hunted for sport, and hunted for his pelt, and hunted for the
bounty, and hunted as a dangerous enemy to stock, until, save in the very
wildest districts, he has learned to be more wary than a deer, and to
avoid man’s presence almost as carefully as the most timid kind of game.
Except in rare cases he will not attack of his own accord, and, as a
rule, even when wounded his object is escape rather than battle.
Still, when fairly brought to bay, or when moved by a sudden fit of
ungovernable anger, the grizzly is beyond peradventure a very dangerous
antagonist. The first shot, if taken at a bear a good distance off and
previously unwounded and unharried, is not usually fraught with much
danger, the startled animal being at the outset bent merely on flight.
It is always hazardous, however, to track a wounded and worried grizzly
into thick cover, and the man who habitually follows and kills this chief
of American game in dense timber, never abandoning the bloody trail
whithersoever it leads, must show no small degree of skill and hardihood,
and must not too closely count the risk to life or limb. Bears differ
widely in temper, and occasionally one may be found who will not show
fight, no matter how much he is bullied; but, as a rule, a hunter must be
cautious in meddling with a wounded animal which has retreated into a
dense thicket, and has been once or twice roused; and such a beast, when
it does turn, will usually charge again and again, and fight to the last
with unconquerable ferocity. The short distance at which the bear can be
seen through the underbrush, the fury of its charge, and its tenacity of
life make it necessary for the hunter on such occasions to have steady
nerves and a fairly quick and accurate aim. It is always well to have
two men in following a wounded bear under such conditions. This is not
necessary, however, and a good hunter, rather than lose his quarry, will,
under ordinary circumstances, follow and attack it, no matter how tangled
the fastness in which it has sought refuge; but he must act warily and
with the utmost caution and resolution, if he wishes to escape a terrible
and probably fatal mauling. An experienced hunter is rarely rash, and
never heedless; he will not, when alone, follow a wounded bear into a
thicket, if by the exercise of patience, skill, and knowledge of the
game’s habits he can avoid the necessity; but it is idle to talk of the
feat as something which ought in no case to be attempted. While danger
ought never to be needlessly incurred, it is yet true that the keenest
zest in sport comes from its presence, and from the consequent exercise
of the qualities necessary to overcome it. The most thrilling moments of
an American hunter’s life are those in which, with every sense on the
alert, and with nerves strung to the highest point, he is following alone
into the heart of its forest fastness the fresh and bloody footprints of
an angered grizzly; and no other triumph of American hunting can compare
with the victory to be thus gained.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Theodore Roosevelt (1858-1919), twenty-sixth President
of the United States, was born in New York City. As a boy he was of
frail physique, but overcame this handicap by systematic exercise
and outdoor life. He was always interested in natural history, and
at the age of fourteen, when he accompanied his father on a tour up
the Nile, he made a collection of the Egyptian birds to be found in
the Nile valley. This collection is now in the Smithsonian Museum,
Washington, D. C. In 1884, Roosevelt bought two cattle ranches near
Medora, in North Dakota, where for two years he lived and entered
actively into western life and spirit.
In 1909, at the close of his presidency, he conducted an expedition
to Africa, to make a collection of tropical animals and plants.
Expert naturalists accompanied the party, which remained in the
wilderness for a year, and returned with a collection which
scientists pronounce of unusual value for students of natural
history. Most of the specimens are now in the Smithsonian Museum.
Some of the books in which he has recorded his hunting experiences
are: _African Game Trails_, _The Deer Family_, and _The Wilderness
Hunter_, from which “Old Ephraim, the Grizzly Bear” is taken.
Mr. Roosevelt’s last work as an explorer was his journey to South
America. On this journey he penetrated wildernesses rarely explored
by white men, and made many discoveries in the field of South
American animal and vegetable life and in geography.
The vigorous personality of this great American found expression not
only in the life of men and their political and social relations, but
also in his love of the great outdoors and the unbeaten tracks where
life is an adventure, primitive in surroundings, such a life as was
lived by Sir Walter Raleigh and other great seamen and explorers who
were not content with the tameness of the commonplace.
=Discussion.= 1. By what characteristics may the grizzly generally be
distinguished from the black bear? 2. Which of these characteristics
is most fixed? 3. What change has taken place in the habits of the
North American grizzly? 4. Account for this change. 5. Locate the
region in which the author was hunting at the time of the adventure
he narrates. 6. Describe his outfit and tell what must be considered
in providing such a hunting outfit. 7. What moments in the encounter
with the grizzly were most exciting and dangerous? 8. What qualities
must a hunter of such game possess? 9. What conclusions does the
author give as a result of his experience in hunting “this chief of
American game”? 10. What impression of the author do you gain from
this story? 11. Pronounce: species; wariness; harass; lethargic;
capricious; canyon; obliquely; severity; misshapen.
=Phrases=
popular opinion, 15, 14
natural history, 15, 16
specific identity, 15, 21
standing puzzle, 16, 9
superior prowess, 16, 17
stoutly maintains, 16, 21
widely separated individuals, 16, 28
inhabits indifferently, 17, 7
in extreme form, 17, 14
imperfect connecting links, 17, 25
rely on cover, 18, 23
wariness born of fear, 18, 26
lee of a bowlder, 19, 9
wary to a degree, 19, 21
held his own, 19, 23
crabbedly honest, 21, 11
quartering to me, 22, 34
hunted for the bounty, 24, 17
brought to bay, 24, 24
beyond peradventure, 24, 25
MOTI GUJ—MUTINEER
RUDYARD KIPLING
DEESA’S PLAN FOR A VACATION
Once upon a time there was a coffee-planter in India who wished to
clear some forest land for coffee-planting. When he had cut down all
the trees and burned the underwood, the stumps still remained. Dynamite
is expensive and slow fire slow. The happy medium for stump-clearing is
the lord of all beasts, who is the elephant. He will either push the
stump out of the ground with his tusks, if he has any, or drag it out
with ropes. The planter, therefore, hired elephants by ones and twos and
threes, and fell to work. The very best of all the elephants belonged to
the very worst of all the drivers or mahouts; and this superior beast’s
name was Moti Guj. He was the absolute property of his mahout, which
would never have been the case under native rule: for Moti Guj was a
creature to be desired by kings, and his name, being translated, meant
the Pearl Elephant. Because the British government was in the land,
Deesa, the mahout, enjoyed his property undisturbed. He was dissipated.
When he had made much money through the strength of his elephant, he
would get extremely drunk and give Moti Guj a beating with a tent-peg
over the tender nails of the forefeet. Moti Guj never trampled the life
out of Deesa on these occasions, for he knew that after the beating
was over, Deesa would embrace his trunk and weep and call him his love
and his life and the liver of his soul, and give him some liquor. Moti
Guj was very fond of liquor—arrack for choice, though he would drink
palm-tree toddy if nothing better offered. Then Deesa would go to sleep
between Moti Guj’s forefeet, and as Deesa generally chose the middle of
the public road, and as Moti Guj mounted guard over him, and would not
permit horse, foot, or cart to pass by, traffic was congested till Deesa
saw fit to wake up.
There was no sleeping in the daytime on the planter’s clearing: the
wages were too high to risk. Deesa sat on Moti Guj’s neck and gave him
orders, while Moti Guj rooted up the stumps—for he owned a magnificent
pair of tusks; or pulled at the end of a rope—for he had a magnificent
pair of shoulders—while Deesa kicked him behind the ears and said he
was the king of elephants. At evening time Moti Guj would wash down his
three hundred pounds’ weight of green food with a quart of arrack, and
Deesa would take a share, and sing songs between Moti Guj’s legs till it
was time to go to bed. Once a week Deesa led Moti Guj down to the river,
and Moti Guj lay on his side luxuriously in the shallows, while Deesa
went over him with a coir-swab and a brick. Moti Guj never mistook the
pounding blow of the latter for the smack of the former that warned him
to get up and turn over on the other side. Then Deesa would look at his
feet and examine his eyes, and turn up the fringes of his mighty ears in
case of sores or budding ophthalmia. After inspection the two would “come
up with a song from the sea,” Moti Guj, all black and shining, weaving a
torn tree branch twelve feet long in his trunk, and Deesa knotting up his
own long wet hair.
It was a peaceful, well-paid life till Deesa felt the return of the
desire to drink deep. He wished for an orgy. The little draughts that led
nowhere were taking the manhood out of him.
He went to the planter, and “My mother’s dead,” said he, weeping.
“She died on the last plantation two months ago, and she died once before
that when you were working for me last year,” said the planter, who knew
something of the ways of nativedom.
“Then it’s my aunt, and she was just the same as a mother to me,” said
Deesa, weeping more than ever. “She has left eighteen small children
entirely without bread, and it is I who must fill their little stomachs,”
said Deesa, beating his head on the floor.
“Who brought you the news?” said the planter.
“The post,” said Deesa.
“There hasn’t been a post here for the past week. Get back to your lines!”
“A devastating sickness has fallen on my village, and all my wives are
dying,” yelled Deesa, really in tears this time.
“Call Chihun, who comes from Deesa’s village,” said the planter. “Chihun,
has this man got a wife?”
“He?” said Chihun. “No. Not a woman of our village would look at him.
They’d sooner marry the elephant.”
Chihun snorted. Deesa wept and bellowed.
“You will get into a difficulty in a minute,” said the planter. “Go back
to your work!”
“Now I will speak Heaven’s truth,” gulped Deesa, with an inspiration. “I
haven’t been drunk for two months. I desire to depart in order to get
properly drunk afar off and distant from this heavenly plantation. Thus I
shall cause no trouble.”
A flickering smile crossed the planter’s face. “Deesa,” said he, “you’ve
spoken the truth, and I’d give you leave on the spot if anything could
be done with Moti Guj while you’re away. You know that he will only obey
your orders.”
“May the light of the heavens live forty thousand years. I shall be
absent but ten little days. After that, upon my faith and honor and
soul, I return. As to the inconsiderable interval, have I the gracious
permission of the heaven-born to call up Moti Guj?”
Permission was granted, and in answer to Deesa’s shrill yell, the mighty
tusker swung out of the shade of a clump of trees where he had been
squirting dust over himself till his master should return.
“Light of my heart, protector of the drunken, mountain of might, give
ear!” said Deesa, standing in front of him.
Moti Guj gave ear, and saluted with his trunk. “I am going away,” said
Deesa.
Moti Guj’s eyes twinkled. He liked jaunts as well as his master. One
could snatch all manner of nice things from the road-side then.
“But you, you fussy old pig, must stay behind and work.”
The twinkle died out as Moti Guj tried to look delighted. He hated
stump-hauling on the plantation. It hurt his teeth.
“I shall be gone for ten days, oh, delectable one! Hold up your near
forefoot and I’ll impress the fact upon it, warty toad of a dried
mud-puddle.” Deesa took a tent-peg and banged Moti Guj ten times on the
nails. Moti Guj grunted and shuffled from foot to foot.
“Ten days,” said Deesa, “you will work and haul and root the trees as
Chihun here shall order you. Take up Chihun and set him on your neck!”
Moti Guj curled the tip of his trunk, Chihun put his foot there, and was
swung on to the neck. Deesa handed Chihun the heavy _ankus_—the iron
elephant goad.
Chihun thumped Moti Guj’s bald head as a paver thumps a curbstone.
Moti Guj trumpeted.
“Be still, hog of the backwoods! Chihun’s your mahout for ten days. And
now bid me good-by, beast after mine own heart. Oh, my lord, my king!
Jewel of all created elephants, lily of the herd, preserve your honored
health; be virtuous. Adieu!”
Moti Guj lapped his trunk round Deesa and swung him into the air twice.
That was his way of bidding him good-by.
“He’ll work now,” said Deesa to the planter. “Have I leave to go?”
The planter nodded, and Deesa dived into the woods. Moti Guj went back to
haul stumps.
THE MUTINY
Chihun was very kind to him, but he felt unhappy and forlorn for all
that. Chihun gave him a ball of spices, and tickled him under the chin,
and Chihun’s little baby cooed to him after work was over, and Chihun’s
wife called him a darling; but Moti Guj was a bachelor by instinct, as
Deesa was. He did not understand the domestic emotions. He wanted the
light of his universe back again—the drink and the drunken slumber, the
savage beatings and the savage caresses.
None the less he worked well, and the planter wondered. Deesa had
wandered along the roads till he met a marriage procession of his own
caste, and, drinking, dancing, and tippling, had drifted with it past all
knowledge of the lapse of time.
The morning of the eleventh day dawned, and there returned no Deesa. Moti
Guj was loosed from his ropes for the daily stint. He swung clear, looked
round, shrugged his shoulders, and began to walk away, as one having
business elsewhere.
“Hi! ho! Come back, you!” shouted Chihun. “Come back and put me on your
neck, misborn mountain! Return, splendor of the hill-sides! Adornment of
all India, heave to, or I’ll bang every toe off your fat forefoot!”
Moti Guj gurgled gently, but did not obey. Chihun ran after him with a
rope and caught him up. Moti Guj put his ears forward, and Chihun knew
what that meant, though he tried to carry it off with high words.
“None of your nonsense with me,” said he. “To your pickets, devil-son!”
“Hrrump!” said Moti Guj, and that was all—that and the forebent ears.
Moti Guj put his hands in his pockets, chewed a branch for a toothpick,
and strolled about the clearing, making fun of the other elephants who
had just set to work.
Chihun reported the state of affairs to the planter, who came out with
a dog-whip and cracked it furiously. Moti Guj paid the white man the
compliment of charging him nearly a quarter of a mile across the clearing
and “Hrrumphing” him into his veranda. Then he stood outside the house,
chuckling to himself and shaking all over with the fun of it as an
elephant will.
“We’ll thrash him,” said the planter. “He shall have the finest thrashing
ever elephant received. Give Kala Nag and Nazim twelve foot of chain
apiece, and tell them to lay on twenty.”
Kala Nag—which means Black Snake—and Nazim were two of the biggest
elephants in the lines, and one of their duties was to administer the
graver punishment, since no man can beat an elephant properly.
They took the whipping-chains and rattled them in their trunks as they
sidled up to Moti Guj, meaning to hustle him between them. Moti Guj had
never, in all his life of thirty-nine years, been whipped, and he did
not intend to begin a new experience. So he waited, waving his head from
right to left, and measuring the precise spot in Kala Nag’s fat side
where a blunt tusk could sink deepest. Kala Nag had no tusks; the chain
was the badge of his authority; but for all that, he swung wide of Moti
Guj at the last minute, and tried to appear as if he had brought the
chain out for amusement. Nazim turned round and went home early. He did
not feel fighting fit that morning and so Moti Guj was left standing
alone with his ears cocked.
That decided the planter to argue no more, and Moti Guj rolled back to
his amateur inspection of the clearing. An elephant who will not work and
is not tied up is about as manageable as an eighty-one-ton gun loose in
a heavy seaway. He slapped old friends on the back and asked them if the
stumps were coming away easily; he talked nonsense concerning labor and
the inalienable rights of elephants to a long “nooning”; and, wandering
to and fro, he thoroughly demoralized the garden till sundown, when he
returned to his-picket for food.
“If you won’t work, you shan’t eat,” said Chihun, angrily. “You’re a wild
elephant, and no educated animal at all. Go back to your jungle.”
Chihun’s little brown baby was rolling on the floor of the hut, and
stretching out its fat arms to the huge shadow in the doorway. Moti Guj
knew well that it was the dearest thing on earth to Chihun. He swung out
his trunk with a fascinating crook at the end, and the brown baby threw
itself, shouting, upon it. Moti Guj made fast and pulled up till the
brown baby was crowing in the air twelve feet above his father’s head.
“Great Lord!” said Chihun. “Flour cakes of the best, twelve in number,
two feet across and soaked in rum, shall be yours on the instant, and two
hundred pounds weight of fresh-cut young sugar-cane therewith. Deign only
to put down safely that insignificant brat who is my heart and my life to
me!”
Moti Guj tucked the brown baby comfortably between his forefeet, that
could have knocked into toothpicks all Chihun’s hut, and waited for his
food. He ate it, and the brown baby crawled away. Moti Guj dozed and
thought of Deesa. One of many mysteries connected with the elephant is
that his huge body needs less sleep than anything else that lives. Four
or five hours in the night suffice—two just before midnight, lying down
on one side; two just after one o’clock, lying down on the other. The
rest of the silent hours are filled with eating and fidgeting, and long
grumbling soliloquies.
At midnight, therefore, Moti Guj strode out of his pickets, for a thought
had come to him that Deesa might be lying drunk somewhere in the dark
forest with none to look after him. So all that night he chased through
the undergrowth, blowing and trumpeting and shaking his ears. He went
down to the river and blared across the shallows where Deesa used to wash
him, but there was no answer. He could not find Deesa, but he disturbed
all the other elephants in the lines, and nearly frightened to death some
gypsies in the woods.
At dawn Deesa returned to the plantation. He had been very drunk indeed,
and he expected to get into trouble for outstaying his leave. He drew a
long breath when he saw that the bungalow and the plantation were still
uninjured, for he knew something of Moti Guj’s temper, and reported
himself with many lies and salaams. Moti Guj had gone to his pickets for
breakfast. The night exercise had made him hungry.
“Call up your beast,” said the planter; and Deesa shouted in the
mysterious elephant language that some mahouts believe came from China
at the birth of the world, when elephants and not men were masters. Moti
Guj heard and came. Elephants do not gallop. They move from places at
varying rates of speed. If an elephant wished to catch an express train
he could not gallop, but he could catch the train. So Moti Guj was at the
planter’s door almost before Chihun noticed that he had left his pickets.
He fell into Deesa’s arms, trumpeting with joy, and the man and beast
wept and slobbered over each other, and handled each other from head to
heel to see that no harm had befallen.
“Now we will get to work,” said Deesa. “Lift me up, my son and my joy!”
Moti Guj swung him up, and the two went to the coffee-clearing to look
for difficult stumps.
The planter was too astonished to be very angry.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Rudyard Kipling (1865—) was born in Bombay, India, of
British parents. He was sent to England for most of his education,
but at the age of seventeen he returned to India to work as a
journalist. Very soon he began to write tales of the life about him,
as well as poems dealing with British civil officials and soldiers in
India. By the time he was twenty-four he had won fame with his _Plain
Tales from the Hills_ and other short stories; and when he published
_Barrack Room Ballads_, in 1892, he was widely recognized as a great
poet. From 1892 to 1896 he lived in the United States. Perhaps he is
best known to boys and girls as the author of the _Jungle Books_.
He is a master of the art of telling stories, either in prose or
verse. His ballads about the British soldier, “Tommy Atkins,” and
his experiences on the frontiers of civilization, have a ring and a
movement that suggests the old days when the ballad-maker was a man
of action, living the adventures that he celebrated in song.
=Discussion.= 1. Read all that tells you of the time and place in
which this mutiny occurred. 2. Read all that gives you a picture of
life on the clearing. 3. Who is the principal character in the story?
4. What caused the mutiny? 5. What ended it? 6. What is the most
interesting point in the story? 7. Read parts that convince you that
Kipling knows the characteristics of the elephant. 8. Find instances
where he exaggerates the intelligence of the elephant, giving it
human characteristics. 9. Does this add to or take from the interest
of the story? 10. Read parts in which humor is shown in dialogue or
incident. 11. Tell in your own words the main incident. 12. What do
you like about this story? 13. Tell what you know of the author. 14.
Pronounce the following: orgy; draughts; devastating; amateur; deign.
=Phrases=
happy medium, 27, 5
absolute property, 27, 11
the case under native rule, 27, 12
liver of his soul, 27, 22
draughts that led nowhere, 28, 22
ways of nativedom, 28, 27
with an inspiration, 29, 8
inconsiderable interval, 29, 18
mighty tusker, 29, 22
domestic emotions, 30, 26
savage caresses, 30, 28
of his own caste, 30, 31
adornment of all India, 31, 5
forebent ears, 31, 14
badge of his authority, 32, 2
amateur inspection, 32, 8
inalienable rights, 32, 13
fascinating crook, 32, 22
grumbling soliloquies, 33, 3
blared across the shallows, 33, 9
THE ELEPHANTS THAT STRUCK
SAMUEL WHITE BAKER
I remember an occasion many years ago when in Ceylon I, in connection
with my brother, had organized a scheme for the development of a mountain
sanitarium at Newera Ellia. We had a couple of tame elephants employed
in various works; but it was necessary to obtain the assistance of the
government stables for the transport of very heavy machinery, which could
not be conveyed in the ordinary native carts. There were accordingly a
large number of elephant wagons drawn by their colossal teams, some of
which required four elephants.
It was the wet season upon the mountains. Our settlement was 6200 feet
above the sea, and the zigzag pass from Ramboddé, at the base of the
steep ascent, was fifteen miles in length. The crest of the pass was 7000
feet in altitude, from which we descended 800 feet to the Newera Ellia
plain.
The elephant wagons having arrived at Ramboddé from Colombo, about
100 miles distant, commenced the heavy uphill journey. The rain was
unceasing, the roads were soft, and the heavily laden wagons sank deeply
in the ruts; but the elephants were mighty beasts, and, laying their
weight against the work, they slowly dragged the vehicles up the yielding
and narrow way.
The abrupt zigzags bothered the long wagons and their still longer teams.
The bridges over dangerous chasms entailed the necessity of unloading the
heavier carts, and caused great delay. Day after day passed away; but
although the ascent was slow, the wagons still moved upwards, and the
region of everlasting mist (at that season) was reached. Dense forests
clothed the mountain sides; the roar of waterfalls resounded in the
depths of black ravines; tangled bamboo grass crept upwards from the wet
soil into the lower branches of the moss-covered trees, and formed a
green curtain impenetrable to sight.
The thermometer fell daily as the altitude increased. The elephants began
to sicken; two fine animals died. There was plenty of food, as the bamboo
grass was the natural provender, and in the carts was a good supply of
paddy; but the elephants’ intelligence was acting against them—they had
reasoned, and had become despondent.
For nine or ten days they had been exposed to ceaseless wet and cold,
dragging their unmanageable wagons up a road that even in dry weather was
insufficient to sustain the weight. The wheels sank deep below the metal
foundation, and became hopelessly imbedded. Again and again the wagons
had to be emptied of their contents, and extra elephants were taken from
other carts and harnessed to the empty wagons, which were by sheer weight
of animals dragged from the deep mire.
Thus the time had passed, and the elephants had evidently reasoned
upon the situation, and had concluded that there was no summit to the
mountain, and no end to the steep and horrible ascent; it would be,
therefore, useless to persevere in unavailing efforts. They determined,
under these heart-breaking circumstances, to strike work; and they did
strike.
One morning a couple of the elephant drivers appeared at my house in
Newera Ellia, and described the situation. They declared that it was
absolutely impossible to induce the elephants to work; they had given it
up as a bad job!
I immediately mounted my horse and rode up the pass, and then descended
the road upon the other side, timing the distance by my watch. Rather
under two miles from the summit I found the road completely blocked with
elephant carts and wagons; the animals were grazing upon bamboo grass
in the thick forest; the rain was drizzling, and a thick mist increased
the misery of the scene. I ordered four elephants to be harnessed to a
cart intended for only one animal. This was quickly effected, and the
drivers were soon astride the animals’ necks, and prodded them with the
persuasive iron hooks. Not an elephant would exert itself to draw. In
vain the drivers, with relentless cruelty, drove the iron points deep
into the poor brutes’ necks and heads, and used every threat of their
vocabulary; the only response was a kind of “marking time” on the part
of the elephants, which simply moved their legs mechanically up and down,
and swung their trunks to and fro; but none would pull or exert the
slightest power, neither did they move forward a single inch!
I never saw such an instance of passive and determined obstinacy; the
case was hopeless.
An idea struck me. I ordered the drivers to detach the four elephants
from the harness, and to ride them thus unfettered up the pass,
following behind my horse. It appeared to me that if the elephants were
heart-broken, and in despair at the apparently interminable mountain
pass, it would be advisable to let them know the actual truth, by showing
them that they were hardly two miles from the summit, where they would
exchange their uphill labor for a descent into Newera Ellia; they should
then have an extra feed, with plenty of jaggery (a coarse brown sugar).
If they passed an agreeable night, with the best of food and warm
quarters, they would possibly return on the following day to their work,
and with lighter hearts would put their shoulders to the wheel, instead
of yielding to a dogged attitude of despair.
The success of this ruse was perfect. The elephants accompanied me to
Newera Ellia, and were well fed and cared for. On the following day we
returned to the heavy work, and I myself witnessed their start with the
hitherto unyielding wagon. Not only did they exert their full powers,
and drag the lumbering load straight up the fatiguing hill without
the slightest hesitation, but their example, or some unaccountable
communication between them, appeared to give general encouragement.
I employed the most willing elephants as extras to each wagon, which
they drew to the summit of the pass, and then returned to assist the
others—thus completing what had been pronounced by the drivers as
utterly impossible. There can be no doubt that the elephants had at once
perceived the situation, and in consequence recovered their lost courage.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Samuel White Baker (1821-1893) was an English engineer.
At the age of twenty-four he went to Ceylon, where he founded an
agricultural settlement. He soon became known as an explorer and
a hunter of big game. With his wife he explored the region of the
Nile, and later discovered the lake now called Albert Nyanza. His
explorations in this part of central Africa were a part of the
thrilling story of the discovery of the sources of the Nile, and of
the opening of this region to civilization. To know the complete
story of these explorations you should read something about Henry
M. Stanley and David Livingstone. An interesting book covering
explorations in Africa is Bayard Taylor’s _Central Africa_.
Upon his return to England, Baker was greatly honored. He was
knighted and sent to Egypt, where he was commissioned by the Khedive
to suppress the slave traffic and establish regular trade. Later he
explored and hunted in Cyprus, Syria, India, Japan, and the United
States. He is the author of _Wild Beasts and Their Ways_, _The Rifle
and the Hound in Ceylon_, and _True Tales for My Grandsons_, from
which this selection was taken.
=Discussion.= 1. Locate Ceylon on a map. 2. In what work were the
elephants engaged when they became discouraged? 3. Why was the climb
particularly difficult at this season? 4. What ruse was employed? 5.
What success attended the plan? 6. Pronounce: vehicles; chasm; ruse;
fatiguing.
=Phrases=
colossal teams, 35, 8
entailed the necessity, 35, 23
natural provender, 36, 3
intelligence was acting against, 36, 5
by sheer weight, 36, 13
reasoned upon the situation, 36, 16
persuasive iron hooks, 36, 34
marking time, 37, 1
passive obstinacy, 37, 5
unaccountable communication, 37, 27
BIRDS
[Illustration]
ROBERT OF LINCOLN
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
Merrily swinging on brier and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain side or mead,
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:
“Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
Snug and safe is this nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers,
Chee, chee, chee!”
Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,
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;
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,
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
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,
Pouring boasts from his little throat:
“Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
Never was I afraid of man,
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,
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.
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.
“Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
This new life is likely to be
Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee!”
Robert of Lincoln at length is made
Sober with work, and silent with care,
Off his holiday garment laid,
Half forgotten that merry air:
“Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
Nobody knows but my mate and I,
Where our nest and our nestlings lie.
Chee, chee, chee!”
Summer wanes; the children are grown;
Fun and frolic no more he knows,
Robert of Lincoln’s a humdrum 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,
Robert of Lincoln, come back again.
Chee, chee, chee!”
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) was the first great
American poet. He was reared among the rugged Berkshire Hills of
western Massachusetts. Outside the district school, he had little
teaching except that given by his mother and what he gave himself
through the excellent library of his father, who was a country
physician. He grew up in close touch with nature and the simple farm
surroundings, and this lonely life may have tended to make him rather
more serious and thoughtful than most boys of his age. By the time
he was nine years old he was putting his thoughts into verse in the
stately fashion of the English poets of that time. In 1811, when yet
scarcely eighteen, he wrote “Thanatopsis,” now one of the world’s
classics.
By this time he had studied two years at a private school and seven
months at Williams College. He was ambitious to continue his studies
at Yale, but his father’s circumstances compelled him to give up that
hope and to face the immediate problem of earning his own living. He
studied law and was admitted to practice in 1815. After a few years
he went to New York, where in 1825 he became editor of the _Evening
Post_—a position which he continued to fill with distinction for more
than half a century, until his death in 1878.
And yet this busy editor of a great city newspaper found leisure
from time to time to cultivate his love for verse and to continue to
write poetry. His poems were popular with Americans because he chose
for the most part American subjects taken from his own immediate
surroundings and experience—the scenes and impressions of his
boyhood, the flowers, the birds, the hills, the climate of his own
New England.
America’s first men of letters whose writings proved that the new
republic could produce a literature worthy to be compared with that
of the mother country were James Fenimore Cooper, writer of Indian
tales; Washington Irving, writer of legends about America and the
sketches about our old English home; and William Cullen Bryant.
Cooper showed the strangeness and romance of frontier life. Irving
tried to give to America the romantic background that the new country
lacked. Bryant opened men’s eyes to the beauty of nature.
Though Bryant was eleven years younger than Irving, his “Thanatopsis”
was written only two years after Irving’s “Knickerbocker.”
=Note.= The bobolink is an American song bird. In the spring the
male is mostly black and white, while the female is streaked with
yellowish brown. In midsummer the male bobolink molts, taking on
“plain brown” plumage like that of his “Quaker wife.” In the spring
he regains his black and buff colors without molting any feathers.
He sings only in the spring. The bobolink makes long migrations
extending from Canada to Paraguay, and in the late autumn collects in
large flocks which feed in the rice fields of the South, where he is
known as the _ricebird_, or _reedbird_.
=Discussion.= 1. Read the lines that imitate the song of the
bobolink. 2. Describe the dress of Robert of Lincoln and that of his
“Quaker wife.” 3. How does her song differ from his? 4. What are the
work and the care that make him silent? 5. How does the poet account
for the change in his appearance as the season advances? 6. Where
does he go for winter? When will he come again?
=Phrases=
prince of braggarts, 40, 12
chip the shell, 40, 28
bestirs him well, 40, 30
summer wanes, 41, 15
humdrum crone, 41, 17
pipe that merry old strain, 41, 21
THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT
HENRY VAN DYKE
From _Poems of Henry van Dyke_; copyright 1897, 1911, by Charles
Scribner’s Sons. By permission of the publishers.
While May bedecks the naked trees
With tassels and embroideries,
And many blue-eyed violets beam
Along the edges of the stream,
I hear a voice that seems to say,
Now near at hand, now far away,
“_Witchery—witchery—witchery!_”
An incantation so serene,
So innocent, befits the scene:
There’s magic in that small bird’s note—
See, there he flits—the Yellow-Throat;
A living sunbeam, tipped with wings,
A spark of light that shines and sings
“_Witchery—witchery—witchery!_”
You prophet with a pleasant name,
If out of Mary-land you came,
You know the way that thither goes
Where Mary’s lovely garden grows;
Fly swiftly back to her, I pray,
And try to call her down this way,
“_Witchery—witchery—witchery!_”
Tell her to leave her cockle-shells,
And all her little silver bells
That blossom into melody,
And all her maids less fair than she.
She does not need these pretty things,
For everywhere she comes, she brings
“_Witchery—witchery—witchery!_”
The woods are greening overhead,
And flowers adorn each mossy bed;
The waters babble as they run—
One thing is lacking, only one:
If Mary were but here today,
I would believe your charming lay,
“_Witchery—witchery—witchery!_”
Along the shady road I look—
Who’s coming now across the brook?
A woodland maid, all robed in white—
The leaves dance round her with delight,
The stream laughs out beneath her feet—,
Sing, merry bird, the charm’s complete,
“_Witchery—witchery—witchery!_”
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Henry van Dyke (1852-⸺) was born in Germantown, which is
now a part of the city of Philadelphia. When a small boy, his parents
moved to Brooklyn. He was graduated from Princeton College in 1873
and from the Princeton Theological Seminary in 1877. For several
years he was pastor of the Brick Presbyterian Church in New York
City. Later he was made professor of English Literature at Princeton
University, which position he still holds. In 1913 Dr. van Dyke was
appointed United States Minister to Holland, where he lived during
the early years of the World War. He has written many stories and
poems of great literary charm.
=Discussion.= 1. What bird does the poet celebrate in this poem?
2. What pictures does the first stanza give you? 3. What does the
Yellow-Throat seem to say? 4. Make a list of all the names by which
the poet speaks of the bird. 5. What fancy does the poet express in
the third and fourth stanzas? 6. What does the poet say is wanting to
make the day’s charm complete? 7. Which stanza do you like best? 8.
What is the name of the “woodland maid”?
=Phrases=
May bedecks the naked trees, 43, 1
incantation so serene, 43, 8
befits the scene, 43, 9
living sunbeam, 43, 12
you prophet, 43, 15
blossom into melody, 43, 24
the woods are greening, 44, 1
charming lay, 44, 6
THE BELFRY PIGEON
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS
On the cross-beam under the Old South bell,
The nest of a pigeon is builded well.
In summer and winter, that bird is there,
Out and in with the morning air.
I love to see him track the street
With his wary eye and active feet;
And I often watch him, as he springs,
Circling the steeple with easy wings,
Till across the dial his shade has passed,
And the belfry edge is gained at last.
’Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
There’s a human look in its swelling breast,
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel,
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.
Whatever is rung on that noisy bell,
Chime of the hour, or funeral knell,
The dove in the belfry must hear it well.
When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon,
When the sexton cheerily rings for noon,
When the clock strikes clear at morning light,
When the child is waked with “nine at night,”
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,
Whatever tale in the bell is heard,
He broods on his folded feet unstirred,
Or, rising half in his rounded nest,
He takes the time to smooth his breast;
Then drops again, with filméd eyes,
And sleeps as the last vibration dies.
Sweet bird! I would that I could be
A hermit in the crowd, like thee!
With wings to fly to wood and glen,
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men;
And, daily, with unwilling feet,
I tread, like thee, the crowded street;
But, unlike me, when day is o’er,
Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar;
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,
Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.
I would that, on such wings of gold,
I could my weary heart upfold;
I would I could look down unmoved
(Unloving as I am unloved),
And while the world throngs on beneath,
Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe;
And, never sad with others’ sadness,
And never glad with others’ gladness,
Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime,
And, lapped in quiet, bide my time.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biographical and Historical Note.= Nathaniel Parker Willis
(1806-1867) was a native of Portland, Maine, and a graduate of Yale
College. He was born one year earlier than Longfellow, and lived most
of his life in New York City, being one of a small group of writers
known as “The Knickerbockers,” who for many years made New York
the literary center of the country. His father, the Rev. Nathaniel
Willis, established in Boston _The Youth’s Companion._
“Old South” is the name of a church in Boston, in which public
meetings were held at the time of the Revolutionary War. It is now
used as a museum of historic collections.
=Discussion.= 1. What do the first two stanzas tell you about the
bird? 2. Name the various sounds of the bell that the poet mentions.
3. What comparison is found in the fifth stanza? 4. Compare the last
stanza of “The Sandpiper” with the last stanza of this poem and tell
which you like the better. 5. Can you give a reason why the pigeon is
made the hero of this poem?
=Phrases=
track the street, 45, 5
wary eye, 45, 6
easy wings, 45, 8
nine at night, 45, 23
filméd eyes, 46, 3
hermit in the crowd, 46, 6
thy lot is cast with men, 46, 8
with unwilling feet, 46, 9
dismiss the world, 46, 12
half-felt wish for rest, 46, 13
weary heart upfold, 46, 17
throngs on beneath, 46, 20
lapped in quiet, 46, 25
bide my time, 46, 25
THE SANDPIPER
CELIA THAXTER
Across the lonely beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I;
And fast I gather, bit by bit,
The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.
The wild waves reach their hands for it,
The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
As up and down the beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I.
Above our heads the sullen clouds
Scud, black and swift, across the sky;
Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds
Stand out the white lighthouses high.
Almost as far as eye can reach
I see the close-reefed vessels fly,
As fast we flit along the beach,
One little sandpiper and I.
I watch him as he skims along,
Uttering his sweet and mournful cry:
He starts not at my fitful song,
Nor flash of fluttering drapery.
He has no thought of any wrong,
He scans me with a fearless eye;
Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong,
The little sandpiper and I.
Comrade, where wilt thou be tonight,
When the loosed storm breaks furiously?
My driftwood fire will burn so bright!
To what warm shelter canst thou fly?
I do not fear for thee, though wroth
The tempest rushes through the sky;
For are we not God’s children both,
Thou, little sandpiper, and I?
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Celia Thaxter (1835-1894), whose father was a lighthouse
keeper on White Island, one of the rocky isles known as the “Isles
of Shoals,” off the coast of New Hampshire, had the ocean for her
companion in her early years. She studied the sunrise and the sunset,
the wild flowers, the birds, the rocks, and all sea life. This
selection shows how intimate was her friendship with the bird life of
the ocean.
=Discussion.= 1. The poet and the sandpiper were comrades; in
the first stanza, what tells you this? 2. Which lines give you a
picture that might be used to illustrate this poem? 3. What common
experiences did the poet and the bird have? 4. Give a quotation from
the poem that describes the sandpiper and his habits. 5. What effect
have the repetitions of the second line of the poem at the end of
the first and second stanzas and the variations of it at the end of
the third and fourth stanzas? 6. Which lines express confidence in
God’s care for His children? 7. What classes of “God’s children” do
“little sandpiper” and “I,” respectively, represent? 8. Pronounce the
following: stanch; loosed; wroth.
=Phrases=
silent ghosts in misty shrouds, 47, 11
close-reefed vessels, 47, 14
my fitful song, 48. 3
flash of fluttering drapery, 48, 4
loosed storm breaks furiously, 48, 10
wroth the tempest rushes, 48, 13
THE THROSTLE
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
“Summer is coming, summer is coming,
I know it, I know it, I know it.
Light again, leaf again, life again, love again!”
Yes, my wild little Poet.
Sing the new year in under the blue.
Last year you sang it as gladly.
“New, new, new, new!” Is it then so new
That you should carol so madly?
“Love again, song again, nest again, young again!”
Never a prophet so crazy!
And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend,
See, there is hardly a daisy.
“Here again, here, here, here, happy year!”
O warble unchidden, unbidden!
Summer is coming, is coming, my dear,
And all the winters are hidden.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) was poet laureate of
England, succeeding Wordsworth. This means that he was appointed
to write poems about matters of national interest, such as his ode
on the death of the Duke of Wellington; and that he also expressed
something of the national spirit of England, as in his poems about
King Arthur (_The Idylls of the King_) and in many poems about his
native land. He was born in Lincolnshire and studied at Trinity
College, Cambridge. He lived a quiet life and devoted himself to
poetry, in which he excelled in beauty of expression and choice of
words. You will learn to know him as a teller of tales in verse,
these tales being both modern ballads and romances about King Arthur;
as a writer of many lovely song-poems or lyrics; and as a poet of
religious faith.
=Note.= The song-thrush, or throstle, is found in most parts of
England, and is one of the finest songsters in Europe. Its note is
rich and mellow. This is the bird of which Browning wrote,
“He sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!”
=Discussion.= 1. Which lines in the first stanza represent the song
of the bird? 2. Which line gives Tennyson’s answer to the throstle?
3. Point out the words in the poem that represent the bird’s song. 4.
Which lines tell you that Tennyson did not share the little bird’s
hope? 5, What do the last two lines show that the bird did for the
poet?
=Phrases=
wild little Poet, 49, 4
carol so madly, 49, 8
never a prophet so crazy, 49, 10
winters are hidden, 49, 16
TO THE CUCKOO
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
O blithe newcomer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice;
O cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering voice?
While I am lying on the grass,
Thy twofold shout I hear;
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near.
Though babbling only to the vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my schoolboy days
I listened to; that cry
Which made me look a thousand ways,
In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still long’d for, never seen!
And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
O blesséd bird! the earth we pace,
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, fairy place,
That is fit home for thee!
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= William Wordsworth (1770-1850) was born in the beautiful
Cumberland Highlands of northern England, which furnished the
inspiration for most of his poetry. While still a young man, he
retired to the beautiful Lake Country of northern England, where
he lived a simple life. He was devoted to the cause of liberty; he
was a believer in the beauty and charm of the humble life; he often
wrote about peasants rather than about lords and ladies and knights
of romance. His flower poems and bird poems show the simplicity and
sincerity of his nature.
=Note.= The cuckoo is a European bird noted for its two-syllable
whistle, in imitation of which it is named; also for its habit of
laying eggs in the nests of other birds for them to hatch, instead of
building a nest of its own.
=Discussion.= 1. Why does the poet call the cuckoo “a wandering
voice”? 2. What other names does the poet call the cuckoo? 3. To
what habit of the cuckoo does this poem call attention? 4. Why does
the poet say a “fairy place” is a fit home for the cuckoo? 5. What
“golden time” is mentioned?
=Phrases=
thy twofold shout, 50, 6
at once far off and near, 50, 8
tale of visionary hours, 50, 11
beget that golden time again, 51, 11
THE BIRDS’ ORCHESTRA
CELIA THAXTER
Bobolink shall play the violin,
Great applause to win;
Lonely, sweet, and sad, the meadow-lark
Plays the oboe. Hark!
Yellow-bird the clarionet shall play,
Blithe, and clear, and gay.
Purple-finch what instrument will suit?
He can play the flute.
Fire-winged blackbirds sound the merry fife,
Soldiers without strife;
And the robins wind the mellow horn
Loudly, eve and morn.
Who shall clash the cymbals? Jay and crow,
That is all they know;
And, to roll the deep melodious drum,
Lo! the bull-frogs come.
Then the splendid chorus! Who shall sing
Of so fine a thing?
Who the names of the performers call
Truly, one and all?
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
For Biography, see page 48.
=Discussion.= 1. What instruments compose the birds’ orchestra? 2.
Why does the poet say the jay and crow are assigned to the cymbals?
3. Explain: “fire-winged” blackbirds. 4. What leads you to think that
the author knew those birds intimately? 5. Do you think the chorus
would be pleasing? 6. What assignments do you think are particularly
apt?
=Phrases=
soldiers without strife, 52, 10
wind the mellow horn, 52, 11
clash the cymbals, 52, 13
roll the deep melodious drum, 52, 15
FLOWERS AND TREES
[Illustration]
TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heaven’s own blue,
That openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night;
Thou comest not when violets lean
O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple dressed,
Nod o’er the ground bird’s hidden nest.
Thou waitest late, and com’st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near his end.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue—blue—as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.
I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
For Biography, see page 41.
=Discussion.= 1. To whom is this poem addressed? 2. What words tell
you the time of year that the fringed gentian blooms? 3. What words
does the poet use to tell the color of the gentian? 4. When does it
open? 5. What words does Bryant use to mean early morning? 6. When
do violets come and in what kind of soil do they grow? 7. What words
in the poem tell you this? 8. What does the poet tell you about the
violets when he says they “lean,” and about the columbine when he
says it “nods”? 9. What signs of approaching winter does the poet
mention? 10. Why does the poet repeat “blue” in the third line of
stanza 4? 11. Of what is this color a symbol? 12. To what in his life
does Bryant compare the end of the year? 13. In this comparison what
does the little flower represent?
=Phrases=
heaven’s own blue, 53, 2
quiet light succeeds, 53, 3
shortening days portend, 53, 11
cerulean wall, 53, 16
VIOLET! SWEET VIOLET!
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
Violet! sweet violet!
Thine eyes are full of tears;
Are they wet
Even yet
With the thought of other years?
Or with gladness are they full,
For the night so beautiful,
And longing for those far-off spheres?
Loved-one of my youth thou wast,
Of my merry youth,
And I see,
Tearfully,
All the fair and sunny past,
All its openness and truth,
Ever fresh and green in thee
As the moss is in the sea.
Thy little heart, that hath with love
Grown colored like the sky above,
On which thou lookest ever,
Can it know
All the woe
Of hope for what returneth never,
All the sorrow and the longing
To these hearts of ours belonging?
Out on it! no foolish pining
For the sky
Dims thine eye,
Or for the stars so calmly shining;
Like thee let this soul of mine
Take hue from that wherefor I long,
Self-stayed and high, serene and strong,
Not satisfied with hoping—but divine.
Violet! dear violet!
Thy blue eyes are only wet
With joy and love of him who sent thee,
And for the fulfilling sense
Of that glad obedience
Which made thee all that nature meant thee!
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= James Russell Lowell (1819-1891) came of one of the
oldest and most influential New England families. Born in an
atmosphere of learning, in the old family home in historic Cambridge,
at the very doors of Harvard College, he enjoyed every advantage
for culture that inherited tastes, ample means, and convenient
opportunity could offer. Besides the facilities of the college near
by, his father’s library, in which he roamed at will from his very
infancy, was one of the richest in the whole country. It is not
strange, then, that he grew to be one of the most scholarly Americans
of his time.
After leaving college he studied law and opened an office in Boston.
He became deeply interested in the political issues of the times
and was thus stirred to his first serious efforts in literature. In
1848 appeared his “Vision of Sir Launfal,” founded upon the legend
of the Holy Grail, and one of the most spiritually beautiful poems
in any literature. Few patriotic poems surpass his “Commemoration
Ode.” Besides his poetical works he wrote many essays and books of
travel and of criticism. He succeeded Longfellow in his professorship
at Harvard, and was the first editor of the _Atlantic Monthly_. He
served successively as Minister to Spain and to England.
=Discussion.= 1. In the first stanza, how does the poet account for
the violet’s eyes being “full of tears”? 2. To the poet what does the
violet represent? 3. What vision does the violet bring to the poet?
4. How does the poet account for the color of the violet? 5. What
change in the poet’s feeling is noted in the fourth stanza? 6. From
what does the poet say his soul must “take hue”? 7. How does the poet
in the last lines of the poem account for the violet’s eyes being
“full of tears”?
=Phrases=
far-off spheres, 54, 8
fair and sunny past, 55, 1
fulfilling sense, 55, 24
glad obedience, 55, 25
TO THE DANDELION
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
Dear common flower, that grow’st beside the way,
Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,
First pledge of blithesome May,
Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold,
High-hearted buccaneers, o’erjoyed that they
An Eldorado in the grass have found,
Which not the rich earth’s ample round
May match in wealth—thou art more dear to me
Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.
Gold such as thine ne’er drew the Spanish prow
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas,
Nor wrinkled the lean brow
Of age, to rob the lover’s heart of ease;
’Tis the spring’s largess, which she scatters now
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,
Though most hearts never understand
To take it at God’s value, but pass by
The offered wealth with unrewarded eye.
Thou art my tropics and mine Italy;
To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime;
The eyes thou givest me
Are in the heart, and heed not space or time;
Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee
Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment
In the white lily’s breezy tent,
His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first
From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.
Then think I of deep shadows on the grass—
Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze,
Where, as the breezes pass,
The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways—
Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass,
Or whiten in the wind—of waters blue
That from the distance sparkle through
Some woodland gap—and of a sky above,
Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.
My childhood’s earliest thoughts are linked with thee;
The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song,
Who, from the dark old tree
Beside the door, sang clearly all day long,
And I, secure in childish piety,
Listened as if I heard an angel sing
With news from heaven, which he could bring
Fresh every day to my untainted ears,
When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.
How like a prodigal doth nature seem,
When thou, for all thy gold, so common art!
Thou teachest me to deem
More sacredly of every human heart,
Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam
Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show
Did we but pay the love we owe,
And with a child’s undoubting wisdom look
On all these living pages of God’s book.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
For Biography, see page 55.
=Discussion.= 1. In which stanzas does the poet express his love for
the dandelion? 2. Which stanzas tell why the dandelion is so dear to
the poet? 3. Where must the poet have lived to learn what he tells
us in these stanzas? 4. Use your own words for “rich earth’s ample
round.” 5. Name some “prouder summer-blooms.” 6. What gold “drew the
Spanish prow,” and through what “Indian seas”? 7. What gold wrinkles
“the lean brow of age” and robs “the lover’s heart of ease”? How does
the dandelion’s gold differ from it? 8. Explain the last three lines
of stanza 2, and name any other common things we do not value enough.
9. How can the poet _look_ at the dandelion, but _see_ the tropics
and Italy? 10. What “eyes are in the heart, and heed not space or
time”? 11. Has a poet more vivid imagination than other people? Why?
12. Compare the expression “eyes are in the heart, and heed not
space or time” with that of Wordsworth in “The Daffodils,” page 59,
lines 21 and 22, “that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude,”
and with that of Trowbridge in “Midwinter,” page 83, lines 15 and
16, “in my inmost ear is heard the music of a holier bird.” 13. Is
there a similar idea in these expressions? 14. Which do you like
best, “inward eye,” “inmost ear,” or “eyes in the heart”? 15. The
dandelion is compared to gold and to sunshine; which comparison had
the poet in mind in the first two lines of the last stanza? In the
next four lines? 16. The flower reflects its “scanty gleam of heaven”
in glowing color; how can human hearts reflect it?
=Phrases=
pledge of blithesome May, 58, 3
high-hearted buccaneers, 56, 5
primeval hush, 56, 11
spring’s largess, 57, 1
lavish hand, 57, 2
unrewarded eye, 57, 5
golden-cuirassed bee, 57, 10
childish piety, 57, 28
untainted ears, 57, 31
living pages, 58, 9
THE DAFFODILS
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company;
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought;
For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
For Biography, see page 51.
=Discussion.= 1. What picture do the first two stanzas give you? 2.
To whom does “I” refer? 3. Point out the comparison and the things
compared in stanza 1; in stanza 2. 4. Why does the poet use the
word “host” when he has already spoken of a “crowd”? 5. Explain the
peculiar fitness of the word “sprightly.” 6. What lines particularly
express life and gayety?
THE TRAILING ARBUTUS
JOHN G. WHITTIER
I wandered lonely where the pine-trees made
Against the bitter East their barricade,
And, guided by its sweet
Perfume, I found, within a narrow dell,
The trailing spring flower tinted like a shell
Amid dry leaves and mosses at my feet.
From under dead boughs, for whose loss the pines
Moaned ceaseless overhead, the blossoming vines
Lifted their glad surprise,
While yet the bluebird smoothed in leafless trees
His feathers ruffled by the chill sea-breeze,
And snow-drifts lingered under April skies.
As, pausing o’er the lonely flower I bent,
I thought of lives thus lowly, clogged, and pent,
Which yet find room,
Through care and cumber, coldness and decay,
To lend a sweetness to the ungenial day,
And make the sad earth happier for their bloom.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892) was born near the
little town of Haverhill, Massachusetts, in the same county as Salem,
the birthplace of Hawthorne. The old farmhouse in which Whittier was
born was built by the poet’s great-great-grandfather. It still stands
to mark the site of the old home. His family were Quakers, sturdy of
stature as of character. Whittier’s boyhood was in complete contrast
to that of Lowell or Longfellow. He led the life of a typical New
England farm boy, used to hard work, no luxuries, and few pleasures.
His library consisted of practically one book, the family Bible,
which was later supplemented by a copy of Burns’s poems, loaned
him by the district schoolmaster. Whittier is often compared with
Burns in the simple homeliness of his style, his patriotism, his
fiery indignation at wrong, and his sympathy with the humble and the
oppressed.
=Discussion.= 1. Where did the poet find “the trailing spring
flower”? 2. Have you found it? Where? When? 3. What beautiful thought
came to the poet while he bent over the arbutus? 4. Have you known
lowly lives that made the earth happier by their presence? 5. The
poet _found_ the lowly flower that lends “sweetness to the ungenial
day”; can we find the lowly person who “makes the earth happier”? 6.
What does Nature teach through the lowly trailing arbutus? 7. What
other selections by this author have you read?
=Phrases=
bitter East, 60, 2
glad surprise, 60, 9
clogged, and pent, 60, 14
ungenial day, 60, 17
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY
ROBERT BURNS
Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flow’r,
Thou’s met me in an evil hour;
For I maun[1] I crush amang the stoure[2]
Thy slender stem.
To spare thee now is past my pow’r,
Thou bonnie[3] gem.
Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie Lark, companion meet,
Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet,[4]
Wi’ speckl’d breast!
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear’d above the parent-earth
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield,
High shelt’ring woods and wa’s[5] maun shield.
But thou, beneath the random bield[6]
O’ clod or stane,
Adorns the histie[7] stibble[8]-field,
Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of simple Bard,
On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d!
Unskillful he to note the card[9]
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o’er!
Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv’n,
By human pride or cunning driv’n
To mis’ry’s brink,
Till wrench’d of ev’ry stay but Heav’n,
He, ruin’d, sink!
Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate,
That fate is thine—no distant date;
Stern Ruin’s plowshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight
Shall be thy doom!
[1] _maun_, must.
[2] _stoure_, dust.
[3] _bonnie_, pretty.
[4] _weet_, wet.
[5] _wa’s_, walls.
[6] _bield_, shelter.
[7] _histie_, barren.
[8] _stibble_, stubble.
[9] _card_, compass-face.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Robert Burns (1759-1796) was a Scottish poet, whose home
was near Ayr, in Scotland. His life was short and filled with poverty
and hardship, but he saw beauty in the common things of life and had
a heart full of sympathy. He wrote this poem at a time when he was in
great trouble. His farm was turning out badly, the soil was sour and
wet, his crops were failures, and he saw nothing but ruin before him.
Burns’s tenderness and sympathy are shown in the feeling expressed in
this poem at crushing the flower.
=Discussion.= 1. How does the English daisy, which Burns describes
in the first line of the poem, differ from the daisy that you know,
the American daisy? 2. Select and give the meaning of words that
illustrate Burns’s use of the Scotch dialect. 3. Picture the incident
related in the first stanza. 4. What do you know about the lark that
helps you to understand why it is called the daisy’s “companion”
and “neebor”? 5. What comparison is made between the daisy and the
garden flowers? 6. What “share” is mentioned in stanza 5? 7. What
characteristic of the flower does Burns seem to like best?
=Phrases=
companion meet, 61, 8
purpling east, 61, 12
glinted forth, 61, 15
parent-earth, 61, 17
unassuming head, 62, 9
humble guise, 62, 10
luckless starr’d, 62, 14
prudent lore, 62, 16
SWEET PEAS
JOHN KEATS
Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight,
With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white,
And taper fingers catching at all things,
To bind them all about with tiny rings.
Linger a while upon some bending planks
That lean against a streamlet’s rushy banks,
And watch intently Nature’s gentle doings;
They will be found softer than ringdove’s cooings.
How silent comes the water round that bend!
Not the minutest whisper does it send
To the o’erhanging sallows; blades of grass
Slowly across the checkered shadows pass.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= John Keats (1795-1821) was of humble birth, being the
son of a London stablekeeper. He lived at the time of Wordsworth,
Byron, Shelley, and Leigh Hunt, from all of whom he gathered
inspiration. His years were few, and his fame did not come while he
was living. He had a passion for beauty, which found expression in
all his poetry. On account of failing health he went to Rome in 1820,
where he died the year following.
=Discussion.= 1. Why does the poet say sweet peas are “on tiptoe for
a flight”? 2. What are the wings of the sweet pea? 3. The poet tells
of the perfect stillness of the moving water in the stream; what
words does he use in lines immediately preceding to prepare you for
this stillness? 4. What picture does the last sentence of the poem
give you?
=Phrases=
rushy banks, 63, 6
ringdove’s cooings, 63, 8
o’erhanging sallows, 63, 11
checkered shadows, 63, 12
CHORUS OF FLOWERS
LEIGH HUNT
We are the sweet flowers,
Born of sunny showers;
Think, whene’er you see us, what our beauty saith;
Utterance, mute and bright,
Of some unknown delight,
We fill the air with pleasure by our simple breath.
All who see us love us.
We befit all places.
Unto sorrow we give smiles, and unto graces, graces.
Mark our ways, how noiseless
All, and sweetly voiceless,
Though the March winds pipe to make our passage clear;
Not a whisper tells
Where our small seed dwells,
Nor is known the moment green when our tips appear.
We thread the earth in silence;
In silence build our bowers;
And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh atop sweet flowers.
See and scorn all duller!
Taste how Heaven loves color!
How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and green!
What sweet thoughts she thinks
Of violets and pinks,
And a thousand flashing hues made solely to be seen;
See her whitest lilies
Chill the silver showers;
And what a red mouth has her rose, the woman of her flowers!
Uselessness divinest,
Of a use the finest,
Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use.
Travelers, weary-eyed,
Bless us far and wide;
Unto sick and prisoned thoughts we give sudden truce.
Not a poor town window
Loves its sickliest planting,
But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian vaunting.
Sagest yet the uses
Mixed with our sweet juices,
Whether man or may-fly profits of the balm.
As fairy fingers healed
Knights of the olden field,
We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm.
E’en the terror, poison,
Hath its plea for blooming;
Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming.
And oh! our sweet soul-taker,
That thief, the honey-maker,
What a house hath he by the thymy glen!
In his talking rooms
How the feasting fumes,
Till his gold-cups overflow to the mouths of men!
The butterflies come aping
Those fine thieves of ours,
And flutter round our rifled tops like tickled flowers with flowers.
See those tops, how beauteous!
What fair service duteous
Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine?
Elfin court ’twould seem,
And taught, perchance, that dream
Which the old Greek mountain dreamt upon nights divine;
To expound such wonder,
Human speech avails not,
Yet there dies no poorest weed that such a glory exhales not.
Think of all these treasures,
Matchless works and pleasures,
Every one a marvel, more than thought can say;
Then think in what bright showers
We thicken fields and bowers,
And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton May.
Think of the mossy forests
By the bee-birds haunted,
And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying, as enchanted.
Trees themselves are ours;
Fruits are born of flowers;
Peach and roughest nut were blossoms in the spring.
The lusty bee knows well
The news, and comes pell-mell
And dances in the bloomy thicks with darksome antheming.
Beneath the very burden
Of planet-pressing ocean
We wash our smiling cheeks in peace, a thought for meek devotion.
Who shall say that flowers
Dress not heaven’s own bowers?
Who its love without them can fancy—or sweet floor?
Who shall even dare
To say we sprang not there,
And came not down, that Love might bring one piece of heaven the more?
Oh! pray believe that angels
From those blue dominions
Brought us in their white laps down, ’twixt their golden pinions.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biographical and Historical Note.= Leigh Hunt (1784-1859) was an
English poet, journalist, and essayist. He was a personal friend of
Shelley and Byron, and an intimate friend of Keats. His poems and
essays are marked by a delightful style.
The “Nine” (stanza 7) refers to the Muses, patronesses of poetry and
music, whose lord is Apollo, and who assembled on Mount Parnassus or
Mount Helicon, to hold learned discussions on poetry, science, or
music.
=Discussion.= 1. What is a chorus? 2. Who are the singers? 3. What is
the purpose of their song? 4. When you look at a flower, what things
are you apt to notice about it? 5. Name a poem you have read that
tells of the uses of a flower. 6. What poem that you have read in
this book celebrates the color of the flower? 7. What familiar custom
grows out of the belief that “unto sorrow we give smiles”? That
“unto graces [we give] graces”? 8. For what purpose are flowers in
“a thousand flashing hues”? 9. What things are compared in the last
line of stanza 4? 10. What uses of flowers are pointed out in stanza
5? 11. In stanza 7 what is compared with the “Nine” muses? 12. Read
the lines that tell what lesson the sea-weeds teach. 13. What does
the last stanza suggest as a possible source and use of flowers? 14.
Which stanza do you like best?
=Phrases=
born of sunny showers, 64, 2
sweetly voiceless, 64, 11
thread the earth, 64, 16
flashing hues, 65, 6
sickliest planting, 65, 17
Babylonian vaunting, 65, 18
reverent lips, 65, 27
death to the presuming, 65, 27
thymy glen, 65, 30
our rifled tops, 66, 4
Amazonian plains, 66, 22
comes pell-mell, 66, 27
darksome antheming, 66, 28
planet-pressing ocean, 66, 30
blue dominions, 67, 9
’twixt their golden pinions, 67, 9
TREES
JOYCE KILMER
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree;
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918) was born in New Brunswick, N.
J. He was one of the first Americans to be deeply moved by Germany’s
challenge to humanity. He gave up his journalistic career in New
York, and enlisted seventeen days after the United States declared
war. He was attached to the Intelligence Department of the army, one
of his duties being to precede the troops before an attack and find
out the positions of the enemy guns. He served during almost the
whole of the battle of the Marne until August first, 1918, when he
received a mortal wound. Kilmer was the first American man of letters
to be killed in the war. At the time of his enlistment he was the
editor of poetry for the _Literary Digest_.
=Discussion.= 1. Do you agree with the poet’s conclusion given in
the first stanza? 2. What is the most beautiful poem you have read?
3. What fact relating to the tree does the second couplet tell? The
third couplet? The fourth? The fifth? 4. What does the last couplet
tell you?
=Phrases=
hungry mouth, 68, 3
earth’s sweet flowing breast, 68, 4
looks at God all day, 68, 5
nest of robins in her hair, 68, 8
WINTER
[Illustration]
THE GREAT BLIZZARD
HAMLIN GARLAND
A blizzard on the prairie corresponds to a storm at sea; it never affects
the traveler twice alike. Each norther seems to have a manner of attack
all its own. One storm may be short, sharp, high-keyed, and malevolent,
while another approaches slowly, relentlessly, wearing out the souls of
its victims by its inexorable and long-continued cold and gloom. One
threatens for hours before it comes, the other leaps like a tiger upon
the defenseless settlement, catching the children unhoused, the men
unprepared; of this character was the first blizzard Lincoln ever saw.
The day was warm and sunny. The eaves dripped musically, and the
icicles dropping from the roof fell occasionally with pleasant crash.
The snow grew slushy, and the bells of wood teams jingled merrily all
the forenoon, as the farmers drove to their timber-lands five or six
miles away. The room was uncomfortably warm at times, and the master
opened the outside door. It was the eighth day of January. One afternoon
recess, as the boys were playing in their shirt-sleeves, Lincoln called
Milton’s attention to a great cloud rising in the west and north. A vast,
slaty-blue, seamless dome, silent, portentous, with edges of silvery
frosty light.
“It’s going to storm,” said Milton. “It always does when we have a south
wind and a cloud like that in the west.”
When Lincoln set out for home, the sun was still shining, but the edge of
the cloud had crept, or more properly slid, across the sun’s disk, and
its light was growing cold and pale. In fifteen minutes more the wind
from the south ceased—there was a moment of breathless pause, and then,
borne on the wings of the north wind, the streaming clouds of soft, large
flakes of snow drove in a level line over the homeward-bound scholars,
sticking to their clothing and faces and melting rapidly. It was not yet
cold enough to freeze, though the wind was colder. The growing darkness
troubled Lincoln most.
By the time he reached home, the wind was a gale, the snow a vast
blinding cloud, filling the air and hiding the road. Darkness came on
instantly, and the wind increased in power, as though with the momentum
of the snow. Mr. Stewart came home early, yet the breasts of his horses
were already sheathed in snow. Other teamsters passed, breasting the
storm, and calling cheerily to their horses. One team, containing a woman
and two men, neighbors living seven miles north, gave up the contest, and
turned in at the gate for shelter, confident that they would be able to
go on in the morning. In the barn, while rubbing the ice from the horses,
the men joked and told stories in a jovial spirit, with the feeling
generally that all would be well by daylight. The boys made merry also,
singing songs, popping corn, playing games, in defiance of the storm.
But when they went to bed, at ten o’clock, Lincoln felt some vague
premonition of a dread disturbance of nature, far beyond any other
experience in his short life. The wind howled like ten thousand tigers,
and the cold grew more and more intense. The wind seemed to drive in and
through the frail tenement; water and food began to freeze within ten
feet of the fire.
Lincoln thought the wind at that hour had attained its utmost fury, but
when he awoke in the morning, he saw how mistaken he had been. He crept
to the fire, appalled by the steady, solemn, implacable clamor of the
storm. It was like the roarings of all the lions of Africa, the hissing
of a wilderness of serpents, the lashing of great trees. It benumbed his
thinking, it appalled his heart, beyond any other force he had ever known.
The house shook and snapped, the snow beat in muffled, rhythmic
pulsations against the walls, or swirled and lashed upon the roof, giving
rise to strange, multitudinous sounds; now dim and far, now near and
all-surrounding; producing an effect of mystery and infinite reach, as
though the cabin were a helpless boat, tossing on an angry, limitless sea.
Looking out, there was nothing to be seen but the lashing of the wind
and snow. When the men attempted to face it, to go to the rescue of the
cattle, they found the air impenetrably filled with fine, powdery snow,
mixed with the dirt caught up from the plowed fields by a terrific blast,
moving ninety miles an hour. It was impossible to see twenty feet, except
at long intervals. Lincoln could not see at all when facing the storm.
When he stepped into the wind, his face was coated with ice and dirt, as
by a dash of mud—a mask which blinded the eyes, and instantly froze to
his cheeks. Such was the power of the wind that he could not breathe an
instant unprotected. His mouth being once open, it was impossible to draw
breath again without turning from the wind.
The day was spent in keeping warm and in feeding the stock at the barn,
which Mr. Stewart reached by desperate dashes, during the momentary
clearing of the air following some more than usually strong gust. Lincoln
attempted to water the horses from the pump, but the wind blew the water
out of the pail. So cold had the wind become that a dipperful, thrown
into the air, fell as ice. In the house it became more and more difficult
to remain cheerful, notwithstanding the family had fuel and food in
abundance.
Oh, that terrible day! Hour after hour they listened to that prodigious,
appalling, ferocious uproar. All day Lincoln and Owen moved restlessly
to and fro, asking each other, “Won’t it ever stop?” To them the storm
now seemed too vast; too ungovernable, to ever again be spoken to a calm,
even by God Himself.
It seemed to Lincoln that no power whatever could control such fury; his
imagination was unable to conceive of a force greater than this war of
wind or snow.
On the third day the family rose with weariness, and looked into each
other’s faces with a sort of horrified surprise. Not even the invincible
heart of Duncan Stewart, nor the cheery good nature of his wife, could
keep a gloomy silence from settling down upon the house. Conversation
was scanty; nobody laughed that day, but all listened anxiously to
the invisible tearing at the shingles, beating against the door, and
shrieking around the eaves. The frost upon the windows, nearly half an
inch thick in the morning, kept thickening into ice, and the light was
dim at mid-day. The fire melted the snow on the window-panes and upon the
door, while around the key-hole and along every crack, frost formed. The
men’s faces began to wear a grim, set look, and the women sat with awed
faces and downcast eyes full of unshed tears, their sympathies going out
to the poor travelers, lost and freezing.
The men got to the poor dumb animals that day to feed them; to water them
was impossible. Mr. Stewart went down through the roof of the shed, the
door being completely sealed up with solid banks of snow and dirt. One
of the guests had a wife and two children left alone in a small cottage
six miles farther on, and physical force was necessary to keep him from
setting out in face of the deadly tempest. To him the nights seemed
weeks, and the days interminable, as they did to the rest, but it would
have been death to venture out.
That night, so disturbed had all become, they lay awake listening,
waiting, hoping for a change. About midnight Lincoln noticed that the
roar was no longer so steady, so relentless, and so high-keyed as before.
It began to lull at times, and though it came back to the attack with all
its former ferocity, still there was a perceptible weakening. Its fury
was becoming spasmodic. One of the men shouted down to Mr. Stewart, “The
storm is over,” and when the host called back a ringing word of cheer,
Lincoln sank into deep sleep in sheer relief.
Oh, the joy with which the children melted the ice on the window-panes,
and peered out on the familiar landscape, dazzling, peaceful, under the
brilliant sun and wide blue sky. Lincoln looked out over the wide plain,
ridged with vast drifts; on the far blue line of timber, on the near-by
cottages sending up cheerful columns of smoke (as if to tell him the
neighbors were alive), and his heart seemed to fill his throat. But the
wind was with him still, for so long and continuous had its voice sounded
in his ears, that even in the perfect calm his imagination supplied its
loss with fainter, fancied roarings.
Out in the barn the horses and cattle, hungry and cold, kicked and
bellowed in pain, and when the men dug them out, they ran and raced
like mad creatures, to start the blood circulating in their numbed and
stiffened limbs. Mr. Stewart was forced to tunnel to the barn door,
cutting through the hard snow as if it were clay. The drifts were solid,
and the dirt mixed with the snow was disposed on the surface in beautiful
wavelets, like the sands at the bottom of a lake. The drifts would bear
a horse. The guests were able to go home by noon, climbing above the
fences, and rattling across the plowed ground.
And then in the days which followed, came grim tales of suffering and
heroism. Tales of the finding of stage-coaches with the driver frozen on
his seat and all his passengers within; tales of travelers striving to
reach home and families. Cattle had starved and frozen in their stalls,
and sheep lay buried in heaps beside the fences where they had clustered
together to keep warm. These days gave Lincoln a new conception of the
prairies. It taught him that however bright and beautiful they might be
in summer under skies of June, they could be terrible when the Norther
was abroad in his wrath. They seemed now as pitiless and destructive as
the polar ocean. It seemed as if nothing could live there unhoused. All
was at the mercy of that power, the north wind, whom only the Lord Sun
could tame.
This was the worst storm of the winter, though the wind seemed never
to sleep. To and fro, from north to south, and south to north, the dry
snow sifted till it was like fine sand that rolled under the heel with
a ringing sound on cold days. After each storm the restless wind got to
work to pile the new-fallen flakes into ridges behind every fence or
bush, filling every ravine and forcing the teamsters into the fields and
out on to the open prairie. It was a savage and gloomy time for Lincoln,
with only the pleasure of his school to break the monotony of cold.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Hamlin Garland (1860-⸺) was born in Wisconsin. His
father was a farmer-pioneer, who, always eager to be upon the border
line of agricultural development, moved from Wisconsin to Minnesota,
from Minnesota to Iowa, and from Iowa to Dakota. The hope of cheaper
acres, better soil, and bigger crops lured him on.
When Hamlin Garland turned his attention to literature he was keen
enough to see the literary value of his early experiences. He
resolved to interpret truthfully the life of the western farmer and
its great hardships and limitations, no less than its hopes, joys,
and achievements. In doing this, through a succession of short
stories and novels, he won fame and success. In _A Son of the Middle
Border_, an autobiography, he has written an intensely interesting
and valuable record of typical experiences in the development of the
Middle West. This selection is taken from _Boy Life on the Prairie_.
=Discussion.= 1. What distinguishes a blizzard from other violent
storms? 2. What are the dangers when it comes without ample warning?
3. What was the manner of attack of this blizzard? 4. What caused
the early darkness? 5. What was it in the storm that “appalled” the
boy’s heart and “benumbed his thinking”? 6. What effect had it upon
other members of the household? 7. Has man any power to oppose the
violence of such a storm? 8. What was the velocity of the wind? 9.
How long did the blizzard last? How did it compare in this respect
with the ordinary blizzard? 10. What name was given it because of its
force, fury, and duration? 11. What results of the storm proved its
violence? 12. What new idea of the prairie did the storm give the
boy Lincoln? 13. Pronounce the following: recess; infinite; columns;
calm; heroism; implacable.
=Phrases=
defenseless settlement, 69, 7
dripped musically, 69, 10
seamless dome, 70, 1
breathless pause, 70, 9
sheathed in snow, 70, 19
vague premonition, 70, 30
dread disturbance, 70, 30
implacable clamor, 71, 1
rhythmic pulsations, 71, 5
multitudinous sounds, 71, 7
invisible tearing, 72, 9
perceptible weakening, 72, 33
becoming spasmodic, 72, 33
monotony of cold, 74, 4
THE FROST
HANNAH F. GOULD
The Frost looked forth on a still, clear night,
And whispered, “Now, I shall be out of sight;
So, through, the valley, and over the height,
In silence I’ll take my way.
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
That make such a bustle and noise in vain;
But I’ll be as busy as they!”
So he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed
With diamonds and pearls; and over the breast
Of the quivering lake, he spread
A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The glittering point of many a spear
Which he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock could rear its head.
He went to the window of those who slept,
And over each pane like a fairy crept;
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped,
By the morning light were seen
Most beautiful things!—there were flowers and trees,
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees;
There were cities and temples and towers; and these
All pictured in silvery sheen!
But he did one thing that was hardly fair—
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there
That all had forgotten for him to prepare,
“Now, just to set them a-thinking,
I’ll bite this basket of fruit,” said he,
“And this costly pitcher I’ll burst in three!
And the glass of water they’ve left for me,
Shall ‘tchick’ to tell them I’m drinking.”
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Hannah F. Gould (1789-1865) was an American poet,
born at Lancaster, Mass. At the age of eleven she removed with her
parents to Newburyport, Mass., where she lived the rest of her life.
A collection of her poems, entitled _Hymns and Poems for Children_,
contains many beautiful selections.
=Discussion.= 1. Why does the poet personify “The Frost”? 2. What
pictures do the following give you: “powdered its crest”; “their
boughs he dressed”? 3. What picture of the window pane does stanza
3 give you? 4. Which line tells you on what kind of night to expect
frost?
=Phrases=
blustering train, 75, 5
in vain, 75, 7
hung on its margin, 75, 15
burst in three, 76, 3
THE FROST SPIRIT
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes! You may trace his footsteps now
On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill’s withered
brow.
He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant
green came forth,
And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down to
earth.
He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—from the frozen Labrador—
From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear wanders
o’er—
Where the fisherman’s sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless forms
below
In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues grow!
He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—on the rushing Northern blast,
And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went past.
With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla glow
On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.
He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—and the quiet lake shall feel
The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater’s heel;
And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the leaning
grass,
Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass.
He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—let us meet him as we may,
And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away;
And gather closer the circle round, when that fire-light dances high,
And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes
by!
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
For Biography, see page 60.
=Discussion.= 1. Why does the poet personify “The Frost Spirit”? 2.
Why is “Fiend” personified? 3. How can one “trace his footsteps” on
woods and fields? 4. Locate on a map Labrador, the pine region of
Norway, and the volcano of Hecla. 5. What is “the icy bridge of the
northern seas”? 6. What are “the luckless forms below”? 7. Why does
the poet say “In the sunless cold of the lingering night”? 8. What
does the poet mean by “the shriek of the baffled Fiend”?
=Phrases=
blasted fields, 76, 2
luckless forms, 77, 1
sunless cold, 77, 2
fearful breath, 77, 4
unscorched wing, 77, 5
ancient ice, 77, 6
torpid touch, 77, 8
glazing breath, 77, 8
THE SNOW STORM
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight; the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end.
The steed and traveler stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come, see the north wind’s masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall,
Mauger the farmer’s sighs, and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882) was a native of Boston,
born not far from Franklin’s birthplace. He was the oldest among that
brilliant group of New England scholars and writers that developed
under the influence of Harvard College. Emerson was a quiet boy,
but that he had high ambitions and sturdy determination is shown
by the fact that he worked his own way through college. He is best
known for his essays, full of noble ideas and wise philosophy,
but he also wrote poetry. As a poet he was careless of his meter,
making his lines often purposely rugged, but they are always charged
and bristling with thoughts that shock and thrill like electric
batteries. In 1836 he wrote the “Concord Hymn” containing the famous
lines:
“Here once the embattled farmers stood
And fired the shot heard round the world!”
His poems of nature are clear-cut and vivid as snapshots. “The Humble
Bee,” as a critic puts it, “seems almost to shine with the heat and
light of summer.”
=Discussion.= 1. Picture the scene described in the first five
lines. 2. Compare with the picture given you in the first stanza of
“Snow-Flakes,” page 80. 3. Read in a way to bring out the contrast
between the wild storm and the scene within the “farmhouse at the
garden’s end.” 4. What is meant by “fierce artificer”? 5. What is
the “tile” with which the poet imagines the “unseen quarry” is
furnished? 6. Of what are the “white bastions” made? 7. Does the use
of the word “windward” add to the picture and does such detail add
to the beauty of the poem or detract from it? 8. Who is described as
“myriad-handed”? 9. What is the mockery in hanging “Parian wreaths”
on a coop or kennel? 10. What picture do lines 20, 21, and 22 give
you? 11. What does the “mad wind’s night-work” do for Art?
=Phrases=
courier’s feet delayed, 78, 6
radiant fireplace, 78, 8
tumultuous privacy, 78, 9
north wind’s masonry, 78, 10
myriad-handed, 78, 15
Parian wreaths, 78, 18
tapering turret, 78, 22
hours are numbered, 78, 23
slow structures, 79, 2
frolic architecture, 79, 4
SNOWFLAKES
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow,
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) was born in
Portland, Maine. In “The Courtship of Miles Standish” he has made
us acquainted with his ancestors, John Alden and Priscilla Mullens,
passengers on the _Mayflower_.
Longfellow’s education was obtained in Portland and at Bowdoin
College, where he had for classmates several youths who afterward
became famous, notably, Nathaniel Hawthorne and Franklin Pierce.
Upon Longfellow’s graduation, the trustees of the college, having
decided to establish a chair of modern languages, proposed that this
young graduate should fit himself for the position. Three years,
therefore, he spent in delightful study and travel in France, Spain,
Italy, and Germany. Here was laid the foundation for his scholarship,
and, as in Irving on his first European trip, there was kindled
that passion for romantic lore which followed him through life and
which gave direction to much of his work. He mastered the language
of each country visited, in a remarkably short time, and many of the
choicer poems found in these languages he has given to us in English.
After five years at Bowdoin, Longfellow was invited in 1834 to the
chair of modern languages in Harvard College. Again he was given an
opportunity to prepare himself by a year of study abroad. In 1836
he began his active work at Harvard and took up his residence in
the historic Craigie House, overlooking the Charles River—a house
in which Washington had been quartered for some months when he came
to Cambridge in 1775 to take command of the Continental forces.
Longfellow was thenceforth one of the most prominent members of
that group of men including Sumner, Hawthorne, Agassiz, Lowell, and
Holmes, who gave distinction to the Boston and Cambridge of earlier
days.
For twenty years Longfellow served as a teacher, introducing hundreds
of students to the literature of modern Europe. In his poetry, too,
he exerted a powerful influence for bringing about a relationship
between America and European civilization. He was thus a poet of
culture, rendering a great service at a time when the thought
of America was provincial. He was also a poet of the household,
writing many poems about the joys and sorrows of home life, poems of
aspiration and religious faith, poems about village characters as
well as about national heroes. He excels, too, as a writer of tales
in verse. “Evangeline,” a story of the Acadian exiles and their
wanderings; “The Courtship of Miles Standish,” a story of early
colonial life in Massachusetts; and “Hiawatha,” an Indian epic into
which he put a vast amount of legendary matter belonging to the first
owners of our country, are examples of his power in sustained verse
narrative. His ballads, such as “The Skeleton in Armor” and “The
Wreck of the Hesperus,” show his power to handle a legend in brief
and stirring form. He was a writer of almost perfect sonnets, and a
writer of prose of distinction. The most loved and most widely known
of American poets, Longfellow helped to interpret our common life in
terms of beauty.
=Discussion.= 1. What picture does the first stanza give you? 2.
Compare this picture with that found in the first ten lines of “The
Snow Storm,” page 78, and with that given in the third, fourth,
and fifth stanzas of “Midwinter,” page 82. 3. To what does “her”
refer in the second line? 4. Explain how “the troubled heart” makes
“confession in the countenance.” 5. How does the poet fancy “the
troubled sky” reveals its grief? 6. What is “the poem of the air”?
7. What are the “silent syllables” in which “the poem of the air” is
recorded? 8. What is “whispered and revealed”?
=Phrases=
cloud-folds, 80, 2
cloudy fancies, 80, 7
secret of despair, 80, 15
cloudy bosom, 80, 16
MIDWINTER
JOHN T. TROWBRIDGE
The speckled sky is dim with snow,
The light flakes falter and fall slow;
Athwart the hilltop, rapt and pale,
Silently drops a silvery veil;
And all the valley is shut in
By flickering curtains gray and thin.
But cheerily the chickadee
Singeth to me on fence and tree;
The snow sails round him as he sings,
White as the down on angels’ wings.
I watch the snow flakes as they fall
On bank and brier and broken wall;
Over the orchard, waste and brown,
All noiselessly they settle down,
Tipping the apple boughs and each
Light quivering twig of plum and peach.
On turf and curb and bower roof
The snowstorm spreads its ivory woof;
It paves with pearl the garden walk;
And lovingly round tattered stalk
And shivering stem its magic weaves
A mantle fair as lily leaves.
The hooded beehive, small and low,
Stands like a maiden in the snow;
And an old door slab is half hid
Under an alabaster lid.
All day it snows; the sheeted post
Gleams in the dimness like a ghost;
All day the blasted oak has stood
A muffled wizard of the wood;
Garland and airy cap adorn
The sumac and the wayside thorn,
And clustering spangles lodge and shine
In the dark tresses of the pine.
The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old,
Shrinks like a beggar in the cold;
In surplice white the cedar stands,
And blesses him with priestly hands.
Still cheerily the chickadee
Singeth to me on fence and tree;
But in my inmost ear is heard
The music of a holier bird;
And heavenly thoughts as soft and white
As snowflakes on my soul alight,
Clothing with love my lonely heart,
Healing with peace each bruiséd part,
Till all my being seems to be
Transfigured by their purity.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= John Townsend Trowbridge (1827-1916) was an American
author. His home was in Cambridge, Mass., within the shadow of
Harvard College. At one time he was one of the editors of _Our Young
Folks’ Magazine_. “Midwinter” and “Darius Green and His Flying
Machine” are two of his poems most widely known.
=Discussion.= 1. Compare the picture that the first stanza gives you
with that given you in the first stanza of “Snow-Flakes” and that
given you by the first ten lines of “The Snow Storm.” 2. Compare the
picture that the fourth stanza gives you with that given by lines
17-22 of “The Snow Storm.” 3. In the fourth stanza, what does the
poet say the snowstorm does? 4. What does the poet mean by “muffled
wizard of the wood”? 5. What pictures does the sixth stanza give you?
6. Which of these descriptions seems to you most apt? 7. What does
the poet mean by “inmost ear”? 8. Compare this meaning with that
of “inward eye” in Wordsworth’s “The Daffodils” and with “eyes in
the heart” in Lowell’s “To the Dandelion.” 9. What do the “heavenly
thoughts” suggested by the scene do for the poet?
=Phrases=
flickering curtains, 82, 6
ivory woof, 82, 18
paves with pearl, 82, 19
tattered stalk, 82, 20
shivering stem, 82, 21
alabaster lid, 82, 26
clustering spangles, 83, 7
surplice white, 83, 11
BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly;
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
Then heigh-ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot;
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly;
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
Then heigh-ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= William Shakespeare (1564-1616) was the greatest
English poet, and was one of the greatest poets the world has
ever known. He wrote for all times and all peoples. He was born
at Stratford-on-Avon, where fifty-two years later he died. At the
age of twenty-two he removed to London, where for twenty years he
wrote poems and plays, was an actor, and later a shareholder in the
theater. The last six years of his life he spent quietly at Stratford.
This song is from the comedy _As You Like It_, a story of the
adventures of a group of courtiers and rustics in the forest of
Arden. A charming element in Shakespeare’s romantic comedies is
the introduction of song-poems or lyrics. All the writers of those
days, the days of Good Queen Bess, wrote songs. England was “a nest
of singing birds.” They were real songs, too, filled with joy and
musical language, and all the people sang them to the accompaniment
of the quaint musical instruments of the time. And all the people
took part in games and pageants in “Merrie England,” and listened
to the strange tales of seafarers, and went to the playhouse to see
Shakespeare’s _As You Like It_.
=Discussion.= 1. Why is the thought of green holly appropriate in
connection with the winter wind? 2. What feeling does ingratitude
arouse? 3. Why does the poet say the “tooth” of the wind is not so
keen as man’s ingratitude? 4. What change of feeling do you notice
after line 6? 5. What do you think caused the change? 6. In the
second stanza read lines that show the poet did not really think that
“life is most jolly.” 7. Which lines explain the poet’s distrust
of friendship? 8. Which word in stanza I is explained by line 3 of
stanza 2? 9. Find a word in stanza 1 that gives the same thought as
the second line of the second stanza. 10. Give the meaning of “warp”
in stanza 2 (an old Saxon proverb said, “Winter shall warp water”).
=Phrases=
benefits forgot, 84, 13
friendship is feigning, 84, 18
WHEN ICICLES HANG BY THE WALL
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit;
Tu-who—a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow.
And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit;
Tu-who—a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
For Biography, see page 85.
This is the second part of a song of four stanzas, found in the
comedy _Love’s Labor’s Lost_. The first two stanzas are descriptive
of spring, and introduce the song of the cuckoo. The last two stanzas
are given here.
=Discussion.= 1. Do these lines describe life in the city or in the
country? 2. What does the use of names, Dick, Tom, Joan, and Marian,
add to the poem? 3. For what use were logs brought into the hall? 4.
Can you see fitness in the use of the word “greasy”? 5. What is the
song of the owl? 6. Explain the second line of stanza 2. 7. Why is
the owl called “staring”?
=Phrases=
blows his nail, 85, 2
ways be foul, 85, 5
staring owl, 86, 1
keel the pot, 86, 4
parson’s saw, 86, 6
brooding in the snow, 86, 7
PART II
ADVENTURES OLD AND NEW
_“Some say that the age of chivalry is past. The age of chivalry is never
past, so long as there is a wrong left unredressed on earth, or a man or
woman left to say, ‘I will redress that wrong or spend my life in the
attempt.’”_
—Charles Kingsley.
[Illustration: Copyright by Edwin A. Abbey (from a Copley Print,
copyright by Curtis & Cameron, Boston)
THE ROUND TABLE OF KING ARTHUR
(Galahad is taking his place next to Sir Lancelot, while King Arthur
rises to receive the new knight)]
ADVENTURES OLD AND NEW
INTRODUCTION
Along with our interest in the world of animals and the plant world and
the seasons, we are curious to know about people. A good deal of our
conversation is about what others say or do. And when we say of a man,
“He _does_ things,” we pay him the highest possible compliment.
Ever since man came on the earth he has been “doing things.” Centuries
ago, a man found out how to make fire by striking pieces of flint
together. Then other men discovered strange things that might be done by
means of the mysterious flame that sprang up. Another man ventured over
the hill or mountain out into the unknown world beyond, or far across
the blue water that seemed to reach to the end of the world. And when
the traveler returned, men listened eagerly to his stories. So from
earliest days men who ventured beyond the beaten track and did things
their fellows were too lazy or too timid to think of doing have been
interesting to those who stayed at home. In such ways ships were built to
carry voyagers to strange places. In such ways commerce sprang up, for
these adventurers brought back new foods and new objects, and knowledge
of men who lived in strange places. In such ways islands and continents
were discovered and settled, and men made war for the possession of rich
territories, and life for all men became more varied and interesting
through the adventures of the daring ones. For life is full of zest and
interest only in proportion as the spirit of adventure enters into it.
The men in former times who stood out above their fellows because of
their deeds were the subjects of song and story. Minstrels and poets in
all times have put into words the wonder and admiration of the people for
the doer of great deeds. Some stories of this kind you will read in the
pages that follow—just a few of the thousands of stories of adventure
that men have told in song and prose tale. Some of these stories
introduce King Arthur and his Round Table, in the days of chivalry, when
knighthood was in flower. A few of them are old ballads, which are tales
made by the people or by some of their number, and sung by the people or
by minstrels, or by mothers to their children, and so handed down from
one generation to another. And some of them are very recent indeed, for
they spring out of the heroic deeds of men in the World War that ended in
November, 1918.
This spirit of adventure that makes men willing to face danger, and even
death, to get some new experience or to render some service, the spirit
that makes some men explore strange places, or seek for the South Pole,
or fight in great battles—this spirit of adventure never dies. Sometimes
the story is of a knight clad in armor, and sometimes it is about a man
in khaki who died the other day that his fellows might live—the spirit is
the same. Men no longer dress like Lancelot, or like George Washington,
but they do the same sort of things. And people like to read of these
things or hear the stories told just as much now as they did when the
first traveler returned to the little village in Greece, or when Sir
Gareth and Sir Gawain won their victories, or when General Putnam or Mad
Anthony Wayne, in our Revolutionary War, performed some brave act for
the American cause. And now, all over the world, groups gather about the
soldier who has returned from Flanders Fields with his stories of valor.
Always the spirit of adventure lives; always we like to hear what it
brings back to us of news about life. If we have had no chance yet to do
a thing worth men’s praise, we get a larger view of life, a better sense
of what life really means, from reading or hearing such stories. And we
mean to do brave things ourselves, some day, so the stories thrill us
with the sense of what life holds for us.
These things we must remember, then, as we read. Through these stories
we become partners in all the brave deeds of the past. And, again, the
spirit of adventure is ever-living and is as keen today as in the past.
And, finally, by such stories our own knowledge of the fine qualities
of human nature is increased and our own experience enlarged so that we
become braver and better because we see what wonderful things life can
bring.
THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY
[Illustration]
KING ARTHUR STORIES
THE COMING OF ARTHUR
OF THE BIRTH OF ARTHUR AND HOW HE BECAME KING
Long years ago, there ruled over Britain a king called Uther Pendragon. A
mighty prince was he, and feared by all men; yet, when he sought the love
of the fair Igraine of Cornwall, she would have naught to do with him, so
that, from grief and disappointment, Uther fell sick, and at last seemed
like to die.
Now in those days, there lived a famous magician named Merlin, so
powerful that he could change his form at will, or even make himself
invisible; nor was there any place so remote but that he could reach it
at once, merely by wishing himself there. One day, suddenly he stood at
Uther’s bedside, and said:
“Sir King, I know thy grief, and am ready to help thee. Only promise to
give me, at his birth, the son that shall be born to thee, and thou shalt
have thy heart’s desire.”
To this the King agreed joyfully, and Merlin kept his word: for he gave
Uther the form of one whom Igraine had loved dearly, and so she took him
willingly for her husband.
When the time had come that a child should be born to the King and
Queen, Merlin appeared before Uther to remind him of his promise; and
Uther swore it should be as he had said. Three days later, a prince was
born and, with pomp and ceremony, was christened by the name of Arthur;
but immediately thereafter the King commanded that the child should be
carried to the postern-gate, there to be given to the old man who would
be found waiting without.
Not long after, Uther fell sick, and he knew that his end was come; so,
by Merlin’s advice, he called together his knights and barons and said to
them:
“My death draws near. I charge you, therefore, that ye obey my son even
as ye have obeyed me; and my curse upon him if he claim not the crown
when he is a man grown.”
Then the King turned his face to the wall and died.
Scarcely was Uther laid in his grave before disputes arose. Few of the
nobles had seen Arthur or even heard of him, and not one of them would
have been willing to be ruled by a child; rather, each thought himself
fitted to be king, and, strengthening his own castle, made war on his
neighbors until confusion alone was supreme, and the poor groaned because
there was none to help them.
Now when Merlin carried away Arthur—for Merlin was the old man who had
stood at the postern-gate—he had known all that would happen, and had
taken the child to keep him safe from the fierce barons until he should
be of age to rule wisely and well, and perform all the wonders prophesied
of him. He gave the child to the care of the good knight Sir Ector to
bring him up with his son Kay, but revealed not to him that it was the
son of Uther Pendragon that was given into his charge.
At last, when years had passed and Arthur was grown a tall youth
well skilled in knightly exercises, Merlin went to the Archbishop of
Canterbury and advised him that he should call together at Christmas-time
all the chief men of the realm to the great cathedral in London.
“For,” said Merlin, “there shall be seen a great marvel by which it
shall be made clear to all men who is the lawful king of this land.” The
Archbishop did as Merlin counseled. Under pain of a fearful curse, he
bade barons and knights come to London to keep the feast, and to pray
heaven to send peace to the realm.
The people hastened to obey the Archbishop’s commands and, from all
sides, barons and knights came riding in to keep the birth-feast of our
Lord. And when they had prayed, and were coming forth from the cathedral,
they saw a strange sight. There, in the open space before the church,
stood, on a great stone, an anvil thrust through with a sword; and on the
stone were written these words:
“Whoso can draw forth this sword is rightful King of Britain born.”
At once there were fierce quarrels, each man clamoring to be the first
to try his fortune, none doubting his own success. Then the Archbishop
decreed that each should make the venture in turn, from the greatest
baron to the least knight; and each in turn, having put forth his utmost
strength, failed to move the sword one inch, and drew back ashamed. So
the Archbishop dismissed the company, and having appointed guards to
watch over the stone, sent messengers through all the land to give word
of great jousts to be held in London at Easter, when each knight could
give proof of his skill and courage, and try whether the adventure of the
sword was for him.
Among those who rode to London at Easter was the good Sir Ector, and with
him his son, Sir Kay, newly made a knight, and the young Arthur. When the
morning came that the jousts should begin, Sir Kay and Arthur mounted
their horses and set out for the lists; but before they reached the
field, Kay looked and saw that he had left his sword behind. Immediately
Arthur turned back to fetch it for him, only to find the house fast shut,
for all were gone to view the tournament. Sore vexed was Arthur, fearing
lest his brother Kay should lose his chance of gaining glory, till, of
a sudden, he bethought him of the sword in the great anvil before the
cathedral. Thither he rode with all speed, and the guards having deserted
their posts to view the tournament, there was none to forbid him the
adventure. He leaped from his horse, seized the hilt, and instantly drew
forth the sword as easily as from a scabbard; then, mounting his horse
and thinking no marvel of what he had done, he rode after his brother
and handed him the weapon.
When Kay looked at it, he saw at once that it was the wondrous sword from
the stone. In great joy he sought his father, and showing it to him, said:
“Then must I be King of Britain.”
But Sir Ector bade him say how he came by the sword, and when Sir Kay
told how Arthur had brought it to him, Sir Ector bent his knee to the boy
and said:
“Sir, I perceive that ye are my King, and here I tender you my homage”;
and Kay did as his father. Then the three sought the Archbishop, to whom
they related all that had happened; and he, much marveling, called the
people together to the great stone, and bade Arthur thrust back the sword
and draw it forth again in the presence of all, which he did with ease.
But an angry murmur arose from the barons, who cried that what a boy
could do, a man could do; so, at the Archbishop’s word, the sword was put
back, and each man, whether baron or knight, tried in his turn to draw it
forth, and failed. Then, for the third time, Arthur drew forth the sword.
Immediately there arose from the people a great shout:
“Arthur is King! Arthur is King! We will have no King but Arthur”; and,
though the great barons scowled and threatened, they fell on their knees
before him while the Archbishop placed the crown upon his head, and they
swore to obey him faithfully as their lord and sovereign.
Thus Arthur was made king; and to all he did justice, righting wrongs and
giving to all their dues. Nor was he forgetful of those that had been his
friends; for Kay, whom he loved as a brother, he made seneschal and chief
of his household, and to Sir Ector, his foster father, he gave broad
lands.
HOW KING ARTHUR TOOK A WIFE, AND OF THE TABLE ROUND
Thus Arthur was made king, but he had to fight for his own; for eleven
great kings drew together and refused to acknowledge him as their lord,
and chief amongst the rebels was King Lot of Orkney, who had married
Arthur’s sister, Bellicent.
By Merlin’s advice Arthur sent for help overseas, to Ban and Bors, the
two great Kings who ruled in Gaul. With their aid, he overthrew his foes
in a fierce battle near the river Trent; and then he passed with them
into their own lands and helped them drive out their enemies. So there
was ever great friendship between Arthur and the Kings Ban and Bors, and
all their kindred; and afterwards some of the most famous Knights of the
Round Table were of that kin.
Then King Arthur set himself to restore order throughout his kingdom. To
all who would submit and amend their evil ways, he showed kindness; but
those who persisted in oppression and wrong he removed, putting in their
places others who would deal justly with the people. And because the
land had become overrun with forest during the days of misrule, he cut
roads through the thickets, that no longer wild beasts and men, fiercer
than the beasts, should lurk in their gloom, to the harm of the weak
and defenseless. Thus it came to pass that soon the peasant plowed his
fields in safety, and where had been wastes, men dwelt again in peace and
prosperity.
Amongst the lesser kings whom Arthur helped to rebuild their towns and
restore order was King Leodogran, of Cameliard. Now Leodogran had one
fair child, his daughter Guinevere; and from the time that first he saw
her, Arthur gave her all his love. So he sought counsel of Merlin, his
chief adviser. Merlin heard the King sorrowfully, and said:
“Sir King, when a man’s heart is set, he may not change. Yet had it been
well if ye had loved another.”
So the King sent his knights to Leodogran to ask of him his daughter; and
Leodogran consented, rejoicing to wed her to so good and knightly a king.
With great pomp, the princess was conducted to Canterbury, and there
the King met her, and they two were wed by the Archbishop in the great
cathedral, amid the rejoicings of the people.
On that same day did Arthur found his Order of the Round Table, the
fame of which was to spread throughout Christendom and endure through
all time. Now the Round Table had been made for King Uther Pendragon
by Merlin, who had meant thereby to set forth plainly to all men the
roundness of the earth. After Uther died, King Leodogran had possessed
it; but when Arthur was wed, he sent it to him as a gift, and great was
the King’s joy at receiving it. One hundred fifty knights might take
their places about it, and for them Merlin made sieges, or seats. One
hundred twenty-eight did Arthur knight at that great feast; thereafter,
if any sieges were empty, at the high festival of Pentecost new knights
were ordained to fill them, and by magic was the name of each knight
found inscribed, in letters of gold, in his proper siege. One seat only
long remained unoccupied, and that was the Siege Perilous. No knight
might occupy it until the coming of Sir Galahad; for, without danger to
his life, none might sit there who was not free from all stain of sin.
With pomp and ceremony did each knight take upon him the vows of true
knighthood: _to obey the King; to show mercy to all who asked it; to
defend the weak; and for no worldly gain to fight in a wrongful cause;_
and all the knights rejoiced together, doing honor to Arthur and to
his Queen. And all men of worship said it was merry to be under such a
chieftain, that would put his person in adventure as other poor knights
did. Then they rode forth to right the wrong and help the oppressed, and
by their aid, the King held his realm in peace, doing justice to all.
OF THE FINDING OF EXCALIBUR
Now when Arthur was first made king, as young knights will, he courted
peril for its own sake, and often would he ride unattended by lonely
forest ways, seeking the adventure that chance might send him. All
unmindful was he of the ruin to his realm if mischief befell him; and
even his trusty counselors, though they grieved that he should thus
imperil him, yet could not but love him the more for his hardihood.
So, on a day, he rode through the Forest Perilous where dwelt the Lady
Annoure, a sorceress of great might, who used her magic powers but for
the furtherance of her own desires. And as she looked from a turret
window, she descried King Arthur come riding down a forest glade, and the
sunbeams falling upon him made one glory of his armor and of his yellow
hair. Then, as Annoure gazed upon the King, she resolved that, come
what might, she would have him for her own, to dwell with her always and
fulfill all her behests. And so she bade her men to lower the drawbridge
and raise the portcullis, and sallying forth accompanied by her maidens,
she gave King Arthur courteous salutation, and prayed him that he would
rest within her castle that day, for that she had a petition to make to
him; and Arthur, doubting nothing of her good faith, suffered himself to
be led within.
Then was a great feast spread, and Annoure caused the King to be seated
in a chair of state at her right hand, while squires and pages served him
on bended knee. So when they had feasted, the King turned to the Lady
Annoure and said courteously:
“Lady, somewhat ye said of a request that ye would make. If there be
aught in which I may give pleasure to you, I pray you let me know it, and
I will serve you as knightly as I may.”
“In truth,” said the lady, “there is that which I would fain entreat of
you, most noble knight; yet suffer, I beseech you, that first I may show
you somewhat of my castle and my estate, and then will I crave a boon of
your chivalry.”
Then the sorceress led King Arthur from room to room of her castle,
and ever each displayed greater store of beauty than the last. In some
the walls were hung with rich tapestries, in others they gleamed with
precious stones; and the King marveled what might be the petition of
one that was mistress of such wealth. Lastly, Annoure brought the King
out upon the battlements, and as he gazed around him, he saw that since
he had entered the castle there had sprung up about it triple walls of
defense that shut out wholly the forest from view. Then turned he to
Annoure, and gravely said:
“Lady, greatly I marvel in what a simple knight may give pleasure to one
that is mistress of so wondrous a castle as ye have shown me here; yet if
there be aught in which I may render you knightly service, right gladly
would I hear it now, for I must go forth upon my way to render service to
those whose knight I am sworn.”
“Nay, now, King Arthur,” answered the sorceress mockingly, “ye may
not deceive me! for well I know you, and that all Britain bows to your
behest.”
“The more reason then that I should ride forth to right wrong and succor
them that, of their loyalty, render true obedience to their lord.”
“Ye speak as a fool,” said the sorceress; “why should one that may
command be at the beck and call of every hind and slave within his realm?
Nay, rest thee here with me, and I will make thee ruler of a richer land
than Britain, and satisfy thy every desire.”
“Lady,” said the King sternly, “I will hear and judge of your petition
here and now, and then will I go forth upon my way.”
“Nay,” said Annoure, “there needs not this harshness. I did but speak for
thine advantage. Only vow thee to my service, and there is naught that
thou canst desire that thou shalt not possess. Thou shalt be lord of this
fair castle and of the mighty powers that obey me. Why waste thy youth in
hardship and in the service of such as shall render thee little enough
again?”
Thereupon, without ever a word, the King turned him about and made for
the turret stair by which he had ascended, but nowhere could he find it.
Then said the sorceress, mocking him:
“Fair sir, how think ye to escape without my goodwill? See ye not the
walls that guard my stronghold? And think ye that I have not servants
enough to do my bidding?”
She clapped her hands and forthwith there appeared a company of squires
who, at her command, seized the King and bore him away to a strong
chamber where they locked him in.
And so the King abode that night, the prisoner of that evil sorceress,
with little hope that day, when it dawned, should bring him better cheer.
Yet lost he not courage, but kept watch and vigil the night through, lest
the powers of evil should assail him unawares. And with the early morning
light, Annoure came to visit him. More stately she seemed than the night
before, more tall and more terrible; and her dress was one blaze of
flashing gems so that scarce could the eye look upon her. As a queen
might address a vassal, so greeted she the King, and as condescending to
one of low estate, asked how he had fared that night. And the King made
answer:
“I have kept vigil as behooves a knight who, knowing himself to be in
the midst of danger, would bear himself meetly in any peril that should
offer.”
And the Lady Annoure, admiring his knightly courage, desired more
earnestly even than before to win him to her will, and she said:
“Sir Arthur, I know well your courage and knightly fame, and greatly do
I desire to keep you with me. Stay with me and I promise that ye shall
bear sway over a wider realm than any that ye ever heard of, and I, even
I, its mistress, will be at your command. And what lose ye if ye accept
my offer? Little enough; for never think that ye shall win the world from
evil, and men to loyalty and truth.”
Then answered the King in anger: “Full well I see that thou art in league
with evil and that thou but seekest to turn me from my purpose. I defy
thee, foul sorceress. Do thy worst; though thou slay me, thou shalt never
sway me to thy will”; and therewith, the King raised his cross-hilted
sword before her. Then the lady quailed at that sight. Her heart was
filled with hate, but she said:
“Go your way, proud King of a petty realm. Rule well your race of
miserable mortals, since it pleases you more than to bear sway over the
powers of the air. I keep you not against your will.”
With these words she passed from the chamber, and the King heard her give
command to her squires to set him without her gates, give him his horse,
and suffer him to go on his way.
And so it came to pass that the King found himself once more at large,
and marveled to have won so lightly to liberty. Yet knew he not the
depths of treachery in the heart of Annoure; for when she found she might
not prevail with the King, she bethought her how, by mortal means, she
might bring him to dishonor and death. And so, by her magic art, she
caused the King to follow a path that brought him to a fountain, whereby
a knight had his tent, and, for the love of adventure, held the way
against all comers. Now this knight was Sir Pellinore, and at that time
he had not his equal for strength and knightly skill, nor had any been
found that might stand against him. So, as the King drew nigh, Pellinore
cried:
“Stay, knight, for no one passes this way except he joust with me.”
“That is not a good custom,” said the King; “and it were well that ye
followed it no more.”
“It is my custom, and I will follow it still,” answered Pellinore; “if ye
like it not, amend it if ye can.”
“I will do my endeavor,” said Arthur, “but, as ye see, I have no spear.”
“Nay, I seek not to have you at disadvantage,” replied Pellinore, and
bade his squire give Arthur a spear. Then they dressed their shields,
laid their lances in rest, and rushed upon each other. Now the King was
wearied by his night’s vigil, and the strength of Pellinore was as the
strength of three men; so, at the first encounter, Arthur was unhorsed.
Then said he:
“I have lost the honor on horseback, but now will I encounter thee with
my sword and on foot.”
“I, too, will alight,” said Pellinore; “small honor to me were it if I
slew thee on foot, I being horsed the while.” So they encountered each
other on foot, and so fiercely they fought that they hewed off great
pieces of each other’s armor, and the ground was dyed with their blood.
But at the last, Arthur’s sword broke off short at the hilt, and so he
stood all defenseless before his foe.
“I have thee now,” cried Pellinore; “yield thee as recreant or I will
slay thee.”
“That will I never,” said the King; “slay me if thou canst.”
Then he sprang on Pellinore, caught him by the middle, and flung him to
the ground, himself falling with him. And Sir Pellinore marveled, for
never before had he encountered so bold and resolute a foe; but exerting
his great strength, he rolled himself over, and so brought Arthur beneath
him. Then Arthur would have perished, but at that moment Merlin stood
beside him, and when Sir Pellinore would have struck off the King’s head,
stayed his blow, crying:
“Pellinore, if thou slayest this knight, thou puttest the whole realm in
peril; for this is none other than King Arthur himself.”
Then was Pellinore filled with dread, and cried:
“Better make an end of him at once; for if I suffer him to live, what
hope have I of his grace, that have dealt with him so sorely?”
But before Pellinore could strike, Merlin caused a deep sleep to come
upon him; and raising King Arthur from the ground, he stanched his wounds
and recovered him of his swoon.
But when the King came to himself, he saw his foe lie, still as in death,
on the ground beside him; and he was grieved, and said:
“Merlin, what have ye done to this brave knight? Nay, if ye have slain
him, I shall grieve my life long; for a good knight he is, bold and a
fair fighter, though something wanting in knightly courtesy.”
“He is in better case than ye are, Sir King, who so lightly imperil your
person, and thereby your kingdom’s welfare; and, as ye say, Pellinore
is a stout knight, and hereafter shall he serve you well. Have no fear.
He shall wake again in three hours and have suffered naught by the
encounter. But for you, it were well that ye came where ye might be
tended for your wounds.”
“Nay,” replied the King, smiling, “I may not return to my court thus
weaponless; first will I find means to possess me of a sword.”
“That is easily done,” answered Merlin; “follow me, and I will bring you
where ye shall get you a sword, the wonder of the world.”
So, though his wounds pained him sore, the King followed Merlin by many
a forest path and glade, until they came upon a mere, bosomed deep in
the forest; and as he looked thereon, the King beheld an arm, clothed in
white samite, above the surface of the lake, and in the hand was a fair
sword that gleamed in the level rays of the setting sun.
“This is a great marvel,” said the King, “what may it mean?”
And Merlin made answer: “Deep is this mere, so deep indeed that no
man may fathom it; but in its depths, and built upon the roots of the
mountains, is the palace of the Lady of the Lake. Powerful is she with a
power that works ever for good, and she shall help thee in thine hour of
need.”
Anon the damsel herself came unto Arthur and said: “Sir Arthur, King,
yonder sword is mine and if ye will give me a gift when I ask it of you,
ye shall have it.”
“By my faith,” said Arthur, “I will give you what ye will ask.”
Then was Arthur aware of a little skiff, half hidden among the bulrushes
that fringed the lake; and leaping into the boat, without aid of oar,
he was wafted out into the middle of the lake, to the place where, out
of the water, rose the arm and sword. And leaning from the skiff, he
took the sword from the hand, which forthwith vanished, and immediately
thereafter the skiff bore him back to land.
Arthur drew from its scabbard the mighty sword, wondering at the marvel
of its workmanship, for the hilt shone with the elfin light of twinkling
gems—diamond and topaz and emerald, and many another whose name none
knows. And as he looked on the blade, Arthur was aware of mystic writings
on the one side and the other, and calling to Merlin, he bade him
interpret them.
“Sir,” said Merlin, “on the one side is written ‘Keep me,’ and on the
other ‘Throw me away.’”
“Then,” said the King, “which does it behoove me to do?”
“Keep it,” answered Merlin; “the time to cast it away is not yet come.
This is the good brand Excalibur, or Cut Steel, and well shall it serve
you. But what think ye of the scabbard?”
“A fair cover for so good a sword,” answered Arthur.
“Nay, it is more than that,” said Merlin, “for so long as ye keep it,
though ye be wounded never so sore, yet ye shall not bleed to death.” And
when he heard that, the King marveled the more.
Then they journeyed back to Caerleon, where the knights made great joy
of the return of their lord. And presently, thither came Sir Pellinore,
craving pardon of the King, who made but jest of his own misadventure.
And afterwards Sir Pellinore became of the Round Table, a knight vowed,
not only to deeds of hardihood, but also to gentleness and courtesy; and
faithfully he served the King, fighting ever to maintain justice and put
down wrong, and to defend the weak from the oppressor.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Historical Note.= The ancient Britons looked out from their little
island home with its protecting seas, and pictured the great unknown
world beyond as a fairyland filled with enchanted cities and
wonderful forests, and peopled by friendly fairies and magicians.
About the beginning of our Christian era the Romans came among them
for a time, teaching them obedience to law. Later, the barbarian
hordes came over the North Sea, to conquer them. But the invaders
were resisted by strong leaders among whom one by the name of Arthur
stands pre-eminent. Historians generally agree that a chieftain of
this name actually lived about the close of the fifth century or the
beginning of the sixth. Some say he was from the north, some from the
south, of England. Arthur became not only the great national hero,
but also the champion of Christianity against heathen invaders. He is
said to have united the scattered British clans and to have defeated
the invaders in twelve great battles.
In their days of distress many of the Britons fled across the Channel
and settled among their kindred, the Bretons of northern France.
From here Welsh bards with their harps wandered throughout all
Christendom, singing of Arthur’s heroic deeds. As time went on these
tales of Arthur became blended with the fairy stories of their old
happy dream-life. When chivalry was at its height, from the twelfth
to the fifteenth century, the strolling minstrels took up the legend,
adapting it to the ideals of the times and to the tastes of their
audiences in court and castle and market place.
In these songs and legends, Arthur appeared as a great king
surrounded at his “Table Round” with valiant knights who, under
vows of purity and holiness, went forth in daily quest of noble
deeds. Early in the twelfth century the legends were carried back to
England. A Welsh priest, Geoffrey of Monmouth, gave a form to these
tales which became widely popular, and later from this version and
others, Sir Thomas Malory wrote his story, “Le Morte D’Arthur” (The
Death of Arthur). In 1485, William Caxton, the first English printer,
published Sir Thomas’s story, which became the chief source of modern
poets who have written on this theme. Among these, the English poet,
Tennyson, in his beautiful “Idylls of the King,” has told the story
of Arthur and his knights.
Britain at the time in which Arthur is supposed to have lived was a
land of warring tribes. Christianity had gained little more than a
foothold. It was an age in which might was greater than right. But
when Arthur’s knights went forth at the command of their king, their
aim was to overthrow the injustice and lawlessness then so common in
the land. Wonderful deeds were done by that little company of brave
men, who rode abroad “redressing wrongs.”
=Discussion.= 1. Is there a historical basis for the stories of
Arthur? 2. How did they become interwoven with myth and legend? 3.
When Arthur became king, what was the condition of the people of
Britain? 4. Why did the barons oppose Arthur? 5. What reforms did
Arthur introduce? 6. Read lines which show that Arthur thought of
the poor as well as of the rich and the great. 7. What was the Round
Table? 8. Read the lines that tell of the vows made by the knights.
9. What did the knights promise first? 10. Why do you think Arthur
put this first? 11. What reason did Arthur give the sorceress for
not wishing to remain longer in her castle? 12. Find a word in
this speech that explains Arthur’s life. 13. Read lines which show
Arthur’s generosity toward a foe. 14. What ideals of conduct did
these stories uphold in times when might was greater than right? 15.
Pronounce the following: joust; tournament; stanched.
=Phrases=
confusion alone was supreme, 92, 18
knightly exercises, 92, 30
pain of a fearful curse, 92, 37
great jousts, 93, 20
sore vexed, 93, 30
tender you my homage, 94, 10
foster father, 94, 31
of that kin, 95, 8
persisted in oppression, 95, 11
days of misrule, 95, 14
with pomp and ceremony, 96, 14
men of worship, 96, 18
put his person in adventure, 96, 19
courted peril, 96, 24
fulfill all her behests, 97, 3
raise the portcullis, 97, 4
courteous salutation, 97, 5
fain entreat of you, 97, 17
crave a boon of your chivalry, 97, 20
render true obedience, 98, 4
kept vigil, 99, 3
bear himself meetly, 99, 4
bear sway, 99, 11
in league with evil, 99, 17
petty realm, 99, 23
by mortal means, 99, 34
do my endeavor, 100, 11
to have you at disadvantage, 100, 13
dressed their shields, 100, 14
yield thee as recreant, 100, 27
stanched his wounds, 101, 9
good brand Excalibur, 102, 24
THE STORY OF GARETH
HOW BEAUMAINS CAME TO KING ARTHUR’S COURT
King Arthur had a custom that at the feast of Pentecost he would not go
to meat until he had heard or seen a great marvel. And because of that
custom all manner of strange adventures came before him at that feast.
So Sir Gawain, a little before noon of the day of Pentecost, saw from a
window three men on horseback and a dwarf on foot, and one of the men was
higher than the other two, by a foot and a half. Then Sir Gawain went
unto the King and said, “Sir, go to your meat, for here at hand come
strange adventures.”
Right so came into the hall two men and upon their shoulders there
leaned the goodliest young man and the fairest that ever they all saw,
and he was tall and large and broad in the shoulders and the fairest and
largest-handed that ever man saw.
This young man said, “King Arthur, God bless you and all your fair
fellowship. For this cause I am come hither, to pray you to give me three
gifts and they shall not be unreasonably asked, but you may honorably
grant them me. The first gift I will ask now and the other two I will ask
this day twelvemonth.”
“Now ask,” said Arthur, “and ye shall have your asking.”
“Sir,” said the young man, “this is my petition, that ye will give me
meat and drink for this twelvemonth, and at that day I will ask mine
other two gifts.”
“My fair son,” said Arthur, “ask better, I counsel thee, for this is but
simple asking; for my heart tells me that thou shalt prove a man of right
great honor.”
“Sir,” said the young man, “be that as it may, I have asked that I will
ask.”
“Well,” said the King, “ye shall have meat and drink enough; I never
refused that to friend or foe. But what is thy name?”
“I cannot tell you,” said the young man.
“That is strange,” said the King, “that thou knowest not thy name and
thou art the goodliest young man that ever I saw.”
Then the King charged Sir Kay, the steward, that he should give the young
man meat and drink of the best as though he were a lord’s son.
“There is no need of that,” said Sir Kay, “for I am sure he is of lowly
birth. If he had come of gentlemen he would have asked of you horse and
armor, but such as he is, so he asketh. And as he hath no name I shall
name him Beaumains, that is Fair-hands, and into the kitchen I shall take
him.”
Then was Sir Gawain wroth and Sir Lancelot bade Sir Kay stop his mocking
of the young man. But Sir Kay bade the young man sit down to meat with
the boys of the kitchen and there he ate sadly. And then Sir Lancelot
bade him come to his chamber and there he should have meat and drink
enough. And this Sir Lancelot did of his great gentleness and courtesy.
And Sir Gawain proffered him meat and drink, but he refused them both and
thus he was put into the kitchen.
So he endured all that twelvemonth and never displeased man nor child,
but always he was meek and kindly. But ever when there was any jousting
of knights, that would he see if he might.
So it passed on till the feast of Pentecost. On that day there came a
damsel into the hall and saluted the King and prayed for succor for her
lady who was besieged in her castle.
“Who is your lady and what is his name who hath besieged her?” asked the
King.
“Sir King,” she said, “my lady’s name shall ye not know from me at this
time, but the tyrant that besiegeth her and destroyeth her lands is
called the Red Knight of the Red Lands.”
“I know him not,” said the King.
“Sir,” said Sir Gawain, “I know him well; men say that he hath seven
men’s strength and from him I escaped once full hard with my life.”
“Fair damsel,” said the King, “there be knights here would do their power
to rescue your lady, but because you will not tell her name, none of my
knights shall go with you by my will.”
Then Beaumains came before the King and said, “Sir King, I have been this
twelvemonth in your kitchen and now I will ask my two gifts.”
“Ask,” said the King, “and right gladly will I grant them.”
“Sir, these shall be my two gifts, first that ye will grant me to have
this adventure.”
“Thou shalt have it,” said the King.
“Then, sir, this is the other gift, that ye shall bid Sir Lancelot to
make me knight. And I pray you let him ride after me and make me knight
when I ask him.”
“All this shall be done,” said the King.
“Fie on thee,” said the damsel, “shall I have none but one that is your
kitchen boy?”
Then was she wroth and took her horse and departed from him.
And with that there came one to Beaumains and told him his horse and
armor were come and there was the dwarf ready with all things that he
needed in the richest manner. So when he was armed there were few so
goodly men as he was.
Then Sir Kay said all open in the hall, “I will ride after my boy of the
kitchen, to see whether he will know me for his better.” And as Beaumains
overtook the damsel, right so came Sir Kay and said, “Beaumains, what,
sir, know ye not me?”
“Yea,” said Beaumains, “I know you for an ungentle knight of the court
and therefore beware of me.”
Therewith Sir Kay put his spear in the rest and ran straight upon him,
and Beaumains came as fast upon him with his sword and thrust him through
the side, so that Sir Kay fell down as if he were dead and Beaumains took
Sir Kay’s shield and spear and rode on his way.
When Sir Lancelot overtook him he proffered Sir Lancelot to joust and
they came together fiercely and fought for an hour, and Lancelot marveled
at Beaumains’ strength, for he fought more like a giant than a knight. So
Sir Lancelot said, “Beaumains, fight not so sore; your quarrel and mine
is not so great but we may leave off.”
“Truly that is truth,” said Beaumains, “but it doth me good to feel your
might.”
“Hope ye that I may any while stand a proved knight?” said Beaumains.
“Yea,” said Lancelot, “do as ye have done and I shall be your warrant.”
“Then I pray you,” said Beaumains, “give me the order of knighthood.”
“Then must ye tell me your name,” said Lancelot.
“Sir,” he said, “my name is Gareth, and I am brother unto Sir Gawain.”
“Ah, sir,” said Lancelot, “I am more glad of you than I was, for ever
methought ye should be of great blood and that ye came not to the court
for meat or drink.”
Then Sir Lancelot gave him the order of knighthood and departed from him
and came to Sir Kay and made him to be borne home upon his shield and he
was healed of his wound.
But when Beaumains had overtaken the damsel, she said, “What dost thou
here? Thou smellest of the kitchen, thy clothes be soiled with the
grease and tallow that thou gainest in King Arthur’s kitchen. Therefore,
turn again, dirty kitchen boy; I know thee well, for Sir Kay named thee
Beaumains.”
“Damsel,” said Beaumains, “say to me what ye will, I will not go from
you, whatever ye say, for I have undertaken to King Arthur for to achieve
your adventure and so shall I finish it to the end or I shall die
therefor.”
So thus as they rode in the wood, there came a man flying all that ever
he might. “Whither wilt thou?” said Beaumains.
“O lord,” he said, “help me, for six thieves have taken my lord and bound
him, so I am afraid lest they will slay him.”
“Bring me thither,” said Beaumains.
And so they rode together until they came where the knight was bound and
then he rode unto the thieves and slew them all and unbound the knight.
And the knight thanked him and prayed him to ride with him to his castle
and he should reward him for his good deeds.
“Sir,” said Beaumains, “I will no reward have; I was this day made knight
of noble Sir Lancelot and therefore I will no reward have but God reward
me. Also I must follow this damsel.”
And when he came nigh her, she bade him ride from her. “For thou smellest
of the kitchen,” she said. Then the same knight which was rescued rode
after the damsel and prayed them to lodge with him that night, and so
that night they had good cheer and rest.
And on the morrow the damsel and Beaumains rode on their way until they
came to a great forest. And there was a river and but one passage and
there were two knights to prevent their crossing. “What sayest thou,”
said the damsel, “wilt thou match yonder knights or turn again?”
“Nay,” said Sir Beaumains, “I will not turn again if they were six more.”
And therewith he rushed into the water and they drew their swords and
smote at each other and Sir Beaumains slew both the knights.
“Alas,” said the damsel, “that a kitchen boy should have the fortune to
destroy two such brave knights.”
“Damsel,” said Beaumains, “I care not what ye say, so that I may rescue
your lady.”
“If you follow me,” said the damsel, “thou art but slain, for I see all
that ever thou dost is but by misadventure and not by might of thy hands.”
“Well, damsel, ye may say what ye will, but wheresoever ye go, I will
follow you.”
So Beaumains rode with that lady till evening and ever she chid him and
would not stop. And they came to a black plain and there was a black
hawthorne and thereon hung a black shield and by it stood a black spear,
great and long, and a great black horse covered with silk.
HOW BEAUMAINS FOUGHT WITH THE FOUR KNIGHTS
There sat a knight all armed in black armor and his name was the Knight
of the Black Lands. And when the damsel came nigh he said, “Damsel,
have ye brought this knight of King Arthur to be your champion?” “Nay,
fair knight,” said she, “this is but a kitchen boy that was fed in King
Arthur’s kitchen for alms.”
“Why cometh he,” said the knight, “in such array? It is shame that he
beareth you company.”
“Sir, I cannot be delivered of him; through mishap I saw him slay two
knights at the passage of the water and other deeds he did before right
marvelous and by chance.”
“I marvel,” said the Black Knight, “that any man that is of honor will
fight with him.”
“They know him not,” said the damsel.
“That may be,” said the knight, “but this much I shall grant you; I shall
put him down upon foot, and his horse and his armor he shall leave with
me, for it were shame to me to do him any more harm.”
When Sir Beaumains heard him say thus, he said, “Sir Knight, thou art
full liberal of my horse and armor. I let thee know it cost thee nought,
and horse nor armor gettest thou none of mine unless thou win them with
thy hands.”
Then in great wrath they departed with their horses and came together
as it had been thunder. When they had fought for an hour and a half the
Black Knight fell down off his horse in swoon and there he died. And
Beaumains armed him in his armor and took his horse and rode after the
damsel.
When she saw him come nigh, she said, “Away, kitchen boy, for the smell
of thy clothes grieveth me. Alas, that a kitchen boy should by mishap
slay so good a knight as thou hast done.”
“I warn you, fair damsel,” said Beaumains, “that I will not flee away nor
leave your company for all that ye can say; therefore, ride on your way,
for follow you I will, whatsoever happen.”
Thus as they rode together they saw a knight come driving by them all in
green, both his horse and his armor, and when he came nigh the damsel, he
asked her, “Is that my brother, the Black Knight, that ye have brought
with you?”
“Nay, nay,” she said, “this kitchen boy hath slain your brother.”
“Ah! traitor,” said the Green Knight, “thou shalt die for slaying of my
brother.”
“I defy thee,” said Beaumains, “for I slew him knightly and not
shamefully.”
And then they ran together with all their might and fought a long while,
and at last Beaumains gave the Green Knight such a buffet upon the helmet
that he fell upon his knees. And then the Green Knight cried for mercy
and prayed Sir Beaumains to slay him not.
“Fair knight,” said the Green Knight, “save my life and I will forgive
thee the death of my brother and forever be thy man, and thirty knights
that follow me shall forever do you service.”
“Sir Knight,” said Beaumains, “all this availeth thee not unless this
damsel speak with me for thy life.” And therewith he made a motion as if
to slay him.
“Let be,” said the damsel, “slay him not, for if thou do thou shalt
repent it.”
Then Beaumains said, “Sir Knight, I release thee at this damsel’s
request.”
And then the Green Knight kneeled down and did him homage with his sword,
and he said, “Ye shall lodge with me this night and tomorrow I shall help
you through this forest.” So they took their horses and rode to his manor.
And ever the damsel rebuked Beaumains and would not allow him to sit at
her table. “I marvel,” said the Green Knight, “why ye rebuke this noble
knight as ye do, for I warn you, damsel, he is a full noble knight and
I know no knight is able to match him, therefore you do great wrong to
rebuke him.”
And on the morrow they took their horses and rode on their way and the
Green Knight said, “My lord Beaumains, I and these thirty knights shall
be always at your summons both early and late.”
“It is well said,” said Beaumains; “when I call upon you ye must yield
you unto King Arthur and all your knights.”
“If ye so command us, we shall be ready at all times,” said the Green
Knight. So then departed the Green Knight.
So within a while they saw a town as white as any snow and the lord of
the tower was in his castle and looked out at a window and saw a damsel
and a knight. So he armed him hastily. And when he was on horseback,
it was all red, both his horse and his armor. And when he came nigh
he thought it was his brother, the Black Knight, and he cried aloud,
“Brother, what do ye here?”
“Nay, nay,” said the damsel, “it is not he. This is but a kitchen boy. He
hath killed thy brother, the Black Knight. Also I saw thy brother, the
Green Knight, overcome by him. Now may ye be revenged on him.”
With this the knights came together with all their might and fought
furiously for two hours, so that it was wonder to see that strong battle.
Yet at the last, Sir Beaumains struck the Red Knight to the earth. And
the Red Knight cried mercy, saying, “Noble knight, slay me not, and I
shall yield me to thee with sixty knights that be at my command. And I
forgive thee all thou hast done to me, and the death of my brother, the
Black Knight.”
“All this availeth not,” said Beaumains, “unless the damsel pray me to
save thy life.” And therewith he made a motion as if to slay him.
“Let be,” said the damsel; “slay him not, for he is a noble knight.”
Then Beaumains bade the Red Knight stand up and the Red Knight prayed
them to see his castle and rest there that night. And upon the morn he
came before Beaumains with his three score knights and offered him his
homage and service.
“I thank you,” said Beaumains, “but this ye shall grant me: to come
before my lord King Arthur and yield you unto him to be his knight, when
I call upon you.”
“Sir,” said the Red Knight, “I will be ready at your summons.”
So Sir Beaumains departed and the damsel, and ever she rode chiding him.
“Damsel,” said Beaumains, “ye are uncourteous to rebuke me as ye do, for
I have done you good service.”
“Well,” said she, “right soon ye shall meet a knight who shall pay thee
all thy wages, for he is the greatest of the world, except King Arthur.”
And soon there was before them a city rich and fair, and between them and
the city there was a fair meadow and therein were many pavilions fair to
behold.
“Lo,” said the damsel, “yonder is a lord that owneth yonder city and his
custom is when the weather is fair to joust in this meadow. And ever
there be about him five hundred knights and gentlemen of arms.”
“That goodly lord,” said Beaumains, “would I fain behold.”
“Thou shalt see him time enough,” said the damsel, and so as she rode
near she saw the pavilion where he was. “Lo,” said she, “seest thou
yonder pavilion that is all blue of color, and the lord’s name is Sir
Persant, the lordliest knight that ever thou lookedst on?”
“It may well be,” said Beaumains, “but be he never so stout a knight, in
this field I shall abide until I see him.”
“Sir,” she said, “I marvel what thou art; boldly thou speakest and boldly
thou hast done, that have I seen; therefore I pray thee save thyself, for
thou and thy horse are weary and here I dread me sore lest ye catch some
hurt. But I must tell you that Sir Persant is nothing in might unto the
knight that laid the siege about my lady.”
“As for that,” said Sir Beaumains, “since I have come so nigh this
knight, I will prove his might before I depart from him.”
“Oh,” said the damsel, “I marvel what manner of man ye be, for so
shamefully did never woman treat knight as I have done you and ever
courteously ye have borne it. Alas, Sir Beaumains, forgive me all that I
have said or done against thee.”
“With all my heart,” said he, “I forgive you and now I think there is no
knight living, but I am able enough for him.”
When Sir Persant saw them in the field, he sent to them to know whether
Beaumains came in war or in peace.
“Say to thy lord,” said Beaumains, “that shall be as he pleases.”
And so Sir Persant rode against him, and his armor and trappings were
blue, and Beaumains saw him and made him ready and their horses rushed
together and they fought two hours and more. And at the last Beaumains
smote Sir Persant that he fell to the earth. Then Sir Persant yielded him
and asked mercy. With that came the damsel and prayed to save his life.
“I will gladly,” said Beaumains, “for it were pity this noble knight
should die.”
“Now this shall I do to please you,” said Sir Persant, “ye shall have
homage of me and an hundred knights to be always at your command.”
And so they went to Sir Persant’s pavilion to rest that night.
And so on the morn the damsel and Sir Beaumains took their leave.
“Fair damsel,” said Sir Persant, “whither are ye leading this knight?”
“Sir,” she said, “this knight is going to rescue my sister, Dame Liones,
who is besieged in the Castle Perilous.”
“Ah,” said Sir Persant, “she is besieged by the Red Knight of the Red
Lands, a man that is without mercy, and men say that he hath seven
men’s strength. He hath been well nigh two years at this siege and he
prolongeth the time, hoping to have Sir Lancelot to do battle with him,
or Sir Tristam, or Sir Lamorak, or Sir Gawain.”
“My lord, Sir Persant,” said the damsel, “I require that ye will make
this gentleman knight before he fight the Red Knight.”
“I will with all my heart,” said Sir Persant, “if it please him to take
the order of knighthood from so simple a man as I am.”
“Sir,” said Beaumains, “I thank you for your goodwill, but the noble
knight Sir Lancelot made me knight.”
“Ah,” said Sir Persant, “of a more renowned knight might ye not be made
knight, for of all knights he may be called chief of knighthood; and so
all the world saith that betwixt three knights is knighthood divided, Sir
Lancelot, Sir Tristam, and Sir Lamorak. Therefore, God speed ye well, for
if ye conquer the Red Knight, ye shall be called the fourth of the world.”
“Sir,” said Beaumains, “I would fain be of good fame and knighthood and
I will tell you both who I am. Truly then, my name is Gareth of Orkney,
and King Lot was my father, and my mother is King Arthur’s sister, and
Sir Gawain is my brother and so Sir Agravaine and Sir Gaheris, and I am
youngest of them all: And yet know not King Arthur nor Sir Gawain who I
am.”
HOW THE LADY THAT WAS BESIEGED HAD WORD FROM HER SISTER
The lady that was besieged had word of her sister’s coming by the dwarf,
and also how the knight had passed all the perilous passages.
“Dwarf,” said the lady, “I am glad of these things. Go thou unto my
sister and greet her well and commend me unto that gentle knight and pray
him to eat and to drink and make him strong, and say ye that I thank him
for his courtesy and goodness.”
So the dwarf departed and told Sir Beaumains all as ye have heard and
returned to the castle again. And there met him the Red Knight of the Red
Lands and asked him where he had been.
“Sir,” said the dwarf, “I have been with my lady’s sister of this castle,
and she hath been at King Arthur’s court and brought a knight with her.”
“Then I count her labor but lost, for though she had brought with her Sir
Lancelot, Sir Tristam, Sir Lamorak, or Sir Gawain, I would think myself
good enough for them all.”
“It may well be,” said the dwarf, “but this knight hath passed all the
perilous passages and slain the Black Knight and won the Green Knight,
the Red Knight, and the Blue Knight.”
“Then is he one of the four that I have named.”
“He is none of those,” said the dwarf.
“What is his name?” said the Red Knight.
“That will I not tell you,” said the dwarf.
“I care not,” said the Red Knight, “what knight soever he be, he shall
have a shameful death as many others have had.”
And then Beaumains and the damsel came to a plain and saw many tents and
a fair castle and there was much smoke and great noise and as they came
near they saw upon great trees there hung nigh forty goodly armed knights.
“Fair sir,” said the damsel, “all these knights came to this siege to
rescue my sister, and when the Red Knight of the Red Lands had overcome
them, he put them to this shameful death without mercy or pity.”
“Truly,” said Beaumains, “he useth shameful customs and it is marvel that
none of the noble knights of my lord Arthur have dealt with him.”
And there was near by a sycamore tree and there hung a horn and this Red
Knight had hanged it up there, that if there came any errant knight he
must blow that horn and then he would make him ready and come to him to
do battle.
“Sir, I pray you,” said the damsel, “blow ye not the horn till it be high
noon, for his strength increaseth until noon, and at this time men say he
hath seven men’s strength.”
“Ah, for shame, fair damsel, say ye so never more to me, for I will win
honorably, or die knightly in the field.”
Therewith he blew the horn so eagerly that the castle rang with the sound.
Then the Red Knight armed him hastily and all was blood red, his armor,
spear, and shield.
“Sir,” said the damsel, “yonder is your deadly enemy and at yonder window
is my sister.”
With that the Red Knight of the Red Lands called to Sir Beaumains, “Sir
knight, I warn thee that for this lady I have done many strong battles.”
“If thou have so done,” said Beaumains, “it was but waste labor, and
know, thou Red Knight of the Red Lands, I will rescue her or die.”
Then Sir Beaumains bade the damsel go from him, and then they put their
spears in their rests and came together with all their might.
Then they fought till it was past noon and when they had rested a while
they returned to the battle till evening, but at last Sir Beaumains smote
the sword out of the Red Knight’s hand and smote him on the helmet, so
that he fell to the earth.
Then the Red Knight said in a loud voice, “O noble knight, I yield me to
thy mercy.”
But Sir Beaumains said, “I may not with honor save thy life, for the
shameful deaths thou hast caused many good knights to die.”
“Sir,” said the Red Knight, “hold your hand and ye shall know the causes
why I put them to so shameful a death.”
“Say on,” said Sir Beaumains.
“Sir, a lady prayed me that I would make her a promise by the faith of my
knighthood that I would labor daily in arms, until I met Sir Lancelot or
Sir Gawain, who, she said, had slain her brother, and this is the cause
that I have put all these knights to death. And now I will tell thee that
every day my strength increaseth till noon and all this time have I seven
men’s strength.”
Then there came many earls and barons and noble knights and prayed Sir
Beaumains to save his life.
“Sir,” they said, “it were fairer to take homage and let him hold his
lands of you than to slay him; by his death ye shall have no advantage,
and his misdeeds that be done may not be undone, and therefore he shall
make amends to all parties and we all will become your men and do you
homage.”
“Fair lords” said Beaumains, “I am loath to slay this knight;
nevertheless he hath done shamefully, but insomuch all that he did was
at a lady’s request, I will release him upon this condition, that he go
within the castle and yield him to the lady, and if she will forgive him,
I will. And also when that is done, that ye go unto the court of King
Arthur and there that you ask Sir Lancelot mercy and Sir Gawain, for the
evil will ye have had against them.”
“Sir,” said the Red Knight, “all this will I do as ye command.”
And so within a while the Red Knight went into the castle and promised
to make amends for all that had been done against the lady. And then
he departed unto the court of King Arthur and told openly how he was
overcome and by whom.
Then said King Arthur and Sir Gawain, “We marvel much of what blood he is
come, for he is a noble knight.”
“He is come of full noble blood,” said Sir Lancelot, “and as for his
might and hardiness, there be but few now living so mighty as he is.”
HOW AT THE FEAST OF PENTECOST ALL THE KNIGHTS THAT SIR GARETH HAD
OVERCOME CAME AND YIELDED THEM TO KING ARTHUR
So leave we Sir Beaumains and turn we unto King Arthur, that at the
next feast of Pentecost held his feast, and there came the Green Knight
with thirty knights and yielded them all unto King Arthur. And so there
came the Red Knight, his brother, and yielded him unto King Arthur and
threescore knights with him. Also there came the Blue Knight, brother to
them, with an hundred knights and yielded them unto King Arthur.
These three brethren told King Arthur how they were overcome by a knight
that a damsel had with her and called him Beaumains.
“I wonder,” said the King, “what knight he is and of what lineage he is
come.”
So, right as the King stood talking with these three brothers, there came
Sir Lancelot and told the King that there was come a goodly lord and six
hundred knights with him.
Then this lord saluted the King.
“Sir,” he said, “my name is the Red Knight of the Red Lands, and here I
am sent by a knight that is called Beaumains, for he won me in battle
hand for hand.”
“Ye are welcome,” said the King, “for ye have long been a great foe to me
and my court and now I trust to God I shall so treat you that ye shall be
my friend.”
“Sir, both I and these knights shall always be at your summons to do you
service.”
“Then I shall make thee a knight of the Table Round, but thou must be no
more a murderer.”
“Sir, as to that, I have promised Sir Beaumains never more to use such
customs and I must go unto Sir Lancelot and to Sir Gawain and ask them
forgiveness of the evil will I had unto them.”
“They be here now,” said the King, “before thee; now may ye say to them
what ye will.”
And then he kneeled down unto Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain and prayed for
forgiveness for the enmity that he had against them.
HOW THE QUEEN OF ORKNEY CAME TO THE FEAST
So then they went to meat, and as they sat at the meat there came in the
Queen of Orkney with ladies and knights, a great number. And then Sir
Gawain, Sir Agravaine, and Sir Gaheris arose and went to her and saluted
her upon their knees and asked her blessing, for in fifteen years they
had not seen her.
Then she spake to her brother, King Arthur, “Where is my young son, Sir
Gareth? He was here a twelvemonth, and ye made a kitchen boy of him,
which is shame to you all. Alas, where is my dear son that was my joy and
my bliss?”
“O dear mother,” said Sir Gawain, “I knew him not.” “Nor I,” said the
King, “but thank God he is proved an honorable knight as any now living
of his years, and I shall never be glad until I find him.”
“Ah, brother,” said the Queen, “ye did yourself great shame when you kept
my son in the kitchen.”
“Fair sister,” said the King, “I knew him not, nor did Sir Gawain. Also,
sister, ye might have told me of his coming and then, if I had not done
well to him, ye might have blamed me. For when he came to my court, he
asked me three gifts and one he asked the same day; that was, that I
would give him meat enough for that twelvemonth, and the other two gifts
he asked that day a twelvemonth and that was that he might have the
adventure for the damsel, and the third was that Sir Lancelot should make
him knight when he desired him. And so I granted him all his desire.”
“Sir,” said the Queen, “I sent him to you well armed and horsed and gold
and silver plenty to spend.”
“It may be,” said the King, “but thereof saw we none, save the day he
departed from us, knights told me that there came a dwarf hither suddenly
and brought him armor and a good horse, and thereat we all had marvel
from whence those riches came.”
“Brother,” said the Queen, “all that ye say I believe, but I marvel that
Sir Kay did mock and scorn him and gave him that so name Beaumains.”
“By the grace of God,” said Arthur, “he shall be found, so let all this
pass and be merry, for he is proved to be a man of honor and that is my
joy.”
Then said Sir Gawain and his brethren to Arthur, “Sir, if ye will give us
leave, we will go and seek our brother.”
“Nay,” said Sir Lancelot, “that shall ye not need, for by my advice the
King shall send unto Dame Liones a messenger and pray that she will come
to the court in all the haste that she may and then she may give you best
counsel where to find him.”
“That is well said of you,” said the King.
So the messenger was sent forth and night and day he went until he came
to the Castle Perilous. And the lady was there with her brother and Sir
Gareth. When she understood the message she went to her brother and Sir
Gareth and told them how King Arthur had sent for her.
“That is because of me,” said Sir Gareth. “I pray you do not let them
know where I am. I know my mother is there and all my brethren and they
will take upon them to seek me.”
So the lady departed and came to King Arthur, where she was nobly
received and there she was questioned by the King. And she answered that
she could not tell where Sir Gareth was. But she said to Arthur, “Sir, I
will have a tournament proclaimed to take place before my castle and the
proclamation shall be this: that you, my lord Arthur, shall be there and
your knights; and I will provide that my knights shall be against yours
and then I am sure ye shall hear of Sir Gareth.”
“That is well advised,” said King Arthur, and so she departed.
When the Lady Liones returned to her home, she told what she had done and
the promise she had made to King Arthur. Then Sir Gareth sent unto Sir
Persant, the Blue Knight, and summoned him and his knights. Then he sent
unto the Red Knight and charged him that he be ready with all his knights.
Then the Red Knight answered and said, “Sir Gareth, ye shall understand
that I have been at the court of King Arthur and Sir Persant and his
brethren and there we have done our homage as ye commanded us. Also, I
have taken upon me with Sir Persant and his brethren to hold part against
my lord, Sir Lancelot and the knights of that court. And this have I done
for the love of you, my lord Sir Gareth.”
“Ye have well done,” said Sir Gareth, “but you must know you shall be
matched with the most noble knights of the world; therefore we must
provide us with good knights, wherever we may get them.”
So the proclamation was made in England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, and
in Brittany, that men should come to the Castle Perilous and all the
knights should have the choice whether to be on the one party with the
knights of the castle or on the other party with King Arthur. And so
there came many good knights and chose to be on the side of the castle
and against King Arthur and his knights.
HOW KING ARTHUR WENT TO THE TOURNAMENT
And there came with King Arthur many kings, princes, earls, barons, and
other noble knights. Then Sir Gareth prayed Dame Liones and the Red
Knight and Sir Persant that none should tell his name and that they
should make no more of him than of the least knight that was there.
Upon the day of the tournament the heralds sounded the trumpets to call
the knights to the field. After many noble knights had encountered, Sir
Gareth came upon the field. All the knights that encountered him were
overthrown.
“That knight is a good knight,” said King Arthur.
Wherefore the King called unto him Sir Lancelot and prayed him to
encounter with that knight.
“Sir,” said Lancelot, “when a good knight doth so well upon some day,
it is no good knight’s part to prevent him from receiving honor, and
therefore, as for me, this day he shall have the honor; though it lay in
my power to hinder him, I would not.”
Then betwixt many knights there was strong battle, and marvelous deeds of
arms were done. And two knights, who were brothers, assailed Sir Lancelot
at once and he, as the noblest knight of the world, fought with them
both, so that all men wondered at the nobility of Sir Lancelot. And then
came in Sir Gareth and knew that it was Sir Lancelot that fought with the
two strong knights. So Sir Gareth came with his good horse and hurled
them apart and no stroke would he smite to Sir Lancelot.
Sir Lancelot saw this and thought it must be the good Knight Sir Gareth
and Sir Gareth rode here and there and smote on the right hand and on the
left hand, so that all men said he best did his duty.
“Now go,” said King Arthur unto the heralds, “and ride about him and see
what manner of knight he is, for I have inquired of many knights this day
that be of his party and all say they know him not.”
And so a herald rode as near Sir Gareth as he could and there he saw
written upon his helmet in gold, “Sir Gareth of Orkney.” Then the herald
cried and many heralds with him, “This is Sir Gareth of Orkney.” Then all
the kings and knights pressed to behold him and ever the heralds cried,
“This is Sir Gareth of Orkney, King Lot’s son.”
When Sir Gareth saw that he was known, then he doubled his strokes and
with great difficulty made his way out of the crowd, and rode into the
forest. And then fell there a thunder and rain as though heaven and earth
should go together.
Sir Gareth was not a little weary, for all that day he had but little
rest, neither his horse nor he, and he rode in the forest until night
came. And ever it lightened and thundered but at last by fortune he came
to a castle.
HOW SIR GARETH CAME TO A CASTLE WHERE HE WAS WELL LODGED
Then Sir Gareth rode into the courtyard of the castle and prayed the
porter to let him in. The porter answered, “Thou gettest no lodging here.”
“Fair sir, say not so, for I am a knight of King Arthur’s, and pray the
lord or the lady of this castle to give me lodging for the love of King
Arthur.”
Then the porter went unto the lady and told her there was a knight of
King Arthur’s would have lodging.
“Let him enter,” said the lady, “for King Arthur’s sake.”
Then she went up into a tower over the gate with great torchlight. When
Sir Gareth saw the light he cried aloud, “Whether thou be lord or lady,
giant or champion, I care not, so that I may have lodging this night; and
if it so be that I must fight, spare me not tomorrow when I have rested,
for both I and mine horse be weary.”
“Sir Knight,” said the lady, “thou speakest knightly and boldly, but the
lord of this castle loveth not King Arthur nor his court, for my lord
hath been ever against him and therefore thou were better not to come
within this castle, for if thou come in this night, then wherever thou
meet my lord, thou must yield thee to him as prisoner.”
“Madam,” said Sir Gareth, “what is your lord’s name?”
“Sir, my lord’s name is the Duke de la Rowse.”
“Well, madam,” said Sir Gareth, “I shall promise you in whatever place
I meet your lord, I shall yield me unto him and to his good grace, if I
understand he will do me no harm; and if I understand that he will, I
will release myself if I can, with my spear and my sword.”
“Ye say well,” said the lady, and then she let the drawbridge down and
he rode into the hall and there he alit, and his horse was led into a
stable. And in the hall he unarmed him and said, “Madam, I will not go
out of this hall this night, and when it is daylight, whoever will fight
me shall find me ready.”
Then was he set unto supper and had many good dishes, and so when he had
supped, he rested him all night. And on the morn he took his leave and
thanked the lady for her lodging and good cheer and then she asked him
his name.
“Madam,” he said, “truly my name is Gareth of Orkney and some men call me
Beaumains.”
So Sir Gareth departed and by fortune he came to a mountain and there he
found a goodly knight, who said, “Abide, sir knight, and joust with me.”
“What are ye called?” said Sir Gareth.
“My name is the Duke de la Rowse.”
“Ah, sir, I lodged in your castle and there I made promise unto your lady
that I should yield me unto you.”
“Ah,” said the duke, “art thou that proud knight that offerest to fight
with my knights? Make thee ready, for I will fight with you.”
So they did battle together more than an hour and at last Sir Gareth
smote the duke to earth and the duke yielded to him.
“Then must ye go,” said Sir Gareth, “unto King Arthur, my lord, at the
next feast and say that I, Sir Gareth of Orkney, sent you unto him.”
“It shall be done,” said the duke, “and I will do homage to you, and
a hundred knights with me, and all the days of my life do you service
wherever you command me.”
HOW SIR GARETH AND SIR GAWAIN FOUGHT EACH AGAINST OTHER
So the duke departed and Sir Gareth stood there alone and then he saw an
armed knight coming toward him. Then Sir Gareth mounted upon his horse
and they ran together as it had been thunder. And so they fought two
hours. At last came the damsel, who rode with Sir Gareth so long, and she
cried, “Sir Gawain, Sir Gawain, leave thy fighting with thy brother Sir
Gareth.”
And when he heard her say so he threw away his shield and his sword and
ran to Sir Gareth and took him in his arms and then kneeled down and
asked for mercy.
“Who are ye,” said Sir Gareth, “that right now were so strong and so
mighty and now so suddenly yield you to me?”
“O Gareth, I am your brother, Gawain, that for your sake have had great
sorrow and labor.”
Then Sir Gareth unlaced his helmet and kneeled down to him and asked for
mercy. Then they rose and embraced each other and wept a great while and
either of them gave the other the prize of the battle. And there were
many kind words between them.
“Alas, my fair brother,” said Sir Gawain, “I ought of right to honor you,
if you were not my brother, for ye have honored King Arthur and all his
court, for ye have sent him more honorable knights this twelvemonth than
six of the best of the Round Table have done except Sir Lancelot.”
Then the damsel went to King Arthur, who was but two miles thence. And
when she told him of Sir Gawain and Sir Gareth, the King mounted a horse
and bade the lords and ladies come after, who that would, and there was
saddling and bridling of queens’ horses and princes’ horses and well was
he that was soonest ready.
And when the King came nigh Sir Gareth, he made great joy and ever he
wept as if he were a child. With that came Gareth’s mother and when she
saw Gareth she might not weep, but suddenly fell down in a swoon and lay
there a great while, as if she were dead. And then Sir Gareth comforted
his mother in such wise that she recovered and made good cheer.
Then made Sir Lancelot great cheer of Sir Gareth and he of him, for there
was never knight that Sir Gareth loved so well as he did Sir Lancelot,
and ever for the most part he would be in Sir Lancelot’s company.
And this Sir Gareth was a noble knight and a well-ruled and
fair-languaged.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Discussion.= 1. What classes of people are mentioned in this story?
2. Were the people of one class on terms of equality with those of
another class? Do all have equal opportunities under such a system?
3. Upon what ideal was our government founded? 4. What reason can
you give for Gareth’s wish to keep his name and rank secret? 5. One
who wished to become a knight must first prove himself worthy of the
honor; would it be easy for a kitchen boy to give this proof? 6.
If, under such circumstances, he won the honor, could he feel sure
that he had rightfully earned it? 7. What is the test to apply in
judging others? 8. What characters in the story made rank their test?
9. Which one of these acknowledged the mistake? 10. How did Arthur,
Lancelot, and Gawain judge Gareth? 11. Point out lines that help to
portray the character of Gareth by showing: (1) that he wished to win
knighthood through ability, not through influence of his rank and
wealth; (2) that he would take no reward for helping the distressed;
(3) that he was not afraid when outnumbered; (4) that he could not be
turned from his purpose by ridicule or injustice; (5) that he granted
mercy to those who asked it; (6) that he would not take an unfair
advantage of an opponent; (7) that he was always courteous; (8) that
he was ready to forgive wrongs done to him; (9) that he desired to
help in righting wrongs in Arthur’s kingdom. 12. What reasons had
Arthur for founding such an order as the Knights of the Round Table?
13. Is it necessary now to become a member of such an order if one
wishes to help right wrongs? 14. Read the lines that tell of Gareth’s
love for Sir Lancelot.
=Phrases=
ungentle knight, 107, 21
fight not so sore, 107, 31
your warrant, 108, 1
achieve your adventure, 108, 21
to be your champion, 109, 30
in such array, 109, 33
slew him knightly, 110, 33
be thy man, 111, 4
uncourteous to rebuke, 112, 26
errant knight, 116, 1
make amends, 117, 9
tournament proclaimed, 120, 15
to encounter with that knight, 121, 18
well-ruled and fair-languaged, 125, 8
THE PEERLESS KNIGHT LANCELOT
THE TOURNAMENT AT WINCHESTER
King Arthur proclaimed a great joust and a tournament that should be held
at Camelot, that is Winchester; and the King said that he and the King of
Scots would joust against all that would come against them. And when this
proclamation was made, thither came many knights.
So King Arthur made him ready to depart to these jousts, but Sir
Lancelot would not ride with the King, for he said he was suffering from
a grievous wound. And so the King departed toward Winchester with his
fellowship and by the way he lodged in a town called Astolat.
And upon the morn early Sir Lancelot departed and rode until he came to
Astolat and there it happened in the evening, he came to the castle of an
old baron, who was called Sir Bernard of Astolat. As Sir Lancelot entered
into his lodging, King Arthur saw him and knew him full well.
“It is well,” said King Arthur unto the knights that were with him. “I
have now seen one knight that will play his play at the jousts to which
we are going. I undertake he will do great marvels.”
“Who is that, we pray you tell us?” said many knights that were there at
that time.
“Ye shall not know from me,” said the King, “at this time.”
And so the King smiled and went to his lodging.
So when Sir Lancelot was in his lodging and unarmed him in his chamber,
the old baron came to him and welcomed him in the best manner, but the
old knight knew not Sir Lancelot.
“Fair sir,” said Sir Lancelot to his host, “I would pray you to lend me a
shield that were not openly known, for mine is well known.”
“Sir,” said his host, “ye shall have your desire for meseemeth ye be one
of the likeliest knights of the world and therefore I shall show you
friendship. Sir, I have two sons that were but late made knights and
the elder is called Sir Torre and he was hurt that same day he was made
knight, that he may not ride and his shield ye shall have, for that is
not known, I dare say, but here, and in no place else. And my younger son
is called Lavaine and if it please you, he shall ride with you unto the
jousts and he is of age and strong and brave; for much my heart giveth
unto you that ye be a noble knight. Therefore, I pray you tell me your
name,” said Sir Bernard.
“As for that,” said Sir Lancelot, “ye must hold me excused at this time
and if God give me grace to speed well at the jousts, I shall come again
and tell you. But, I pray you, in any wise, let me have your son, Sir
Lavaine, with me and that I may have his brother’s shield.”
“All this shall be done,” said Sir Bernard.
This old baron had a daughter that was called at that time the fair
maiden of Astolat and her name was Elaine. So this maiden besought Sir
Lancelot to wear upon him at the jousts a token of hers.
“Fair damsel,” said Sir Lancelot, “if I grant you that, I will do more
for you than ever I did for lady.”
Then he remembered him he would go to the jousts disguised. And because
he had never before that time borne the token of any lady, then he
bethought him that he would wear one of hers, that none of his blood
thereby might know him. And then he said, “Fair maiden, I will grant you
to wear a token of yours upon mine helmet and therefore what it is, show
it me.”
“Sir,” she said, “it is a sleeve of mine, of scarlet, well embroidered
with great pearls.”
And so she brought it him. So Sir Lancelot received it and gave the
maiden his shield in keeping, and he prayed her to keep that until he
came again.
So upon a day, on the morn, King Arthur and all his knights departed, for
the King had tarried three days to abide his noble knights. And so when
the King had gone, Sir Lancelot and Sir Lavaine made them ready to ride
and either of them had white shields, and the red sleeve Sir Lancelot
carried with him. So they took their leave of Sir Bernard, the old
baron, and of his daughter the fair maiden of Astolat.
And then they rode till they came to Camelot and there was a great press
of kings, dukes, earls, and barons and many noble knights. But there Sir
Lancelot was lodged by means of Sir Lavaine with a rich burgess so that
no man in that town knew who they were. And so they reposed them there,
till the day of the tournament.
So the trumpets blew unto the field and King Arthur was set on a high
place to behold who did best. Then some of the kings were that time
turned upon the side of King Arthur. And then on the other party were the
King of Northgalis and the King of the Hundred Knights and the King of
Northumberland and Sir Galahad, the noble prince. But these three kings
and this duke were passing weak to hold against King Arthur’s party, for
with him were the noblest knights of the world.
So then they withdrew them, either party from other, and every man made
him ready in his best manner to do what he might. Then Sir Lancelot made
him ready and put the red sleeve upon his head and fastened it fast; and
so Sir Lancelot and Sir Lavaine departed out of Winchester and rode into
a little leaved wood behind the party that held against King Arthur’s
party, and there they held them still till the parties smote together.
And then came in the King of Scots and the King of Ireland on Arthur’s
party and against them came the King of Northumberland, and the King with
the Hundred Knights smote down the King of Ireland. So there began a
strong assail upon both parties. And there came in together many knights
of the Table Round and beat back the King of Northumberland and the King
of Northgalis.
When Sir Lancelot saw this, he said unto Sir Lavaine, “See, yonder is a
company of good knights and they hold them together as boars that were
chased with dogs.”
“That is truth,” said Sir Lavaine.
“Now,” said Sir Lancelot, “if ye will help me a little, ye shall see
yonder fellowship that chaseth now these men on our side, that they shall
go as fast backward as they went forward.”
“Sir, spare not,” said Sir Lavaine, “for I shall do what I may.”
Then Sir Lancelot and Sir Lavaine came in at the thickest of the press
and there Sir Lancelot smote down five knights and all this he did with
one spear; and Sir Lavaine smote down two knights. And then Sir Lancelot
got another spear and there he smote down four knights and Sir Lavaine
smote one.
And then Sir Lancelot drew his sword and there he smote on the right hand
and on the left hand and by great force he unhorsed three knights; and
then the knights of the Table Round withdrew them back, after they had
gotten their horses as well as they might.
“Oh,” said Sir Gawain, “what knight is yonder that doth such, marvelous
deeds of arms in that field?”
“I know well who he is,” said King Arthur, “but at this time I will not
name him.”
“Sir,” said Sir Gawain, “I would say it were Sir Lancelot by his riding
and the blows I see him deal, but ever meseemeth it should not be he, for
that he beareth the red sleeve upon his head, for I know he never wore
token of lady at a joust.”
“Let him be,” said King Arthur; “he will be better known and do more, or
ever he depart.”
Then the party that was against King Arthur was well comforted and then
they held them together that beforehand were sore pressed. So nine
knights of Lancelot’s kin thrust in mightily, for they were all noble
knights; and they, of great hate that they had unto him, thought to
rebuke that noble knight, Sir Lancelot, and Sir Lavaine, for they knew
them not. And so they came charging together and smote down many knights
of Northgalis and Northumberland.
And when Sir Lancelot saw them fare so, he took a spear in his hand and
there encountered with him all at once, Sir Bors, Sir Ector, and Sir
Lionel, and all they three smote him at once with their spears.
And with force of themselves they smote Sir Lancelot’s horse to the earth
and by misfortune Sir Bors smote Sir Lancelot through the shield into the
side and the spear broke and the head was left in his side.
When Sir Lavaine saw his master lie on the ground, he ran to the King of
Scots and smote him to the earth; and by great force he took his horse
and brought it to Sir Lancelot, and in spite of them all he made him to
mount upon that horse. And then Sir Lancelot took a spear in his hand and
there he smote Sir Bors, horse and man, to the earth. In the same wise he
served Sir Ector and Sir Lionel.
And then Sir Lancelot drew his sword, for he felt himself so sore and
hurt that he thought there to have had his death. And he smote down three
knights more, but by this was Sir Bors horsed and then he came with
Sir Ector and Sir Lionel and all they three smote with swords upon Sir
Lancelot’s helmet. And when he felt their buffets and his wound, which
was so grievous, then he thought to do what he might, while he might
endure.
And then he gave Sir Bors such a buffet that he made him bow his head
passing low; and therewith he smote off his helmet and might have slain
him; and so pulled him down, and in the same wise he served Sir Ector and
Sir Lionel. For he might have slain them, but when he saw their faces his
heart might not serve him thereto, but left them there.
And so afterward he hurled into the thickest press of them all and
did there the most marvelous deeds of arms that ever man saw or heard
speak of, and ever Sir Lavaine, the good knight, with him. And there
Sir Lancelot with his sword smote down and pulled down more than thirty
knights and the most part were of the Table Round; and Sir Lavaine did
full well that day, for he smote down ten knights of the Table Round.
“I marvel,” said Sir Gawain, “what knight that is with the red sleeve.”
“Sir,” said King Arthur, “he will be known before he depart.”
And then the trumpets blew and the prize was given by heralds unto the
knight with the white shield that bore the red sleeve. Then came the
King with the Hundred Knights, the King of Northgalis and the King of
Northumberland and Sir Galahad, the noble prince, and said unto Sir
Lancelot, “Fair knight, God thee bless, for much have you done this day
for us; therefore, we pray you that ye will come with us, that ye may
receive the honor and the prize, as ye have honorably deserved it.”
“My fair lords,” said Sir Lancelot, “if I have deserved thanks, I have
sore bought it; and that me repenteth, for I am like never to escape with
my life; therefore, fair lords, I pray you that ye will suffer me to
depart where me liketh, for I am sore hurt. I care for no honor, for I
would more gladly repose me than to be lord of all the world.”
And therewithal he groaned piteously and rode away from them until he
came to a wood. And when he saw that he was from the field nigh a mile,
that he was sure he might not be seen, then he said, “O gentle knight,
Sir Lavaine, help me that this spear were out of my side, for it slayeth
me.”
“O mine own lord,” said Sir Lavaine, “I would fain do that might please
you, but I dread me sore, if I pull out the spear, that ye shall be in
peril of death.”
“I charge you,” said Sir Lancelot, “as ye love me, draw it out.”
And therewithal he descended from his horse and right so did Sir Lavaine;
and forthwith Sir Lavaine drew the spear out of his side and he gave a
great shriek and so swooned, pale and deadly.
“Alas,” said Sir Lavaine, “what shall I do?”
And so at the last Sir Lancelot cast up his eyes and said, “O Lavaine,
help me that I were on my horse, for here is fast by within this two
miles a gentle hermit, that sometime was a full noble knight and a great
lord of possessions. And for great goodness he hath taken him to poverty
and his name is Sir Baudwin of Brittany and he is a full noble surgeon.
Now let see, help me up that I were there, for ever my heart telleth me
that I shall never die of my cousin’s hands.”
And then with great pain Sir Lavaine helped him upon his horse. And then
they rode together and so by fortune they came to that hermitage, the
which was in a wood and a great cliff on the other side and fair water
running under it. And Sir Lavaine beat on the gate and there came a fair
child to them and asked them what they would.
“Fair son,” said Sir Lavaine, “go and pray thy lord, the hermit, to let
in here a knight that is full sore wounded; and this day, tell thy lord,
I saw him do more deeds of arms than ever I heard say that any man did.”
So the child went in lightly and then he brought the hermit, the which
was a passing good man. When Sir Lavaine saw him, he prayed him for
succor.
“What knight is he?” said the hermit. “Is he of the house of Arthur or
not?”
“I know not,” said Sir Lavaine, “what is he or what is his name, but well
I know I saw him do marvelously this day, as of deeds of arms.”
“On whose party was he?” said the hermit.
“Sir,” said Lavaine, “he was this day against King Arthur and there he
won the prize from all the knights of the Round Table.”
“I have seen the day,” said the hermit, “I would have loved him the worse
because he was against my lord, King Arthur, for sometime I was one of
the fellowship of the Round Table, but I thank God, now I am otherwise
disposed. But where is he? Let me see him.”
And when the hermit beheld him, he thought that he should know him, but
he could not bring him to knowledge because he was so pale.
“What knight are ye?” said the hermit.
“My fair lord,” said Lancelot, “I am a stranger and a knight adventurous,
that laboreth throughout many realms for to win honor.”
Then the hermit saw by a wound on his cheek that he was Sir Lancelot.
“Alas,” said the hermit, “mine own lord, why conceal you your name from
me? Forsooth, I ought to know you of right, for ye are the noblest knight
of the world, for well I know you for Sir Lancelot.”
“Sir,” said he, “since ye know me, help me if ye can, for I would be out
of this pain at once, either to death or to life.”
“Have ye no doubt,” said the hermit, “ye shall live and fare right well.”
And so the hermit called to him two of his servants and they bore him
into the hermitage and lightly unarmed him and laid him in his bed. And
then anon the hermit stanched his blood and soon Sir Lancelot was well
refreshed and knew himself.
Now turn we unto King Arthur and leave we Sir Lancelot in the hermitage.
So when the kings were come together on both parties and the great feast
should be held, King Arthur asked the King of Northgalis and their
fellowship, where was that knight that bore the red sleeve.
“Bring him before me, that he may have his praise and honor and the prize
as it is right.”
Then spake Sir Galahad, the noble prince, “We suppose that knight is
injured and that he is never like to see you nor any of us all, and that
is the greatest pity that ever we knew of any knight.”
“Alas,” said Arthur, “how may this be? Is he so hurt? What is his name?”
“Truly,” said they all, “we know not his name, nor from whence he came
nor whither he went.”
“Alas,” said the King, “this be to me the worst tidings that came to me
this seven year, for I would not for all the lands I possess to know that
that noble knight were slain.”
“Know ye him?” said they all.
“As for that,” said Arthur, “whether I know him or not, ye shall not know
from me what man he is, but God send me good tidings of him.”
“If it so be that the good knight be so sore hurt,” said Sir Gawain, “it
is great damage and pity to all this land, for he is one of the noblest
knights that ever I saw in a field handle a spear or a sword; and if he
may be found, I shall find him, for I am sure he is not far from this
town.”
Right so Sir Gawain took a squire with him and rode all about Camelot
within six or seven miles, but so he came again and could hear no word
of him. Then within two days King Arthur and all the fellowship returned
unto London again.
And so as they rode by the way, it happened that Sir Gawain lodged with
Sir Bernard where was Sir Lancelot lodged. And Sir Bernard and his
daughter, Elaine, came to him to cheer him and to ask him who did best at
that tournament.
“There were two knights,” said Sir Gawain, “that bore two white shields,
but one of them bore a red sleeve upon his head and certainly he was one
of the best knights that ever I saw joust in field. For I dare say, that
one knight with the red sleeve smote down forty knights of the Table
Round and his fellow did right well and honorably.”
“Now I thank God,” said Elaine, “that that knight sped so well.”
“Know ye his name?” said Sir Gawain.
“Nay, truly,” said the maiden, “I know not his name, nor whence he
cometh.”
“Tell me, then, how had ye knowledge of him first?” said Sir Gawain.
Then she told him as ye have heard before, and how her father intrusted
her brother to him to do him service and how her father lent him her
brother’s shield, “And here with me he left his shield,” she said.
“For what cause did he so?” said Sir Gawain.
“For this cause,” said the damsel, “for his shield was too well known
among many noble knights.”
“Ah, fair damsel,” said Sir Gawain, “please it you let me have a sight of
that shield.”
So when the shield was come, Sir Gawain knew it was Sir Lancelot’s shield.
“Ah,” said Sir Gawain, “now is my heart heavier than ever it was before.”
“Why?” said Elaine.
“I have great cause,” said Sir Gawain; “the knight that owneth this
shield is the most honorable knight of the world.”
“So I thought ever,” said Elaine.
“But I dread me,” said Sir Gawain, “that ye shall never see him in this
world and that is the greatest pity that ever was of earthly knight.”
“Alas,” said she, “how may this be? Is he slain?”
“I say not so,” said Sir Gawain, “but he is grievously wounded and
more likely to be dead than to be alive and he is the noble knight, Sir
Lancelot, for by this shield I know him.”
“Alas,” said Elaine, “how may this be and what was his hurt?”
“Truly,” said Sir Gawain, “the man in the world that loved him best,
hurt him so, and I dare say, if that knight that hurt him knew that he
had hurt Sir Lancelot, it would be the most sorrow that ever came to his
heart.”
“Now, fair father,” said Elaine, “I require you give me leave to ride and
to seek him and my brother, Sir Lavaine.”
“Do as it liketh you,” said her father, “for me sore repenteth of the
hurt of that noble knight.”
Then on the morn Sir Gawain came to King Arthur and told him how he had
found Sir Lancelot’s shield in the keeping of the fair maiden of Astolat.
“All that I knew beforehand,” said King Arthur, “for I saw him when he
came to his lodging full late in the evening, in Astolat.”
So the King and all came to London and there Sir Gawain openly disclosed
to all the Court, that it was Sir Lancelot that jousted best.
And when Sir Bors heard that, he was a sorrowful man and so were all his
kinsmen. And Sir Bors said, “I will haste me to seek him and find him
wheresoever he be and God send me good tidings of him.”
SIR LANCELOT AT THE HERMITAGE
And so we will leave Sir Bors and speak of Sir Lancelot that lay in great
peril. So as Elaine came to Winchester she sought there all about, and by
fortune, Sir Lavaine rode forth to exercise his horse. And anon as Elaine
saw him she knew him, and she called to him. When he heard her, he came
to her and then she asked her brother how did his lord, Sir Lancelot.
“Who told you, sister, that my lord’s name was Sir Lancelot?”
Then she told how Sir Gawain by his shield knew him. So they rode
together until they came to the hermitage. So Sir Lavaine brought her in
to Sir Lancelot and when she saw him so sick and pale she said, “My lord
Sir Lancelot, alas, why be ye in this plight?”
But Sir Lancelot said, “Fair maiden, if ye be come to comfort me, ye be
right welcome; and of this little hurt that I have, I shall be right
hastily whole by the grace of God. But, I marvel who told you my name?”
Then the fair maiden told him all, how Sir Gawain was lodged with her
father, “And there by your shield he discovered you.”
So Elaine watched Sir Lancelot and cared for his wound and did such
attendance to him that the story saith that never man had a kindlier
nurse. Then Sir Lancelot prayed Sir Lavaine to make inquiries in
Winchester for Sir Bors and told him by what tokens he should know him,
by a wound in his forehead.
“For well I am sure that Sir Bors will seek me,” said Sir Lancelot, “for
he is the same good knight that hurt me.”
Now turn we to Sir Bors that came unto Winchester to seek after his
cousin Sir Lancelot. And so when he came to Winchester, anon there were
men that Sir Lavaine had made to watch for such a man and anon Sir
Lavaine had warning; and then Sir Lavaine came to Winchester and found
Sir Bors and there he told him who he was and with whom he was and what
was his name.
“Now, fair knight,” said Sir Bors, “I require you that ye will bring me
to my lord, Sir Lancelot.”
“Sir,” said Sir Lavaine, “take your horse and within this hour ye shall
see him.”
And so they departed and came to the hermitage. And when Sir Bors saw
Sir Lancelot lie in his bed, pale and discolored, anon Sir Bors lost
his countenance and for kindness and pity he might not speak but wept
tenderly for a great while.
And then, when he might speak, he said thus, “O my lord, Sir Lancelot,
God you bless, and send you hasty recovery; and full heavy am I of my
misfortune and mine unhappiness, for now I may call myself unhappy. And I
dread me that God is greatly displeased with me, that He would suffer me
to have such a shame for to hurt you, that are our leader and our honor
and therefore I call myself unhappy. Alas, that ever such a miserable
knight, as I am, should have power by unhappiness to hurt the noblest
knight of the world! Where I so shamefully set upon you and over-charged
you, and where ye might have slain me, ye saved me; and so did not I,
for I and your kindred did to you our uttermost. I marvel, that my heart
or my blood would serve me, wherefore, my lord Sir Lancelot, I ask your
mercy.”
“Fair cousin,” said Sir Lancelot, “ye be right welcome; and much ye say
which pleaseth me not, for I have the same I sought; for I would with
pride have overcome you all, and there in my pride, I was near slain and
that was my own fault, for I might have given you warning of my being
there. And then would I have had no hurt; for it is an old saying, there
is hard battle when kin and friends do battle, either against other, for
there may be no mercy but mortal war. Therefore, fair cousin, all shall
be welcome that God sendeth; and let us leave off this matter and let us
speak of some rejoicing, for this that is done may not be undone; and let
us find a remedy how soon I may be whole.”
Then Sir Bors leaned upon his bed and told him how Sir Gawain knew him by
the shield he left with the fair maiden of Astolat and so they talked of
many more things. And so within three or four days Sir Lancelot was big
and strong again.
Then Sir Bors told Sir Lancelot how there was a great tournament and
joust agreed upon between King Arthur and the King of Northgalis.
“Is that the truth?” said Sir Lancelot. “Then shall ye abide with me
still a little while, until that I be whole, for I feel myself right big
and strong.”
Then were they together nigh a month and ever this maiden Elaine did her
diligent labor for Sir Lancelot, so that there never was a child or wife
meeker to her father or husband, than was that fair maiden of Astolat;
wherefore Sir Bors was greatly pleased with her.
So upon a day, Sir Lancelot thought to try his armor and his spear. And
so when he was upon his horse, he stirred him fiercely, and the horse was
passing strong and fresh, because he had not been labored for a month.
And then Sir Lancelot couched that spear in the rest. That courser leaped
mightily when he felt the spurs and he that was upon him, the which was
the noblest horse in the world, strained him mightily and kept still the
spear in the rest and therewith Sir Lancelot strained himself with so
great force, to get the horse forward that the wound opened and he felt
himself so feeble, that he might not sit upon his horse.
And then Sir Lancelot cried unto Sir Bors, “Ah, Sir Bors and Sir Lavaine,
help me, for I am come to my end.” And therewith he fell down to the
earth as if he were dead.
And then Sir Bors and Sir Lavaine came to him with sorrow. Then came the
holy hermit, Sir Baudwin of Brittany, and when he found Sir Lancelot in
that plight, he said but little, but know ye well that he was wroth; and
then he bade them, “Let us have him in.”
And so they all bare him into the hermitage and unarmed him and laid him
in his bed and evermore his wound bled piteously, but he stirred no limb.
Then the knight hermit put a little water in his mouth and Sir Lancelot
waked of his swoon and then the hermit stanched his bleeding.
And when he might speak he asked Sir Lancelot why he put his life in
jeopardy.
“Sir,” said Sir Lancelot, “because I thought I had been strong and also
Sir Bors told me that there should be great jousts betwixt King Arthur
and the King of Northgalis and therefore I thought to try it myself,
whether I might be there or not.”
“Ah, Sir Lancelot,” said the hermit, “your heart and your courage will
never be done, until your last day, but ye shall do now by my counsel.
Let Sir Bors depart from you and let him do at that tournament what he
may. And by the grace of God, by that the tournament be done, and ye come
hither again, Sir Lancelot shall be as whole as ye, if so be that he will
be governed by me.”
Then Sir Bors made him ready to depart from Sir Lancelot; and then Sir
Lancelot said, “Fair cousin, Sir Bors, recommend me unto all them unto
whom I ought to recommend me. And I pray you, exert yourself at the
jousts that ye may be best, for my love; and here shall I abide you at
the mercy of God till ye come again.”
And so Sir Bors departed and came to the court of King Arthur and told
them in what place he had left Sir Lancelot.
“That grieveth me,” said the King, “but since he shall have his life we
all may thank God.”
And then every knight of the Round Table that was there at that time
present, made him ready to be at the jousts and thither drew many knights
of many countries. And as the time drew near, thither came the King of
Northgalis, and the King with the Hundred Knights and Sir Galahad, the
noble prince, and thither came the King of Ireland and the King of Scots.
So these three kings came on King Arthur’s party.
And that day Sir Gawain did great deeds of arms and began first. And the
heralds numbered that Sir Gawain smote down twenty knights. Then Sir Bors
came in the same time, and he was numbered that he smote down twenty
knights and therefore the prize was given betwixt them both, for they
began first and longest endured.
Also Sir Gareth did that day great deeds of arms, for he smote down and
pulled down thirty knights. But when he had done these deeds he tarried
not, but so departed, and therefore he lost his prize. And Sir Palomides
did great deeds of arms that day for he smote down twenty knights, but
he departed suddenly, and men thought Sir Gareth and he rode together to
some adventures.
So when this tournament was done, Sir Bors departed, and rode till he
came to Sir Lancelot, his cousin; and then he found him on his feet and
there either made great joy of other; and so Sir Bors told Sir Lancelot
of all the jousts, like as ye have heard.
“I marvel,” said Sir Lancelot, “at Sir Gareth when he had done such deeds
of arms, that he would not tarry.”
“Thereof we marvel all,” said Sir Bors, “for except you, or Sir Tristam,
or Sir Lamorak, I saw never knight bear down so many in so little a
while, as did Sir Gareth, and anon he was gone, we knew not where.”
“By my head,” said Sir Lancelot, “he is a noble knight and a mighty man
and well breathed; and if he were well tried, I would think he were good
enough for any knight that beareth the life; and he is a gentle knight,
courteous, true, bounteous, meek, and mild, and in him is no manner of
evil, but he is plain, faithful, and true.”
So then they made them ready to depart from the hermit. And so upon a
morn, they took their horses and Elaine with them and when they came to
Astolat, they were well lodged and had great cheer of Sir Bernard, the
old baron, and of Sir Torre, his son. And upon the morrow, Sir Lancelot
took his leave and came unto Winchester.
And when King Arthur knew that Sir Lancelot was come whole and sound the
King made great joy of him, and so did Sir Gawain and all the knights
except Sir Agravaine and Sir Modred.
THE DEATH OF ELAINE
Now speak we of the fair maiden of Astolat, that made such sorrow day and
night that she never slept, ate, or drank because she grieved so for Sir
Lancelot. So when she had thus endured ten days, she became so feeble
that she knew she must die.
And then she called her father, Sir Bernard, and her brother, Sir Torre,
and heartily she prayed her father that her brother might write a letter
as she did tell him, and so her father granted her. And when the letter
was written, word by word as she said, then she prayed her father,
saying, “When I am dead, let this letter be put in my right hand and my
hand bound fast with the letter, and let me be put in a fair bed with
all the richest clothes that I have about me, and so let my bed be laid
with me in a chariot and carried unto the Thames. And there let me be
put within a barge and but one man with me, such as ye trust to steer me
thither. And let my barge be covered with black samite over and over;
thus, father, I beseech you let it be done.”
So her father granted it her faithfully, all things should be done as she
asked. Then her father and her brother made great sorrow, for they knew
she was dying. And so when she was dead her body was placed in a barge
and a man steered the barge unto Westminster, and there he rowed a great
while to and fro before any saw him.
So by fortune, King Arthur and Queen Guinevere were speaking together at
a window and so as they looked out on the Thames, they saw this black
barge and marveled what it meant. Then the King called Sir Kay and showed
it to him.
“Go thither,” said the King to Sir Kay, “and take with you Sir Brandiles
and Sir Agravaine and bring word what is there.”
Then these knights departed and came to the barge and went in; and there
they found the fair maiden lying in a rich bed, and a poor man sitting
in the barge’s end and no word would he speak. So these knights returned
unto the King again and told him what they found.
And then the King took the Queen by the hand and went thither. Then the
King made the barge to be held fast and then the King and Queen entered
with certain knights with them, and there they saw the fairest maiden in
a rich bed, covered with many rich clothes and all was cloth of gold, and
she lay as though she smiled.
Then the Queen saw a letter in her right hand and told the King. Then the
King took it and said, “Now I am sure this letter will tell what she was
and why she is come hither.”
So then the King and the Queen went out of the barge, and so when the
King was come within his chamber, he called many knights about him, and
said he would know openly what was written within that letter. Then the
King opened it and made a clerk read it, and this was the letter:
“Most noble knight, Sir Lancelot, I was called the Fair Maiden of
Astolat. Pray for my soul and give me burial at least. This is my last
request. Pray for my soul, Sir Lancelot, as thou art a peerless knight.”
This was all the substance of the letter. And when it was read, the King,
the Queen, and all the knights wept for pity. Then was Sir Lancelot sent
for; and when he was come King Arthur made the letter to be read to him.
And when Sir Lancelot heard it word by word, he said, “My lord, King
Arthur, I am right sorrowful because of the death of this fair damsel.
She was both fair and good and much was I indebted to her for her care.
I offered her for her kindness that she showed me, a thousand pounds
yearly, whensoever she would wed some good knight, and always while I
live to be her own knight.”
Then said the King unto Sir Lancelot, “It will be to your honor that ye
see that she be buried honorably.”
“Sir,” said Sir Lancelot, “that shall be done as I can best do it.”
And so upon the morn she was buried richly, and all the knights of the
Round Table were there with Sir Lancelot. And then the poor man went
again with the barge.
THE TOURNAMENT AT WESTMINSTER
So time passed on till Christmas and then every day there were jousts
made for a diamond, who that jousted best should have a diamond. But
Sir Lancelot would not joust, but if it were at a great joust. But Sir
Lavaine jousted there passing well and best was praised, for there were
but few that did so well. Wherefore, all manner of knights thought that
Sir Lavaine should be made Knight of the Round Table at the next feast of
Pentecost. So after Christmas, King Arthur called unto him many knights
and there they advised together to make a great tournament. And the
King of Northgalis said to Arthur that he would have on his party the
King of Ireland and the King with the Hundred Knights and the King of
Northumberland and Sir Galahad, the noble prince. And so then four kings
and this mighty duke took part against King Arthur and the Knights of the
Table Round.
And the proclamation was made that the jousts should be at Westminster,
and so the knights made them ready to be at the jousts in the freshest
manner. Then Queen Guinevere sent for Sir Lancelot and said thus, “I
forbid you that ye ride in jousts or tournaments, unless your kinsmen
know you. And at these jousts that be, ye shall have of me a sleeve of
gold, and I charge you, that ye warn your kinsmen that ye will bear that
day the sleeve of gold upon your helmet.”
“Madam,” said Sir Lancelot, “it shall be done.”
And when Sir Lancelot saw his time, he told Sir Bors that he would depart
and have no one with him but Sir Lavaine, unto the good hermit that dwelt
in the forest of Windsor, and there he thought to repose him and take all
the rest that he might, so that he would be fresh at that day of jousts.
So Sir Lancelot and Sir Lavaine departed, that no creature knew where
he was gone, but the noble men of his blood. And when he was come to the
hermitage he had good cheer. And so daily Sir Lancelot would go to a
well, fast by the hermitage and there he would lie down and see the well
spring and bubble, and sometimes he slept there.
So when the day was come Sir Lancelot planned that he should be arrayed,
and Sir Lavaine and their horses, as though they were Saracens, and so
they departed and came nigh to the field.
The King of Northgalis brought with him a hundred knights, and the King
of Northumberland brought with him a hundred good knights, and the King
of Ireland brought with him a hundred good knights ready to joust, and
Sir Galahad brought with him a hundred good knights, and the King with
the Hundred Knights brought with him as many, and all these were proved
good knights.
Then came in King Arthur’s party, and there came in the King of Scots
with a hundred knights, and King Uriens brought with him a hundred
knights, and King Howel of Brittany brought with him a hundred knights,
and King Arthur himself came into the field with two hundred knights and
the most part were knights of the Table Round, that were proved noble
knights, and there were old knights set in a high place, to judge with
the Queen who did best.
Then the heralds blew the call to the field, and then the King of
Northgalis encountered with the King of Scots and then the King of Scots
had a fall: and the King of Ireland smote down King Uriens and the King
of Northumberland smote down King Howel of Brittany. And then King Arthur
was wroth and ran to the King with the Hundred Knights and there King
Arthur smote him down; and after, with that same spear, King Arthur smote
down three other knights. And when his spear was broken, King Arthur did
exceedingly well; and so therewith came in Sir Gawain and Sir Gaheris,
Sir Agravaine and Sir Modred, and there each of them smote down a knight,
and Sir Gawain smote down four knights.
Then began a strong battle, for there came in the knights of Sir
Lancelot’s kindred and Sir Gareth and Sir Palomides with them, and many
knights of the Table Round, and they began to press the four kings and
the mighty duke so hard that they were discomfited; but this Duke Galahad
was a noble knight and by his mighty prowess he held back the knights of
the Table Round.
All this saw Sir Lancelot and then he came into the field with Sir
Lavaine as if it had been thunder. And then anon Sir Bors and the knights
of his kindred saw Sir Lancelot, and Sir Bors said to them all, “I warn
you beware of him with the sleeve of gold upon his head, for he is Sir
Lancelot himself.”
And for great goodness Sir Bors warned Sir Gareth. “I am well satisfied,”
said Sir Gareth, “that I may know him.” “But who is he,” said they all,
“that rideth with him in the same array?”
“That is the good and gentle knight, Sir Lavaine,” said Sir Bors.
So Sir Lancelot encountered with Sir Gawain and there by force Sir
Lancelot smote down Sir Gawain and his horse to the earth, and so he
smote down Sir Agravaine and Sir Gaheris and also he smote down Sir
Modred, and all this was with one spear. Then Sir Lavaine met with Sir
Palomides and either met other so hard and so fiercely, that both their
horses fell to the earth. And then they were horsed again, and then met
Sir Lancelot with Sir Palomides and there Sir Palomides had a fall; and
so Sir Lancelot, without stopping, as fast as he might get spears, smote
down thirty knights and the most part of them were knights of the Table
Round; and ever the knights of his kindred withdrew and fought in other
places where Sir Lancelot came not.
And then King Arthur was wroth when he saw Lancelot do such deeds for he
knew not that it was Sir Lancelot; and then the King called unto him nine
knights and so the King with these knights made ready to set upon Sir
Lancelot and Sir Lavaine.
All this saw Sir Bors and Sir Gareth.
“Now I dread me sore,” said Sir Bors, “that my lord Sir Lancelot will be
hard matched.”
“By my head,” said Sir Gareth, “I will ride unto my lord Sir Lancelot, to
help him, come what may; for he is the same man that made me knight.”
“Ye shall not do so by mine counsel,” said Sir Bors, “unless that ye were
disguised.”
“Ye shall see me disguised,” said Sir Gareth.
Therewithal he saw a Welsh knight, who was sore hurt by Sir Gawain, and
to him Gareth rode and prayed him of his knighthood to lend him his green
shield in exchange for his own.
“I will gladly,” said the Welsh knight.
Then Sir Gareth came driving to Sir Lancelot all he might and said,
“Knight, defend thyself, for yonder cometh King Arthur with nine knights
with him to overcome you, and so I am come to bear you fellowship for old
love ye have showed me.”
“I thank you greatly,” said Sir Lancelot.
“Sir,” said Gareth, “encounter ye with Sir Gawain and I will encounter
with Sir Palomides and let Sir Lavaine match with the noble King Arthur.”
Then came King Arthur with his nine knights with him, and Sir Lancelot
encountered with Sir Gawain and gave him such a buffet that Sir Gawain
fell to the earth. Then Sir Gareth encountered with the good knight, Sir
Palomides, and he gave him such a buffet that both he and his horse fell
to the earth. Then encountered King Arthur with Sir Lavaine and there
either of them smote the other to the earth, horse and all, so that they
lay a great while.
Then Sir Lancelot smote down Sir Agravaine, Sir Gaheris, and Sir Modred,
and Sir Gareth smote down Sir Kay, Sir Safere, and Sir Griflet. And
then Sir Lavaine was horsed again and he smote down Sir Lucan and Sir
Bedivere, and then there began a great press of good knights. Then Sir
Lancelot dashed here and there and smote off and pulled off helmets,
so that none might strike him a blow with spear or with sword; and Sir
Gareth did such deeds of arms that all men marveled what knight he was
with the green shield, for he smote down that day and pulled down more
than thirty knights.
And Sir Lancelot marveled, when he beheld Sir Gareth do such deeds, what
knight he might be! and Sir Lavaine pulled down and smote down twenty
knights. Also Sir Lancelot knew not Sir Gareth, for if Sir Tristam or
Sir Lamorak had been alive, Sir Lancelot would have thought he had been
one of the two.
So this tournament continued till it was near night, for the Knights of
the Round Table rallied ever unto King Arthur, for the King was wroth
that he and his knights might not prevail that day. Then Sir Gawain said
to the King, “I marvel where all this day Sir Bors and his fellowship of
Sir Lancelot’s kindred have been. I marvel all this day they be not about
you. It is for some cause,” said Sir Gawain.
“By my head,” said Sir Kay, “Sir Bors is yonder all this day upon the
right hand of this field and there he and his kindred have won more honor
than we have.”
“It may well be,” said Sir Gawain, “but I believe this knight with the
sleeve of gold is Sir Lancelot himself. I know it by his riding and by
his great strokes. And the other knight in the same colors is the good
young knight, Sir Lavaine. Also, that knight with the green shield is my
brother, Sir Gareth, and he has disguised himself, for no man shall ever
make him be against Sir Lancelot, because he made him knight.”
“Nephew, I believe you,” said King Arthur; “therefore tell me now what is
your best counsel.”
“Sir,” said Gawain, “ye shall have my counsel. Let the heralds blow the
close of the tournament, for if he be Sir Lancelot and my brother, Sir
Gareth, with him, with the help of that good young knight, Sir Lavaine,
trust me, it will be no use to strive with them, unless we should fall
ten or twelve upon one knight, and that were no glory, but shame.”
“Ye say truth,” said the King; “it were shame to us, so many as we be, to
set upon them any more; for they be three good knights and, particularly,
that knight with the sleeve of gold.”
So the trumpets blew and forthwith King Arthur sent to the four kings and
to the mighty duke and prayed them that the knight with the sleeve of
gold depart not from them, but that the King might speak with him. Then
King Arthur unarmed him and rode after Sir Lancelot. And so he found him
with the four kings and the duke and there the King prayed them all unto
supper and they said they would, with good will.
And when they were unarmed, then King Arthur knew Sir Lancelot, Sir
Lavaine and Sir Gareth.
“Ah, Sir Lancelot,” said the King, “this day ye have heated me and my
knights.”
And so they went unto King Arthur’s lodging all together, and there was
a great feast and the prize was given unto Sir Lancelot; and the heralds
announced that he had smitten down fifty knights, and Sir Gareth, five
and thirty, and Sir Lavaine, four and twenty knights.
Then King Arthur blamed Sir Gareth, because he left his fellowship and
held with Sir Lancelot.
“My lord,” said Sir Gareth, “he made me a knight and when I saw him so
hard pressed, methought it was my duty to help him, for I saw him do so
much and so many noble knights against him; and when I understood that he
was Sir Lancelot, I was ashamed to see so many knights against him alone.”
“Truly,” said King Arthur unto Sir Gareth, “ye say well, and manfully
have you done and won for yourself great honor, and all the days of my
life I shall love you and trust you more and more. For ever it is an
honorable knight’s deed to help another honorable knight when he seeth
him in great danger; for ever an honorable man will be sorry to see a
brave man shamed. But he that hath no honor, and acts with cowardice,
never shall he show gentleness nor any manner of goodness, where he
seeth a man in any danger; for then ever will a coward show no mercy.
And always a good man will do ever to another man as he would be done to
himself.”
So then there were great feasts and games and play, and all manner of
noble deeds were done; and he that was courteous, true, and faithful to
his friend, was that time cherished.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Discussion.= 1. What was the condition of Arthur’s kingdom when he
began to reign? 2. What was Arthur’s purpose in founding the Order
of the Round Table? 3. Why was a training in strength and bravery
in battle necessary to these knights? 4. What way of supplying this
training is described in this story? 5. Tell what you know of this
custom. 6. Have we any contests of skill that bear any resemblance to
this in method or purpose? 7. Give a brief account of the tournament
at Winchester. 8. What plan had Lancelot for disguising himself?
9. What reasons had he for such a plan? 10. How was Lancelot’s
personality shown in the impression he made on the baron? 11. What
custom of the joust is indicated by Elaine’s request? 12. Picture the
scene as the tournament opened; where was the King? Where were the
opposing knights? 13. What knightly qualities did Lancelot show in
this contest? 14. How would a “full noble surgeon” of King Arthur’s
time compare with a present-day surgeon? 15. Why did Lancelot
call his injury “a little hurt” when speaking to Elaine? 16. What
qualities are we told were most admired in the days of chivalry? 17.
Is this true of the present time? 18. What quality of Lancelot do you
admire most?
=Phrases=
with his fellowship, 126, 9
undertake he will do marvels, 126,18
likeliest knight, 126, 31
my heart giveth unto you, 127, 7
with a rich burgess, 128, 6
a strong assail, 128, 27
might not serve him thereto, 130, 19
suffer me, 131, 6
a full noble surgeon, 131, 27
prayed him for succor, 132, 5
bring him to knowledge, 132, 21
openly disclosed, 135, 20
lost his countenance, 136, 28
mighty prowess, 144, 4
THE PASSING OF ARTHUR
HOW SIR MODRED PLOTTED AGAINST SIR LANCELOT AND OF THE DEATH OF SIR
GAWAIN AND TWELVE KNIGHTS
Before Merlin passed from the world of men, he uttered many marvelous
prophecies and one that boded ill for King Arthur. He foretold that a son
of Arthur’s sister should stir up bitter war against the King and that a
great battle should be fought in the West when many brave men should find
their doom.
Among the nephews of King Arthur was one most dishonorable; his name was
Modred. No knightly deed had he ever done and he hated even to hear the
good report of others. Of all who sat at the Round Table there was none
that Modred hated more than Sir Lancelot du Lac, whom all true knights
held in most honor. In his jealous rage he spoke evil of the Queen and
Sir Lancelot. Now Modred’s brothers, Sir Gawain and Sir Gareth, refused
to listen to these slanders, holding that Sir Lancelot, in his knightly
service to the Queen, did honor to King Arthur also.
When these evil tales reached King Arthur, he rebuked the tale bearers
and declared his faith in Sir Lancelot and his lady, the Queen. But
Modred, enraged by the rebuke, determined to find cause against them, and
not long after it seemed that the occasion had come. For when King Arthur
had ridden forth to hunt far from Carlisle, where he then held court, the
Queen sent for Lancelot to speak with her in her bower. Modred and his
brother, Sir Agravaine, got together twelve knights, persuading them that
they were doing the King a service. They waited until they saw Lancelot
enter all unarmed and then called to him to come forth. The whole court
echoed with their cries of “Traitor.” Lancelot, arming himself in haste,
rushed out upon them and soon the entire company lay cold in death upon
the earth. Only Modred escaped, for he fled, but even so he was sore
wounded.
OF THE TRIAL OF THE QUEEN
When Modred escaped from Sir Lancelot he got to horse, all wounded as he
was, and never drew rein until he had found King Arthur, to whom he told
all that had happened.
Then great was the King’s grief. Despite all that Modred could say, he
was slow to doubt Sir Lancelot, whom he loved, but his mind was filled
with forebodings; for many a knight had been slain and well he knew that
their kin would seek vengeance on Sir Lancelot, and the noble fellowship
of the Round Table be utterly destroyed by their feuds.
All too soon it proved even as the King had feared. Many were found to
hold with Sir Modred; some because they were kin to the knights that had
been slain, some from envy of the honor and worship of the noble Sir
Lancelot; and among them even were those who dared to raise their voice
against the Queen herself, calling for judgment upon her as leagued
with a traitor against the King, and as having caused the death of so
many good knights. Now in those days the law was that if any one were
accused of treason by witnesses, or taken in the act, that one should die
the death by burning, be it man or woman, knight or churl. So then the
murmurs grew to a loud clamor that the law should have its course, and
that King Arthur should pass sentence on the Queen. Then was the King’s
woe doubled.
“For,” said he, “I sit as King to be a rightful judge and keep all the
law; wherefore I may not do battle for my own Queen, and now there is
none other to help her.”
So a decree was issued that Queen Guinevere should be burnt at the stake
outside the walls of Carlisle.
Forthwith, King Arthur sent for his nephew, Sir Gawain, and said to him:
“Fair nephew, I give it in charge to you to see that all is done as has
been decreed.”
But Sir Gawain answered boldly: “Sir King, never will I be present to see
my lady the Queen die. It is of ill counsel that ye have consented to her
death.”
Then the King bade Gawain send his two young brothers, Sir Gareth and
Sir Gaheris, to receive his commands, and these he desired to attend the
Queen to the place of execution. So Gareth made answer for both:
“My Lord the King, we owe you obedience in all things, but know that it
is sore against our wills that we obey you in this; nor will we appear in
arms in the place where that noble lady shall die”; then sorrowfully they
mounted their horses and rode to Carlisle.
When the day appointed had come, the Queen was led forth to a place
without the walls of Carlisle, and there she was bound to the stake to
be burnt to death. Loud were her ladies’ lamentations, and many a lord
was found to weep at that grievous sight of a Queen brought so low; yet
was there none who dared come forward as her champion, lest he should be
suspected of treason. As for Gareth and Gaheris, they could not bear the
sight, and stood with their faces covered in their mantles. Then, just as
the torch was to be applied to the fagots, there was a sound as of many
horses galloping, and the next instant a band of knights rushed upon the
astonished throng, their leader cutting down all who crossed his path
until he had reached the Queen, whom he lifted to his saddle and bore
from the press. Then all men knew that it was Sir Lancelot, come knightly
to rescue the Queen, and in their hearts they rejoiced. So with little
hindrance they rode away, Sir Lancelot and all his kin with the Queen in
their midst, till they came to the castle of the Joyous Garde, where they
held the Queen in safety and all reverence.
But of that day came a kingdom’s ruin; for among the slain were Gawain’s
brothers Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris. Now Sir Lancelot loved Sir Gareth
as if he had been his own younger brother, and himself had knighted him;
but, in the press, he struck at him and killed him, not seeing that he
was unarmed and weaponless; and in like wise, Sir Gaheris met his death.
So when word was brought to King Arthur of what had passed, Sir Gawain
asked straightway how his brothers had fared.
“Both are slain,” said the messenger.
“Alas! my dear brothers!” cried Sir Gawain; “how came they by their
death?”
“They were both slain by Sir Lancelot,” said the messenger.
“That will I never believe,” cried Sir Gawain; “for my brother, Sir
Gareth, had such love for Sir Lancelot that there was naught Sir Lancelot
could ask him that he would not do.”
But the man said again, “He is slain, and by Sir Lancelot.”
Then, from sheer grief, Sir Gawain fell swooning to the ground. When he
was recovered, he said:
“My lord and uncle, is it even as this man says, that Sir Lancelot has
slain my brother Sir Gareth?”
“Alas!” said the King. “Lancelot rode upon him in the press and slew him,
not seeing who he was or that he was unarmed.”
“Then,” cried Gawain fiercely, “here I make my vow. Never, while my
life lasts, will I leave Sir Lancelot in peace until he has rendered me
account for the slaying of my brothers.”
From that day forth, Sir Gawain would not suffer the King to rest until
he had gathered all his host and marched against the Joyous Garde. Thus
began the war which broke up the fellowship of the Round Table.
HOW SIR GAWAIN DEFIED SIR LANCELOT
Now it came to the ears of the Pope in Rome that King Arthur was
besieging Sir Lancelot in the castle of the Joyous Garde, and it grieved
him that there should be strife between two such goodly knights, the
like of whom was not to be found in Christendom. So he called to him the
Bishop of Rochester and bade him carry word to Britain, both to Arthur
and to Sir Lancelot, that they should be reconciled, the one to the
other, and that King Arthur should receive again Queen Guinevere.
Forthwith Sir Lancelot desired of King Arthur assurance of liberty
and reverence for the Queen, as also safe conduct for himself and his
knights, that he might bring Queen Guinevere with due honor to the King
at Carlisle; and thereto the King pledged his word.
So Lancelot set forth with the Queen, and behind them rode a hundred
knights arrayed in green velvet, the housings of the horses of the same,
all studded with precious stones; thus they passed through the city of
Carlisle openly, in the sight of all, and there were many who rejoiced
that the Queen was come again and Sir Lancelot with her, though they of
Gawain’s party scowled upon him.
When they were come into the great hall where Arthur sat with Sir Gawain
and other great lords about him, Sir Lancelot led Guinevere to the throne
and both knelt before the King; then rising, Sir Lancelot lifted the
Queen to her feet and thus he spoke to King Arthur, boldly and well,
before the whole court:
“My lord, Sir Arthur, I bring you here your Queen, than whom no truer
nor nobler lady ever lived; and here stand I, Sir Lancelot du Lac, ready
to do battle with any that dare gainsay it”; and with these words Sir
Lancelot turned and looked upon the lords and knights present in their
places, but none would challenge him in that cause, not even Sir Gawain,
for he had ever affirmed that Queen Guinevere was a true and honorable
lady.
Then Sir Lancelot spoke again: “Now, my Lord Arthur, in my own defense it
behooves me to say that never in aught have I been false to you. That I
slew certain knights is true, but I hold me guiltless, seeing that they
brought death upon themselves. For no sooner had I gone to the Queen’s
bower, as she had commanded me, than they beset the door with shameful
outcry, that all the court might hear, calling me traitor and felon
knight.”
“And rightly they called you,” cried Sir Gawain fiercely.
“My Lord, Sir Gawain,” answered Sir Lancelot, “in their quarrel they
proved not themselves right, else had not I, alone, encountered fourteen
knights and come forth unscathed.”
Then said King Arthur: “Sir Lancelot, I have ever loved you above all
other knights, and trusted you to the uttermost; but ill have ye done by
me and mine.”
“My lord,” said Lancelot, “that I slew Sir Gareth I shall mourn as long
as life lasts. As soon would I have slain my own nephew, Sir Bors, as
have harmed Sir Gareth wittingly; for I myself made him knight, and loved
him as a brother.”
“Liar and traitor,” cried Sir Gawain, “ye slew him, defenseless and
unarmed.”
“It is full plain, Sir Gawain,” said Lancelot, “that never again shall I
have your love; and yet there has been old kindness between us, and once
ye thanked me that I saved your life.”
“It shall not avail you now,” said Sir Gawain; “traitor ye are, both to
the King and to me. Know that while life lasts, never will I rest until I
have avenged my brother Sir Gareth’s death upon you.”
“Fair nephew,” said the King, “cease your bawling. Sir Lancelot has come
under surety of my word that none shall do him harm. Elsewhere, and at
another time, fasten a quarrel upon him, if quarrel ye must.”
“I care not,” cried Sir Gawain fiercely. “The proud traitor trusts so
in his own strength that he thinks none dare meet him. But here I defy
him and swear that, be it in open combat or by stealth, I shall have his
life. And know, mine uncle and King, if I shall not have your aid, I and
mine will leave you for ever and, if need be, fight even against you.”
“Peace,” said the King, and to Sir Lancelot: “We give you fifteen days in
which to leave this kingdom.”
Then Sir Lancelot sighed heavily and said, “Full well I see that no
sorrow of mine for what is past availeth me.”
Then he went to the Queen where she sat, and said: “Madam, the time is
come when I must leave this fair realm that I have loved. Think well of
me, I pray you, and send for me if ever there be aught in which a true
knight may serve a lady.” Therewith he turned him about and, without
greeting to any, passed through the hall, and with his faithful knights,
rode to the Joyous Garde, though ever thereafter, in memory of that sad
day, he called it the Dolorous Garde.
There he called about him his friends and kinsmen, saying, “Fair knights,
I must now pass into my own lands.” Then they all, with one voice, cried
that they would go with him. So he thanked them, promising them all fair
estates and great honor when they were come to his kingdom; for all
France belonged to Sir Lancelot. Yet was he loath to leave the land where
he had followed so many glorious adventures, and sore he mourned to part
in anger from King Arthur.
“My mind misgives me,” said Sir Lancelot, “but that trouble shall come
of Sir Modred, for he is envious and a mischief-maker, and it grieves me
that never more I may serve King Arthur and his realm.”
So Sir Lancelot sorrowed; but his kinsmen, wroth for the dishonor done
him, made haste to depart and, by the fifteenth day, they were all
embarked to sail overseas to France.
HOW KING ARTHUR AND SIR GAWAIN WENT TO FRANCE
From the day when Sir Lancelot brought the Queen to Carlisle, never would
Gawain suffer the King to be at rest; but always he desired him to call
his army together that they might go to attack Sir Lancelot in his own
land.
Now King Arthur was loath to war against Sir Lancelot, and seeing this,
Sir Gawain upbraided him bitterly.
“I see well it is naught to you that my brother, Sir Gareth, died
fulfilling your behest. Little ye care if all your knights be slain, if
only the traitor Lancelot escape. Since, then, ye will not do me justice
nor avenge your own nephew, I and my fellows will take the traitor when
and how we may. He trusts in his own might that none can encounter with
him; let see if we may not entrap him.”
Thus urged, King Arthur called his army together and ordered that a great
fleet be collected; for rather would he fight openly with Sir Lancelot
than that Sir Gawain should bring such dishonor upon himself as to slay
a noble knight treacherously. So with a great host, the King passed
overseas to France, leaving Sir Modred to rule Britain in his stead.
When Lancelot heard that King Arthur and Sir Gawain were coming against
him, he withdrew into the strong castle of Benwick; for unwilling,
indeed, was he to fight with the King, or to do an injury to Sir Gareth’s
brother. The army passed through the land, laying it waste, and presently
encamped about the castle, besieging it closely; but so thick were the
walls and so watchful the garrison that in no way could they prevail
against it.
One day, there came to Sir Lancelot seven brethren, brave knights of
Wales, who had joined their fortunes to his, and said:
“Sir Lancelot, bid us sally forth against this host which has invaded
and laid waste your lands, and we will scatter it; for we are not wont to
cower behind walls.”
“Fair lords,” answered Lancelot, “it is grief to me to war on good
Christian knights and especially upon my lord, King Arthur. Have but
patience, and I will send to him and see if, even now, there may not be a
treaty of peace between us, for better far is peace than war.”
So Sir Lancelot sought out a damsel and, mounting her upon a palfrey,
bade her ride to King Arthur’s camp and require of the King to cease
warring on his lands, proffering fair terms of peace. When the damsel
came to the camp, there met her Sir Lucan the Butler.
“Fair damsel,” said Sir Lucan, “do ye come from Sir Lancelot?”
“Yea, in good truth,” said the damsel; “and, I pray you, lead me to King
Arthur.”
“Now may ye prosper in your errand,” said Sir Lucan. “Our King loves Sir
Lancelot dearly and wishes him well; but Sir Gawain will not suffer him
to be reconciled to him.”
So when the damsel had come before the King, she told him all her tale,
and much she said of Sir Lancelot’s love and goodwill to his lord the
King, so that the tears stood in Arthur’s eyes. But Sir Gawain broke in
roughly:
“My lord and uncle, shall it be said of us that we came hither with such
a host to hie us home again, nothing done, to be the scoff of all men?”
“Nephew,” said the King, “methinks Sir Lancelot offers fair and
generously. It were well if ye would accept his proffer. Nevertheless, as
the quarrel is yours, so shall the answer be.”
“Then, damsel,” said Sir Gawain, “say unto Sir Lancelot that the time for
peace is past. And tell him that I, Sir Gawain, swear by the faith I owe
to knighthood that never will I forego my revenge.”
So the damsel returned to Sir Lancelot and told him all. Sir Lancelot’s
heart was filled with grief nigh unto breaking; but his knights were
enraged and clamored that he had endured too much of insult and wrong,
and that he should lead them forth to battle. Sir Lancelot armed him
sorrowfully and presently the gates were set open and he rode forth, he
and all his company. But to all his knights he had given commandment that
none should seek King Arthur; “for never,” said he, “will I see the noble
King who made me knight, either killed or shamed.”
Fierce was the battle between those two hosts. On Lancelot’s side, Sir
Bors and Sir Lavaine and many another did right well; while on the other
side, King Arthur bore him as the noble knight he was, and Sir Gawain
raged through the battle, seeking to come at Sir Lancelot. Presently, Sir
Bors encountered King Arthur and unhorsed him. This Sir Lancelot saw and,
coming to the King’s side, he alighted and raising him from the ground,
mounted him upon his own horse. Then King Arthur, looking upon Lancelot,
cried, “Ah! Lancelot, Lancelot! That ever there should be war between us
two!” and tears stood in the King’s eyes.
“Ah! my Lord Arthur,” cried Sir Lancelot, “I pray you stop this war.”
As they spoke thus, Sir Gawain came upon them and, calling Sir Lancelot
traitor and coward, had almost ridden upon him before Lancelot could find
another horse. Then the two hosts drew back, each on its own side, to see
the battle between Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain; for they wheeled their
horses and, departing far asunder, rushed again upon each other with the
noise of thunder, and each bore the other from his horse. Then they put
their shields before them and set on each other with their swords; but
while ever Sir Gawain smote fiercely, Sir Lancelot was content only to
ward off blows, because he would not, for Sir Gareth’s sake, do any harm
to Sir Gawain. But the more Sir Lancelot forebore him, the more furiously
Sir Gawain struck, so that Sir Lancelot had much ado to defend himself
and at the last smote Gawain on the helm so mightily that he bore him
to the ground. Then Sir Lancelot stood back from Sir Gawain. But Gawain
cried:
“Why do ye draw back, traitor knight? Slay ye while ye may, for never
will I cease to be your enemy while my life lasts.”
“Sir,” said Lancelot, “I shall withstand you as I may; but never will I
smite a fallen knight.”
Then he spoke to King Arthur: “My Lord, I pray you, if only for this day,
draw off your men. And think upon our former love if ye may; but, be ye
friend or foe, God keep you.”
Thereupon Sir Lancelot drew off his men into his castle and King Arthur
and his company to their tents. As for Sir Gawain, his squires bore him
to his tent where his wounds were dressed.
OF MODRED THE TRAITOR
So Sir Gawain lay healing of the grim wound which Sir Lancelot had
given him, and there was peace between the two armies, when there came
messengers from Britain bearing letters for King Arthur; and more evil
news than they brought might not well be, for they told how Sir Modred
had usurped his uncle’s realm. First, he had caused it to be noised
abroad that King Arthur was slain in battle with Sir Lancelot and, since
there be many ever ready to believe any idle rumor and eager for any
change, it had been no hard task for Sir Modred to call the lords to a
Parliament and persuade them to make him king. But the Queen could not
be brought to believe that her lord was dead, so she took refuge in the
Tower of London from Sir Modred’s violence, nor was she to be induced to
leave her strong refuge for aught that Modred could promise or threaten.
This was the news that came to Arthur as he lay encamped about Sir
Lancelot’s castle of Benwick. Forthwith, he bade his host make ready to
move and, when they had reached the coast they embarked and made sail to
reach Britain with all possible speed.
Sir Modred, on his part, had heard of their sailing and hasted to get
together a great army. It was grievous to see how many a stout knight
held by Modred, ay, even many whom Arthur himself had raised to honor
and fortune; for it is the nature of men to be fickle. Thus it was that,
when Arthur drew near to Dover, he found Modred with a mighty host
waiting to oppose his landing. Then there was a great sea-fight, those
of Modred’s party going out in boats, great and small, to board King
Arthur’s ships and slay him and his men or ever they should come to land.
Right valiantly, did King Arthur bear him, as was his wont, and boldly
his followers fought in his cause, so that at last they drove off their
enemies and landed at Dover in spite of Modred and his array. For that
time Modred fled, and King Arthur bade those of his party bury the slain
and tend the wounded.
So as they passed from ship to ship, salving and binding the hurts of the
men, they came at last upon Sir Gawain, where he lay at the bottom of a
boat, wounded to the death, for he had received a great blow on the wound
that Sir Lancelot had given him. They bore him to his tent and his uncle,
the King, came to him, sorrowing beyond measure.
“Methinks,” said the King, “my joy on earth is done; for never have I
loved any men as I have loved you, my nephew, and Sir Lancelot. Sir
Lancelot I have lost, and now I see you on your death-bed.”
“My King,” said Sir Gawain, “my hour is come and I have got my death
at Sir Lancelot’s hand; for I am smitten on the wound he gave me. And
rightly am I served, for of my wilfulness and stubbornness comes this
unhappy war. I pray you, my uncle, raise me in your arms and let me write
to Sir Lancelot before I die.”
Thus, then, Sir Gawain wrote: “To Sir Lancelot, the noblest of all
knights, I, Gawain, send greeting before I die. For I am smitten on the
wound ye gave me before your castle of Benwick in France, and I bid all
men bear witness that I sought my own death and that ye are innocent of
it. I pray you, by our friendship of old, come again into Britain and,
when ye look upon my tomb, pray for Gawain of Orkney. Farewell.”
So Sir Gawain died and was buried in the Chapel at Dover.
OF THE BATTLE IN THE WEST
The day after the battle at Dover, King Arthur and his host pursued Sir
Modred to Barham Down, where again there was a great battle fought, with
much slaughter on both sides; but, in the end, Arthur was victorious, and
Modred fled to Canterbury.
Now by this time, many that Modred had cheated by his lying reports,
had drawn unto King Arthur, to whom at heart they had ever been loyal,
knowing him for a true and noble King and hating themselves for having
been deceived by such a false usurper as Sir Modred. Then when he found
that he was being deserted, Sir Modred withdrew to the far West, for
there men knew less of what had happened, and so he might still find some
to believe in him and support him; and being without conscience, he even
called to his aid the heathen hosts that his uncle, King Arthur, had
driven from the land in the good years when Lancelot was of the Round
Table.
King Arthur followed ever after, for in his heart was bitter anger
against the false nephew who had brought woe upon him and all his realm.
At the last, when Modred could flee no further, the two hosts were drawn
up near the shore of the great western sea; and it was the Feast of the
Holy Trinity.
That night, as King Arthur slept, he thought that Sir Gawain stood before
him, looking just as he did in life, and said to him:
“My uncle and my King, God in his great love has suffered me to come unto
you, to warn you that in no wise ye fight on the morrow; for if ye do, ye
shall be slain and with you the most part of the people on both sides.
Make ye, therefore, treaty for a month and within that time, Sir Lancelot
shall come to you with all his knights and ye shall overthrow the traitor
and all that hold with him.”
Therewith Sir Gawain vanished. Immediately the King awoke and called to
him the best and wisest of his knights, the two brethren, Sir Lucan the
Butler and Sir Bedivere and others, to whom he told his dream. Then all
were agreed that, on any terms whatsoever, a treaty should be made with
Sir Modred, even as Sir Gawain had said; and with the dawn, messengers
went to the camp of the enemy, to call Sir Modred to a conference. So it
was determined that the meeting should take place in the sight of both
armies, in an open space between the two camps, and that King Arthur and
Modred should each be accompanied by fourteen knights. Little enough
faith had either in the other, so when they set forth to the meeting,
they bade their hosts join battle if ever they saw a sword drawn. Thus
they went to the conference.
Now as they talked, it happened that an adder, coming out of a bush hard
by, stung a knight in the foot; and he, seeing the snake, drew his sword
to kill it and thought no harm thereby. But on the instant that the sword
flashed, the trumpets blared on both sides and the two hosts rushed to
battle. Never was there fought a fight of such bitter enmity, for brother
fought with brother, and comrade with comrade, and fiercely they cut and
thrust, with many a bitter word between; while King Arthur himself, his
heart hot within him, rode through and through the battle, seeking the
traitor Modred. So they fought all day till at last the evening fell.
Then Arthur, looking around him, saw of his valiant knights but two left,
Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere, and these sore wounded; and there, over
against him, by a great heap of the dead, stood Sir Modred, the cause of
all this ruin. Thereupon the King, his heart nigh broken with grief for
the loss of his true knights, cried with a loud voice, “Traitor! now is
thy doom upon thee!” and with his spear gripped in both hands, he rushed
upon Sir Modred and smote him that the weapon stood out a fathom behind.
And Sir Modred knew that he had his death-wound. With all the might that
he had, he thrust him up the spear to the haft and, with his sword,
struck King Arthur upon the head that the steel pierced the helmet and
bit into the head; then Sir Modred fell back, stark and dead.
Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere went to the King where he lay, swooning from
the blow, and bore him to a little chapel on the seashore. As they laid
him on the ground, Sir Lucan fell dead beside the King, and Arthur,
coming to himself, found but Sir Bedivere alive beside him.
THE DEATH OF ARTHUR
So King Arthur lay wounded to the death, grieving, not that his end was
come, but for the desolation of his kingdom and the loss of his good
knights. And looking upon the body of Sir Lucan, he sighed and said:
“Alas! true knight, dead for my sake! If I lived, I should ever grieve
for thy death, but now mine own end draws nigh.”
Then turning to Sir Bedivere, who stood sorrowing beside him, he said:
“Leave weeping now, for the time is short and much to do. Hereafter
shalt thou weep if thou wilt. But take now my sword Excalibur, hasten to
the water side and fling it into the deep. Then watch what happens and
bring me word thereof.”
“My Lord,” said Sir Bedivere, “your command shall be obeyed”; and taking
the sword, he departed. But as he went on his way he looked on the sword,
how wondrously it was formed, and the hilt all studded with precious
stones; and, as he looked, he called to mind the marvel by which it had
come into the King’s keeping. For on a certain day, as Arthur walked on
the shore of a great lake, there had appeared above the surface of the
water a hand brandishing a sword. On the instant, the King had leaped
into a boat, and, rowing into the lake, had got the sword and brought it
back to land. Then he had seen how, on one side the blade, was written,
“Keep me,” but on the other, “Throw me away,” and sore perplexed, he had
shown it to Merlin, the great wizard, who said: “Keep it now. The time
for casting away has not yet come.”
Thinking on this, it seemed to Bedivere that no good, but harm, must come
of obeying the King’s word; so hiding the sword under a tree, he hastened
back to the little chapel.
Then said the King: “What saw’st thou?”
“Sir,” answered Bedivere, “I saw naught but the waves, heard naught but
the wind.”
“That is untrue,” said King Arthur; “I charge thee, as thou art true
knight, go again and spare not to throw away the sword.”
Sir Bedivere departed a second time and his mind was to obey his lord;
but when he took the sword in his hand, he thought:
“Sin it is and shameful, to throw away so glorious a sword.” Then hiding
it again, he hastened back to the King.
“What saw’st thou?” said King Arthur.
“Sir, I saw the water lap on the crags.”
Then spoke the King in great wrath: “Traitor and unkind! Twice hast thou
betrayed me! Art dazzled by the splendor of the jewels, thou that, till
now, hast ever been dear and true to me? Go yet again, but if thou fail
me this time, I will arise and, with mine own hands, slay thee.”
Then Sir Bedivere left the King and, that time, he took the sword
quickly from the place where he had hidden it and, forbearing even to
look upon it, he twisted the belt about it and flung it with all his
force into the water. A wondrous sight he saw, for, as the sword touched
the water, a hand rose from out the deep, caught it, brandished it thrice
and threw it beneath the surface.
So Bedivere hastened back to the King and told him what he had seen.
“It is well,” said Arthur; “now, bear me to the water’s edge and hasten,
I pray thee, for I have tarried over long and my wound has taken cold.”
So Sir Bedivere raised the King on his back and bore him tenderly to the
lonely shore, where the lapping waves floated many an empty helmet and
the fitful moonlight fell on the upturned faces of the dead. Scarce had
they reached the shore when there hove in sight a barge, and on its deck
stood three tall women, robed all in black and wearing crowns on their
heads.
“Place me in the barge,” said Arthur, and softly Sir Bedivere lifted the
King into it. And these three queens wept sore over Arthur, and one took
his head in her lap and chafed his hands, crying:
“Alas! my brother, thou hast been overlong in coming, and I fear me thy
wound has taken cold.”
Then the barge began to move slowly forth from the land. When Sir
Bedivere saw this, he lifted up his voice and cried with a bitter cry:
“Ah! my Lord Arthur, thou art taken from me! And I, whither shall I go?”
“Comfort thyself,” said the King, “for in me is no comfort more. I pass
to the Valley of Avilion, to heal me of my grievous wound. If thou seest
me never again, pray for me.”
So the barge floated away out of sight and Sir Bedivere stood straining
his eyes after it till it had vanished utterly. Then he turned him
about and journeyed through the forest until, at day-break, he reached
a hermitage. Entering it, he prayed the holy hermit that he might abide
with him and there he spent the rest of his life in prayer and holy
exercise.
But of King Arthur is no more known. Some men, indeed, say that he is not
dead, but abides in the happy Valley of Avilion until such time as his
country’s need is sorest, when he shall come again and deliver it. Others
say that, of a truth, he is dead and that, in the far West, his tomb may
be seen and written on it these words:
“HERE LIES ARTHUR, ONCE KING AND KING TO BE.”
HOW QUEEN GUINEVERE BECAME A NUN AT ALMESBURY AND OF THE DEATH OF SIR
LANCELOT
When news reached Sir Lancelot in his own land of the treason of Modred,
he gathered his lords and knights together, and rested not till he had
come to Britain to aid King Arthur. He landed at Dover and there the evil
tidings were told him, how the King had met his death at the hands of his
traitor nephew. Then was Sir Lancelot’s heart nigh broken for grief.
“Alas!” he cried, “that I should live to know my King overthrown by such
a felon! What have I done that I should have caused the deaths of the
good knights Sir Gareth, Sir Gaheris, and Sir Gawain, and yet that such a
villain should escape my sword!”
Then he desired to be led to Sir Gawain’s tomb, where he remained long
in prayer and in great lamentation; after which, he called to him his
kinsmen and friends and said to them:
“My fair lords, I thank you all most heartily that, of your courtesy, ye
came with me to this land. That we be come too late is a misfortune that
might not be avoided, though I shall mourn it my life long. And now I
will ride forth alone to find my lady the Queen in the West, whither men
say she has fled. Wait for me, I pray you, for fifteen days and then, if
ye hear naught of me, return to your own lands.”
So Sir Lancelot rode forth alone, nor would he suffer any to follow him
despite their prayers and entreaties.
Thus he rode some seven or eight days until, at the last, he came to a
nunnery where he saw in the cloister many nuns waiting on a fair lady,
none other, indeed, than Queen Guinevere herself. And she, looking up,
saw Sir Lancelot and, at the sight, grew so pale that her ladies feared
for her; but she recovered and bade them go and bring Sir Lancelot to her
presence. When he was come, she said to him:
“Sir Lancelot, glad am I to see thee once again that I may bid thee
farewell; for in this world shall we never meet again.”
“Sweet Madam,” answered Sir Lancelot, “I was minded, with your leave, to
bear you to my own country, where I doubt not but I should guard you well
and safely from your enemies.”
“Nay, Lancelot,” said the Queen, “that may not be; I am resolved never to
look upon the world again, but here to pass my life in prayer and in such
good works as I may. But thou, do thou get back to thine own land and
take a fair wife, and ye both shall ever have my prayers.”
“Madam,” replied Sir Lancelot, “ye know well that shall never be. And
since ye are resolved to lead a life of prayer, I, too, will forsake the
world if I can find hermit to share his cell with me; for ever your will
has been mine.”
Long and earnestly he looked upon her as though he might never gaze
enough; then, getting to horse, he rode slowly away.
Nor did they ever meet again in life. For Queen Guinevere abode in
the great nunnery of Almesbury where Sir Lancelot had found her and
presently, for the holiness of her life, was made Abbess. But Sir
Lancelot, after he had left her, rode on his way till he came to the cell
where Sir Bedivere dwelt with the holy hermit; and when Sir Bedivere had
told him all that had befallen, of the great battle in the West, and of
the passing away of Arthur, Sir Lancelot flung down his arms and implored
the holy hermit to let him remain there as the servant of God. So Sir
Lancelot donned the serge gown and abode in the hermitage as the priest
of God.
Presently, there came riding that way the good Sir Bors, Lancelot’s
nephew; for, when Sir Lancelot returned not to Dover, Sir Bors and
many another knight went forth in search of him. There, then, Sir Bors
remained and, within a half year, there joined themselves to these three
many who in former days had been fellows of the Round Table; and the
fame of their piety spread far and wide.
So six years passed and then, one night, Lancelot had a vision. It seemed
to him that one said to him:
“Lancelot, arise and go in haste to Almesbury. There shalt thou find
Queen Guinevere dead and it shall be for thee to bury her.”
Sir Lancelot arose at once and, calling his fellows to him, told them
his dream. Immediately, with all haste, they set forth toward Almesbury
and, arriving there the second day, found the Queen dead, as had been
foretold in the vision. So with the state and ceremony befitting a great
Queen, they buried her in the Abbey of Glastonbury, in that same church
where, some say, King Arthur’s tomb is to be found. Lancelot it was who
performed the funeral rites and chanted the requiem; but when all was
done, he pined away, growing weaker daily. So at the end of six weeks, he
called to him his fellows and, bidding them all farewell, desired that
his dead body should be conveyed to the Joyous Garde, there to be buried,
for that in the church at Glastonbury he was not worthy to lie. And that
same night he died, and was buried, as he had desired, in his own castle.
So passed from the world the bold Sir Lancelot du Lac, bravest, most
courteous, and most gentle of knights, whose peer the world has never
seen nor ever shall see.
After Sir Lancelot’s death, Sir Bors and the pious knights, his
companions, took their way to the Holy Land and there they died in battle
against the Turk.
So ends this story of King Arthur and his noble fellowship of the Round
Table.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Discussion.= 1. Were Arthur and his knights successful in restoring
order in the kingdom? 2. Why were they so successful? 3. What value
have union and loyalty in any cause? 4. When did this union of King
Arthur and his knights begin to weaken? 5. Whose unfaithfulness
and treachery began its destruction? 6. What was the great fault
in Modred that prevented him from being loyal? 7. How did “true
knights” regard Sir Lancelot? 8. Did Arthur think it right to take
the law into his own hands? 9. Read lines which show that he did not
think himself greater than the law. 10. Can good government exist
without respect for law? 11. Trace the progress of disunion from its
beginning in Modred’s jealousy as follows: jealousy; plot; combat;
deaths; vengeance; false accusation; decree of death by burning;
rescue; deaths; vow of vengeance; war. 12. What proof did Sir
Lancelot give of his love for the King, even while at war with him?
13. Was King Arthur at fault when he allowed himself to be persuaded
by Sir Gawain to make war on Sir Lancelot? 14. Read the lines that
show the King loved Lancelot, in spite of all that had come between
them. 15. Read lines that show how Sir Gawain’s love and generosity
triumphed over his desire for vengeance. 16. Over what did King
Arthur grieve when he lay wounded after the “battle in the West”? 17.
Do you think it is the fine ideals of these old legends—union for
defense of the weak, mercy to all, and wrongful gain to none—that
make them live?
=Phrases=
boded ill, 149, 2
jealous rage, 149, 11
ill counsel, 150, 33
from the press, 151, 21
rendered me account, 152, 14
safe conduct, 152, 28
housings of the horses, 152, 33
it behooves me, 153, 17
felon knight, 153, 22
under surety of my word, 154, 8
fasten a quarrel upon him, 154, 9
by stealth, 154, 13
fulfilling your behest, 155, 14
to hie us home, 156, 25
the scoff of all men, 156, 25
faith I owe to knighthood, 156, 32
noised abroad, 158, 12
idle rumor, 158, 14
as was his wont, 158, 35
Modred and his array, 159, 2
sorrowing beyond measure, 159, 10
heathen hosts, 160, 6
I charge thee, 162, 24
chafed his hands, 163, 20
donned the serge gown, 165, 31
funeral rites, 166, 15
NARRATIVES IN VERSE
[Illustration]
SIR PATRICK SPENS
FOLK BALLAD
The king sits in Dumferling toune,
Drinking the blude-reid wine:
“O whar will I get guid sailor,
To sail this schip of mine?”
Up and spak an eldern knicht,[10]
Sat at the king’s richt kne:
“Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That sails upon the se.”
The king has written a braid[11] letter,
And signed it wi his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the sand.
The first line that Sir Patrick red,
A loud lauch lauched he;
The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.
“O wha is this has don this deid,
This ill deid don to me,
To send me out this time o’ the yeir,
To sail upon the se!
“Mak haste, mak haste, my mirry men all,
Our guid schip sails the morne.”
“O say na sae[12], my master deir,
For I feir a deadlie storme.
“Late, late yestreen[13] saw the new moone,
Wi the auld moone in hir arme,
And I feir, I feir, my deir master,
That we will cum to harme.”
O our Scots nobles wer richt laith[14]
To weet[15] their cork-heild schoone[16];
Bot lang owre[17] a’ the play wer playd,
Thair hats they swam aboone.[18]
O lang, lang may their ladies sit,
Wi thair fans into their hand,
Or eir[19] they se Sir Patrick Spens,
Cum sailing to the land.
O lang, lang may the ladies stand,
Wi thair gold kems[20] in their hair,
Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
For they’ll se thame na mair.
Haf owre[21], haf owre to Aberdour,
It’s fiftie fadom[22] deip,
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi the Scots lords at his feit.[23]
[10] _knicht_, knight
[11] _braid_, long
[12] _na sae_, not so
[13] _yestreen_, yesterday evening
[14] _laith_, loath
[15] _weet_, wet
[16] _schoone_, shoes
[17] _owre_, before
[18] _aboone_, above
[19] _or eir_, before
[20] _kems_, combs
[21] _owre_, over
[22] _fadom_, fathoms
[23] _feit_, feet
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Historical Note.= The old folk ballads, of which this one is an
excellent example, have all come down to us from the far-off past.
Such ballads are not the work of any one author, but like the stories
of King Arthur, were preserved mainly in the memories of men. Some
of them were sung or recited to the music of the harp or lute by
minstrels who wandered from village to village, and from castle to
castle, entertaining their hearers in return for food and lodging;
or by the bards and minstrels who were maintained by kings and
nobles to entertain them and to celebrate their deeds and honors.
Often they were made by the people, not by professional singers,
and were expressions of the folk love of adventure. Indeed, the
best definition of a popular, or folk, ballad is that it is “a tale
telling itself in song.” This means that a ballad always tells a
story; that it has no known author, being composed by several people
or by a community and then handed down orally, not in writing, from
generation to generation; and finally, that it is sung, not recited.
In this way such folk ballads as “Sir Patrick Spens” were transmitted
for generations, in different versions, before they were written down
and became a part of what we call _literature_, that is, something
written. When the invention of the printing press made it possible
to put these old ballads in a permanent form, they were collected
from the recitations of old men and women who knew them, and printed.
Thus they have become a precious literary possession, telling us
something of the life, the history, and the standards, superstitions,
and beliefs of distant times, and thrilling us with their stirring
stories. The beauty of these old ballads lies in the story they
tell, and in their directness and simplicity. They are almost wholly
without literary ornament; their language is the language of the
people, not of the court.
Many modern poets have written stories in verse which are also called
ballads. Some are in imitation of the old ballads, using the old
ballad meter and riming system, and employing old-fashioned words and
expressions, to add to the effect. Other modern ballads are simple
narratives in verse—short stories dealing with stirring subjects,
with battle, adventure, etc. But while the true old ballad holds the
attention upon the story only, the modern ballads often introduce
descriptions of the characters.
=Discussion.= 1. Why did the king choose Sir Patrick Spens? 2. What
did Sir Patrick say when he had read the king’s letter? 3. What signs
of a storm had been noticed? 4. Point out all the ways in which the
ballad tells that the ship was wrecked. 5. How have the old ballads
come down to us? 6. What other old ballad have you read? 7. Tell how
the old ballads came into being, and name a characteristic of them.
8. What do the old ballads tell us of the life of the early people?
9. How does a modern ballad differ from a folk, or popular, ballad?
THE SKELETON IN ARMOR
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
“Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armor drest,
Comest to daunt me!
Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alms,
Why dost thou haunt me?”
Then, from those cavernous eyes
Pale flashes seemed to rise,
As when the Northern skies
Gleam in December;
And, like the water’s flow
Under December’s snow,
Came a dull voice of woe
From the heart’s chamber.
“I was a Viking old!
My deeds, though manifold,
No Skald in song has told,
No Saga taught thee!
Take heed, that in thy verse
Thou dost the tale rehearse,
Else dread a dead man’s curse;
For this I sought thee.
“Far in the Northern Land,
By the wild Baltic’s strand,
I, with my childish hand,
Tamed the gerfalcon;
And, with my skates fast-bound,
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,
That the poor whimpering hound
Trembled to walk on.
“Oft to his frozen lair
Tracked I the grizzly bear,
While from my path the hare
Fled like a shadow;
Oft through the forest dark
Followed the were-wolf’s bark,
Until the soaring lark
Sang from the meadow.
“But when I older grew,
Joining a corsair’s crew,
O’er the dark sea I flew
With the marauders.
Wild was the life we led,
Many the souls that sped,
Many the hearts that bled,
By our stern orders.
“Many a wassail-bout
Wore the long winter out;
Often our midnight shout
Set the cocks crowing,
As we the Berserk’s tale
Measured in cups of ale,
Draining the oaken pail,
Filled to o’erflowing.
“Once as I told in glee
Tales of the stormy sea,
Soft eyes did gaze on me,
Burning yet tender;
And as the white stars shine
On the dark Norway pine,
On that dark heart of mine
Fell their soft splendor.
“I wooed the blue-eyed maid,
Yielding, yet half afraid,
And in the forest’s shade
Our vows were plighted.
Under its loosened vest
Fluttered her little breast,
Like birds within their nest
By the hawk frighted.
“Bright in her father’s hall
Shields gleamed upon the wall,
Loud sang the minstrels all,
Chanting his glory;
When of old Hildebrand
I asked his daughter’s hand,
Mute did the minstrels stand
To hear my story.
“While the brown ale he quaffed,
Loud then the champion laughed,
And as the wind-gusts waft
The sea-foam brightly,
So the loud laugh of scorn,
Out of those lips unshorn,
From the deep drinking-horn
Blew the foam lightly.
“She was a Prince’s child,
I but a Viking wild,
And though she blushed and smiled,
I was discarded!
Should not the dove so white
Follow the sea-mew’s flight,
Why did they leave that night
Her nest unguarded?
“Scarce had I put to sea,
Bearing the maid with me,—
Fairest of all was she
Among the Norsemen!—
When on the white sea-strand,
Waving his armèd hand,
Saw we old Hildebrand,
With twenty horsemen.
“Then launched they to the blast,
Bent like a reed each mast,
Yet we were gaining fast,
When the wind failed us;
And with a sudden flaw
Came round the gusty Skaw,
So that our foe we saw
Laugh as he hailed us.
“And as to catch the gale
Round veered the flapping sail,
Death! was the helmsman’s hail,
Death without quarter!
Mid-ships with iron keel
Struck we her ribs of steel;
Down her black hulk did reel
Through the black water!
“As with his wings aslant,
Sails the fierce cormorant,
Seeking some rocky haunt,
With his prey laden,
So toward the open main,
Beating to sea again,
Through the wild hurricane,
Bore I the maiden.
“Three weeks we westward bore,
And when the storm was o’er,
Cloud-like we saw the shore
Stretching to leeward;
There for my lady’s bower
Built I the lofty tower,
Which, to this very hour,
Stands looking seaward.
“There lived we many years;
Time dried the maiden’s tears;
She had forgot her fears,
She was a mother;
Death closed her mild blue eyes,
Under that tower she lies;
Ne’er shall the sun arise
On such another!
“Still grew my bosom then,
Still as a stagnant fen!
Hateful to me were men,
The sunlight hateful.
In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon my spear,
Oh, death was grateful!
Thus, seamed with many scars,
Bursting these prison bars,
Up to its native stars
My soul ascended!
There from the flowing bowl
Deep drinks the warrior’s soul,
_Skoal!_ to the Northland! _skoal!_”
—Thus the tale ended.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
For Biography, see page 81.
=Discussion.= 1. With which stanza does the narrative begin? 2.
What may the first three stanzas be called? 3. Which of these three
stanzas is descriptive? 4. In which does the Viking make himself
known? 5. In what stanzas is the story told? 6. With what line does
the story end? 7. What relation to the poem has the last line? 8.
Describe the scene suggested by the first stanza; who is speaking?
9. Describe the guest to whom the poet speaks. 10. In using the word
“fearful” to describe this guest, was the poet emphasizing only the
outward appearance of his guest? 11. Can you use other words equally
exact and poetical for “daunt” and “haunt”? 12. Give a name to the
“flashes” that are seen when the Northern skies gleam in December.
13. To what is the voice of the skeleton compared? 14. Is it an apt
comparison? 15. Does the second stanza prepare us for a story of
happy things? 16. What stanzas help you to see the kind of people the
Vikings were, and to imagine the life they led? 17. The Viking showed
his wonderful courage in going out into the “open main” in a wild
hurricane; give all the other evidences of his courage found in the
poem. 18. The Introduction (pages 89 and 90) gives various motives
for seeking adventures; do you think the Knights and the Vikings had
the same motive? 19. How does this ballad differ from a folk ballad,
such as “Sir Patrick Spens”? 20. Pronounce the following: daunt;
palms; alms; haunt; launched.
=Phrases=
rude armor, 171, 3
fleshless palms, 171, 6
cavernous eyes, 171, 9
pale flashes, 171, 10
heart’s chamber, 171, 16
poor whimpering hound, 172, 3
frozen lair, 172, 5
souls that sped, 172, 18
measured in cups of ale, 172, 26
soft splendor, 173, 4
vows were plighted, 173, 8
lips unshorn, 173, 26
death without quarter, 174, 24
wings aslant, 174, 29
open main, 175, 1
stretching to leeward, 175, 8
time dried the maiden’s tears, 175, 14
stagnant fen, 175, 22
warlike gear, 175, 26
flowing bowl, 176, 1
THE THREE FISHERS
CHARLES KINGSLEY
Three fishers went sailing away to the West,
Away to the West as the sun went down;
Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town;
For men must work and women must weep,
And there’s little to earn and many to keep,
Though the harbor bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
They looked at the squall and they looked at the shower,
And the nightrack came rolling up ragged and brown;
But men must work and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden and waters deep,
And the harbor bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sands,
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands
For those who will never come home to the town;
For men must work and women must weep,
And the sooner it’s over the sooner to sleep,
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Charles Kingsley (1819-1875), clergyman, lecturer, poet,
and novelist, was born in Dartmoor, England. During his earlier years
he lived in the beautiful Fen Country, the scenery of which made a
deep impression on him. He was a friend of Tennyson and a poet of
real excellence. His ballads, “The Three Fishers” and “The Sands of
Dee,” are widely read and admired, and his novel _Westward Ho!_ is
a brilliant narrative of adventure. In “The Three Fishers” he shows
that he has studied the fisher folk of his native country and sees
with genuine sympathy their hard life and the courage that enables
them to brave the perils of the sea.
=Discussion.= 1. What does the poem tell you about the three fishers?
2. What does it suggest? 3. Where could a stanza be inserted to tell
a part of the story that is only suggested? 4. Do you think this
would improve the poem? 5. What signs were there of an approaching
storm? 6. Why does the occupation of deep-sea fishers train them to
understand signs indicating changes in the weather? 7. Why did these
fishers go out to sea notwithstanding signs of a storm? 8. What other
thought do you think was in their minds as “Each thought on the woman
who loved him best”? 9. What idea of the deep-sea fishers does this
poem give you? 10. What idea of the sea? 11. What other poems do you
know that tell of life on the sea? 12. What idea of the sea does each
give?
=Phrases=
harbor bar be moaning, 177, 7
nightrack came rolling, 177, 11
morning gleam, 177, 16
the sooner to sleep, 177, 20
LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER
THOMAS CAMPBELL
A chieftain to the Highlands bound
Cries “Boatman, do not tarry!
And I’ll give thee a silver pound
To row us o’er the ferry!”
“Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?”
“O I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle,
And this, Lord Ullin’s daughter.
“And fast before her father’s men
Three days we’ve fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
“His horsemen hard behind us ride—
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover?”
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
“I’ll go, my chief, I’m ready;
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady.
“And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So though the waves are raging white
I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of Heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode arméd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.
“O haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,
“Though tempests round us gather;
I’ll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.”
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her—
When, oh! too strong for human hand
The tempest gather’d o’er her.
And still they row’d amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing;
Lord Ullin reach’d that fatal shore—
His wrath was changed to wailing.
For, sore dismay’d, through storm and shade
His child he did discover;
One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid,
And one was round her lover.
“Come back! come back!” he cried in grief,
“Across this stormy water;
And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter!—Oh, my daughter!”
’Twas vain: the loud waves lash’d the shore,
Return or aid preventing;
The waters wild went o’er his child,
And he was left lamenting.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Thomas Campbell (1777-1844) was a popular Scottish
poet. He was born in Glasgow, his father being a prominent merchant
of that city. At an early age Campbell began to write poetry,
and at twenty-one had published “The Pleasures of Hope,” a poem
that was received with much favor. He excelled in war poetry, his
“Hohenlinden”, “The Battle of the Baltic”, and “Ye Mariners of
England” being the most widely read. His ballads “Lochiel” and “Lord
Ullin’s Daughter” are the best known. Campbell is remembered not
alone for these stirring narrative poems, but also for the excellence
of favorite lines that he wrote, such as “To live in the hearts we
leave behind is not to die,” and “’Tis distance lends enchantment to
the view.”
=Discussion.= 1. Tell briefly the story of the poem. 2. What
picture do the first two stanzas give you? 3. What reason did the
boatman give for saying he would row them over the ferry? 4. What
change of time do you notice in the tenth stanza? 5. What does the
eleventh stanza tell you? 6. Which stanza tells you of the tragedy?
7. What other poems of the sea have you read in this book? 8. What
characteristics of the ballad has this poem?
=Phrases=
to the Highlands bound, 178, 1
stain the heather, 178, 12
hardy Highland wight, 179, 1
raging white, 179, 7
grew loud apace, 179, 9
in the scowl of Heaven, 179, 11
waters fast prevailing, 179, 26
fatal shore, 179, 27
THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW
JOHN G. WHITTIER
Pipes of the misty moorlands,
Voice of the glens and hills,
The droning of the torrents,
The treble of the rills!
Not the braes of broom and heather,
Nor the mountains dark with rain,
Nor maiden bower, nor border tower,
Have heard your sweetest strain!
Dear to the Lowland reaper,
And plaided mountaineer,
To the cottage and the castle
The Scottish pipes are dear;
Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch
O’er mountain, loch, and glade;
But the sweetest of all music
The Pipes at Lucknow played.
Day by day the Indian tiger
Louder yelled, and nearer crept;
Round and round the jungle-serpent
Near and nearer circles swept.
“Pray for rescue, wives and mothers—
Pray today!” the soldier said;
“Tomorrow, death’s between us
And the wrong and shame we dread.”
O they listened, looked, and waited,
Till their hope became despair;
And the sobs of low bewailing
Filled the pauses of their prayer.
Then up spake a Scottish maiden,
With her ear unto the ground:
“Dinna ye hear it?—dinna ye hear it?
The pipes o’ Havelock sound!”
Hushed the wounded man his groaning;
Hushed the wife her little ones;
Alone they heard the drum-roll
And the roar of Sepoy guns.
But to sounds of home and childhood
The Highland ear was true;
As her mother’s cradle-crooning
The mountain pipes she knew.
Like the march of soundless music
Through the vision of the seer,
More of feeling than of hearing,
Of the heart than of the ear,
She knew the droning pibroch,
She knew the Campbell’s call;
“Hark! hear ye no’ MacGregor’s,
The grandest o’ them all!”
O they listened, dumb and breathless,
And they caught the sound at last;
Faint and far beyond the Goomtee
Rose and fell the piper’s blast!
Then a burst of wild thanksgiving
Mingled woman’s voice and man’s;
“God be praised!—the March of Havelock!
The piping of the clans!”
Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance,
Sharp and shrill as swords at strife,
Came the wild MacGregor’s clan-call,
Stinging all the air to life.
But when the far-off dust-cloud
To plaided legions grew,
Full tenderly and blithesomely
The pipes of rescue blew!
Round the silver domes of Lucknow,
Moslem mosque and pagan shrine,
Breathed the air to Britons dearest,
The air of Auld Lang Syne.
O’er the cruel roll of war-drums
Rose that sweet and homelike strain;
And the tartan clove the turban,
As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.
Dear to the corn-land reaper
And plaided mountaineer,
To the cottage and the castle
The piper’s song is dear.
Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch
O’er mountain, glen, and glade;
But the sweetest of all music
The Pipes at Lucknow played!
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
For Biography, see page 60.
=Historical Note.= The Indian Mutiny was the great revolt of the
Bengal native army (the Sepoys) against the British rule in 1857. At
Lucknow, in northern India, the English were almost overcome. The
town, defended by a garrison of only 1720 men, who were protecting
many women and children, was besieged by a greatly superior number.
The defense, nevertheless, was maintained from the 30th of June to
the 26th of September, when the relief column under the Scottish
general, Sir Henry Havelock, preceded by the music of the bagpipes,
reached the city.
=Discussion.= 1. What stanzas picture Scotland and the feeling her
people have for the music of the bagpipe? 2. What contrasts show how
universal this feeling is? 3. In the first stanza, what is this music
said to be like? 4. What do you know about the bagpipe that makes
this comparison especially apt? 5. The poem tells a story; with what
stanzas does the story begin and end? 6. What relation to this story
have the first two stanzas? 7. What do you know of the Indian Mutiny
that helps you to understand this story? 8. Who first heard the sound
of the pipes? 9. How is this accounted for? 10. What did this sound
mean to her? 11. Read the stirring lines that give the spirit of the
martial music of the pipes. 12. Why did the piper change to the air
“Auld Lang Syne”? What stanzas picture the feeling of those who heard
this music? 13. What people wear the “tartan”? The “turban”? 14. What
is the most interesting point in the story? 15. Does the story make
clear the poet’s reason for saying that the “sweetest strain” the
pipes ever played was at Lucknow?
=Phrases=
droning of the torrents, 181, 3
treble of the rills, 181, 4
braes of broom, 181, 5
plaided mountaineer, 181, 10
ancient pibroch, 181, 13
the Indian tiger, 181, 17
jungle-serpent, 181, 19
low bewailing, 181, 27
cradle-crooning, 182, 11
vision of the seer, 182, 14
fierce as vengeance, 182, 29
Moslem mosque, 183, 6
pagan shrine, 183, 6
Goomtee cleaves the plain, 183, 12
SPANISH WATERS
JOHN MASEFIELD
Spanish waters, Spanish waters, you are ringing in my ears,
Like a slow sweet piece of music from the gray forgotten years;
Telling tales, and beating tunes, and bringing weary thought to me
Of the sandy beach at Muertos, where I would that I could be.
There’s a surf breaks on Los Muertos, and it never stops to roar,
And it’s there we came to anchor, and it’s there we went ashore,
Where the blue lagoon is silent amid snags of rotting trees,
Dropping like the clothes of corpses cast up by the seas.
We anchored at Los Muertos when the dipping sun was red,
We left her half-a-mile to sea, to west of Nigger Head;
And before the mist was on the Cay, before the day was done,
We were all ashore on Muertos with the gold that we had won.
We bore it through the marshes in a half-score battered chests,
Sinking, in the sucking quagmires, to the sunburn on our breasts,
Heaving over tree-trunks, gasping, damning at the flies and heat,
Longing for a long drink, out of silver, in the ship’s cool lazareet.
The moon came white and ghostly as we laid the treasure down,
There was gear there’d make a beggarman as rich as Lima Town,
Copper charms and silver trinkets from the chests of Spanish crews,
Gold doubloons and double moydores, louis d’ors and ortagues.
Clumsy yellow-metal earrings from the Indians of Brazil,
Uncut emeralds out of Rio, bezoar stone from Guayaquil,
Silver, in the crude and fashioned, pots of old Arica bronze,
Jewels from the bones of Incas desecrated by the Dons.
We smoothed the place with mattocks, and we took and blazed the tree,
Which marks yon where the gear is hid that none will ever see,
And we laid aboard the ship again, and south away we steers,
Through the loud surf of Los Muertos which is beating in my ears.
I’m the last alive that knows it. All the rest have gone their ways,
Killed, or died, or come to anchor in the old Mulatas Cays,
And I go singing, fiddling, old and starved and in despair,
And I know where all that gold is hid, if I were only there.
It’s not the way to end it all. I’m old and nearly blind,
And an old man’s past’s a strange thing, for it never leaves his mind.
And I see in dreams, awhiles, the beach, the sun’s disc dipping red,
And the tall ship, under topsails, swaying in past Nigger Head.
I’d be glad to step ashore there. Glad to take a pick and go
To the lone blazed coco-palm tree in the place no others know,
And lift the gold and silver that has moldered there for years
By the loud surf of Los Muertos which is beating in my ears.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= John Masefield (1875-⸺) is an English poet and
playwright. When a small boy he had a mania for running away from
home; to satisfy this longing his father sent him to sea when he was
fourteen years old, in charge of the captain of a sailing vessel.
During his travels he collected much material which he afterward
used in his poems. On one of his trips he landed in New York City,
where he acquired considerable knowledge of American customs. Next to
Kipling he is England’s greatest singer of her “Seven Seas and Five
Oceans.”
Early in 1916 Masefield came to the United States on a lecture tour
which aroused much interest in him and his writings. During the
recent World War he served in France in connection with the Red
Cross. He also served in the campaign on the Gallipoli Peninsula and
wrote a splendid account of that unfortunate undertaking.
=Discussion.= 1. Who is addressed in the first stanza? 2. What
comparison do you find in this stanza? 3. Tell the story in your own
words. 4. Where was the treasure secured? 5. What marks of the ballad
do you find in this poem? 6. What do you particularly like in this
poem? 7. Pronounce the following: quagmires; palm.
=Phrases=
gray forgotten years, 184, 2
bringing weary thought, 184, 3
sunburn on our breasts, 185, 2
rich as Lima Town, 185, 6
in the crude and fashioned, 185, 11
laid aboard the ship, 185, 15
KILMENY
(A SONG OF THE TRAWLERS)
ALFRED NOYES
Dark, dark lay the drifters, against the red west,
As they shot their long meshes of steel overside;
And the oily green waters were rocking to rest
When _Kilmeny_ went out, at the turn of the tide.
And nobody knew where that lassie would roam,
For the magic that called her was tapping unseen.
It was well nigh a week ere _Kilmeny_ came home,
And nobody knew where _Kilmeny_ had been.
She’d a gun at her bow that was Newcastle’s best,
And a gun at her stern that was fresh from the Clyde,
And a secret her skipper had never confessed,
Not even at dawn, to his newly wed bride;
And a wireless that whispered above like a gnome,
The laughter of London, the boasts of Berlin.
O it may have been mermaids that lured her from home,
But nobody knew where _Kilmeny_ had been.
It was dark when _Kilmeny_ came home from her quest,
With her bridge dabbled red where her skipper had died;
But she moved like a bride with a rose at her breast;
And “Well done, _Kilmeny_!” the admiral cried.
Now at sixty-four fathom a conger may come,
And nose at the bones of a drowned submarine;
But late in the evening _Kilmeny_ came home,
And nobody knew where _Kilmeny_ had been.
There’s a wandering shadow that stares at the foam,
Though they sing all the night to old England, their queen,
Late, late in the evening _Kilmeny_ came home,
And nobody knew where _Kilmeny_ had been.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Alfred Noyes (1880-⸺), an English poet, lives in London.
He was educated at Oxford, where for three years he rowed on the
college crew. As soon as his college days were over he devoted
himself to literature, contributing to many English magazines. During
the World War he wrote many stirring poems, of which “Kilmeny” is
among the best. In 1918-1919 Mr. Noyes was professor of literature in
Princeton University.
=Discussion.= 1. What picture does the first stanza give you? 2. What
suggests to you the work in which the trawler was engaged? 3. Which
stanza suggests the result of _Kilmeny’s_ trip? 4. What was the magic
that called _Kilmeny_ to the quest? 5. What other poems of the sea
have you read in this book? 6. Tell what you know about the author.
=Phrases=
against the red west, 186, 1
long meshes of steel, 186, 2
turn of the tide, 186, 4
Newcastle’s best, 187, 1
like a gnome, 187, 5
wandering shadow, 187, 17
THE GUARDS CAME THROUGH
SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
Men of the Twenty-first
Up by the Chalk Pit Wood,
Weak with our wounds and our thirst,
Wanting our sleep and our food,
After a day and a night—
God, shall we ever forget!
Beaten and broke in the fight,
But sticking it—sticking it yet.
Trying to hold the line,
Fainting and spent and done,
Always the thud and the whine,
Always the yell of the Hun!
Northumberland, Lancaster, York,
Durham, and Somerset,
Fighting alone, worn to the bone,
But sticking it—sticking it yet.
Never a message of hope!
Never a word of cheer!
Fronting Hill 70’s shell-swept slope,
With the dull dead plain in our rear.
Always the whine of the shell,
Always the roar of its burst,
Always the tortures of hell,
As waiting and wincing we cursed
Our luck and the guns and the _Boche_,
When our Corporal shouted, “Stand to!”
And I heard someone cry, “Clear the front for the Guards!”
And the Guards came through.
Our throats they were parched and hot,
But Lord, if you’d heard the cheers!
Irish and Welsh and Scot,
Coldstream and Grenadiers.
Two brigades, if you please,
Dressing as straight as a hem,
We—we were down on our knees,
Praying for us and for them!
Lord, I could speak for a week,
But how could you understand!
How should _your_ cheeks be wet,
Such feelin’s don’t come to _you_.
But when can we or my mates forget,
When the Guards came through?
“Five yards left extend!”
It passed from rank to rank.
Line after line with never a bend,
And a touch of the London swank.
A trifle of swank and dash,
Cool as a home parade,
Twinkle and glitter and flash,
Flinching never a shade,
With the shrapnel right in their face
Doing their Hyde Park stunt,
Keeping their swing at an easy pace,
Arms at the trail, eyes front!
Man, it was great to see!
Man, it was fine to do!
It’s a cot and a hospital ward for me,
But I’ll tell ’em in Blighty, wherever I be,
How the Guards came through.
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-⸺) is an English author.
He was educated in Stonyhurst College and at the University of
Edinburgh. In 1885 he was graduated as a doctor of medicine and soon
afterwards began practice. It was about this time that his first
book, _A Study in Scarlet_, was published. His greatest success
came with the publication of _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_, a
collection of detective stories that introduced a character who has
become as famous as if he had actually lived. Other books that have
added to his fame are _The Lost World_, _The New Revelation_, and
_The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes_. He has written many interesting
articles on the World War, particularly descriptions of the western
campaigns. In 1902 he was knighted.
=Discussion.= 1. Who is supposed to be telling the story? 2. Why
were the soldiers of the Twenty-first so disheartened? 3. What
effect upon them had the arrival of the Guards? 4. Do you think
that you would have felt like cheering if you had been a soldier of
the Twenty-first? 5. What effect upon you has the line “Dressing as
straight as a hem”? 6. What picture does the last stanza give you? 7.
Does the poet make you see the Guards as they came through? 8. What
do the last three lines suggest? 9. What does “Blighty” mean to you?
10. Why does the one who is telling the story say that _we_ could not
understand?
=Phrases=
shell-swept slope, 188, 19
waiting and wincing, 188, 24
swank and dash, 189, 19
arms at the trail, 189, 26
STORIES OF THE SEA
[Illustration]
A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM
EDGAR ALLAN POE
MY FIRST VIEW OF THE MAELSTROM
We had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some minutes the
old man seemed too much exhausted to speak.
“Not long ago,” said he at length, “and I could have guided you on this
route as well as the youngest of my sons; but, about three years past,
there happened to me an event such as never happened before to mortal
man—or at least such as no man ever survived to tell of—and the six
hours of deadly terror which I then endured have broken me up, body and
soul. You suppose me a _very_ old man—but I am not. It took less than a
single day to change these hairs from a jetty black to white, to weaken
my limbs, and to unstring my nerves, so that I tremble at the least
exertion, and am frightened at a shadow. Do you know I can scarcely look
over this little cliff without getting giddy?”
The “little cliff,” upon whose edge he had so carelessly thrown himself
down to rest that the weightier portion of his body hung over it, while
he was only kept from falling by the tenure of his elbow on its extreme
and slippery edge—this “little cliff” arose, a sheer unobstructed
precipice of black shining rock, some fifteen or sixteen hundred feet
from the world of crags beneath us. Nothing would have tempted me to
within half a dozen yards of its brink. In truth, so deeply was I excited
by the perilous position of my companion, that I fell at full length upon
the ground, clung to the shrubs around me, and dared not even glance
upward at the sky—while I struggled in vain to divest myself of the idea
that the very foundations of the mountain were in danger from the fury
of the winds. It was long before I could reason myself into sufficient
courage to sit up and look out into the distance.
“You must get over these fancies,” said the guide, “for I have brought
you here that you might have the best possible view of the scene of that
event I mentioned—and to tell you the whole story with the spot just
under your eye.
“We are now,” he continued, in that particularizing manner which
distinguished him—“we are now close upon the Norwegian coast—in the
sixty-eighth degree of latitude—in the great province of Nordland—and in
the dreary district of Lofoden. The mountain upon whose top we sit is
Helseggen, the Cloudy. Now raise yourself up a little higher—hold on to
the grass if you feel giddy—so—and look out, beyond the belt of vapor
beneath us, into the sea.”
I looked dizzily, and beheld a wide expanse of ocean, whose waters wore
so inky a hue as to bring at once to my mind the Nubian geographer’s
account of the _Mare Tenebrarum_. A panorama more deplorably desolate no
human imagination can conceive. To the right and left, as far as the eye
could reach, there lay outstretched, like ramparts of the world, lines of
horridly black and beetling cliff, whose character of gloom was but the
more forcibly illustrated by the surf which reared high up against it,
its white and ghastly crest, howling and shrieking forever. Just opposite
the promontory upon whose apex we were placed, and at a distance of some
five or six miles out at sea, there was visible a small, bleak-looking
island; or, more properly, its position was discernible through the
wilderness of surge in which it was enveloped. About two miles nearer
the land arose another of smaller size, hideously craggy and barren, and
encompassed at various intervals by a cluster of dark rocks.
The appearance of the ocean, in the space between the more distant island
and the shore, had something very unusual about it. Although, at the
time, so strong a gale was blowing landward that a brig in the remote
offing lay to under a double-reefed try-sail, and constantly plunged her
whole hull out of sight, still there was here nothing like a regular
swell, but only a short, quick, angry cross-dashing of water in every
direction—as well in the teeth of the wind as otherwise. Of foam there
was little except in the immediate vicinity of the rocks.
“The island in the distance,” resumed the old man, “is called by the
Norwegians Vurrgh. The one midway is Moskoe. That a mile to the northward
is Ambaaren. Yonder are Iflesen, Hoeyholm, Kieldholm, Suarven, and
Buckholm. Farther off—between Moskoe and Vurrgh—are Otterholm, Flimen,
Sandflesen, and Skarholm. These are the true names of the places—but why
it had been thought necessary to name them at all is more than either you
or I can understand. Do you hear anything? Do you see any change in the
water?”
We had now been about ten minutes upon the top of Helseggen, to which
we had ascended from the interior of Lofoden, so that we had caught no
glimpse of the sea until it had burst upon us from the summit. As the
old man spoke, I became aware of a loud and gradually increasing sound,
like the moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes upon an American prairie;
and at the same moment I perceived that what seamen term the _chopping_
character of the ocean beneath us, was rapidly changing into a current
which set to the eastward. Even while I gazed, this current acquired
a monstrous velocity. Each moment added to its speed—to its headlong
impetuosity. In five minutes the whole sea, as far as Vurrgh, was lashed
into ungovernable fury; but it was between Moskoe and the coast that
the main uproar held its sway. Here the vast bed of the waters, seamed
and scarred into a thousand conflicting channels, burst suddenly into
frenzied convulsion—heaving, boiling, hissing—gyrating in gigantic
and innumerable vortices, and all whirling and plunging on to the
eastward with a rapidity which water never elsewhere assumes, except in
precipitous descents.
In a few minutes more, there came over the scene another radical
alteration. The general surface grew somewhat more smooth, and the
whirlpools, one by one, disappeared, while prodigious streaks of foam
became apparent where none had been seen before. These streaks, at
length, spreading out to a great distance, and entering into combination,
took unto themselves the gyratory motion of the subsided vortices, and
seemed to form the germ of another more vast. Suddenly—very suddenly—this
assumed a distinct and definite existence, in a circle of more than a
mile in diameter. The edge of the whirl was represented by a broad belt
of gleaming spray; but no particle of this slipped into the mouth of the
terrific funnel, whose interior, as far as the eye could fathom it, was
a smooth, shining, and jet-black wall of water, inclined to the horizon
at an angle of some forty-five degrees, speeding dizzily round and round
with a swaying and sweltering motion, and sending forth to the winds an
appalling voice, half shriek, half roar, such as not even the mighty
cataract of Niagara ever lifts up in its agony to Heaven.
The mountain trembled to its very base, and the rock rocked. I threw
myself upon my face, and clung to the scant herbage in an excess of
nervous agitation.
“This,” said I at length, to the old man—“this _can_ be nothing else than
the great whirlpool of the Maelstrom.”
“So it is sometimes termed,” said he. “We Norwegians call it the
Moskoe-strom, from the island of Moskoe in the midway.”
The ordinary accounts of this vortex had by no means prepared me for what
I saw. That of Jonas Ramus, which is perhaps the most circumstantial of
any, cannot impart the faintest conception either of the magnificence
or of the horror of the scene—or of the wild bewildering sense of _the
novel_ which confounds the beholder. I am not sure from what point of
view the writer in question surveyed it, nor at what time; but it could
neither have been from the summit of Helseggen, nor during a storm.
There are some passages of his description, nevertheless, which may be
quoted for their details, although their effect is exceedingly feeble in
conveying an impression of the spectacle.
“Between Lofoden and Moskoe,” he says, “the depth of the water is between
thirty-six and forty fathoms; but on the other side, toward Ver (Vurrgh),
this depth decreases so as not to afford a convenient passage for a
vessel, without the risk of splitting on the rocks, which happens even
in the calmest weather. When it is flood, the stream runs up the country
between Lofoden and Moskoe with a boisterous rapidity; but the roar of
its impetuous ebb to the sea is scarce equaled by the loudest and most
dreadful cataracts, the noise being heard several leagues off; and the
vortices or pits are of such an extent and depth, that if a ship comes
within its attraction, it is inevitably absorbed and carried down to the
bottom, and there beat to pieces against the rocks; and when the water
relaxes, the fragments thereof are thrown up again. But these intervals
of tranquillity are only at the turn of the ebb and flood, and in calm
weather, and last but a quarter of an hour, its violence gradually
returning. When the stream is most boisterous, and its fury heightened by
a storm, it is dangerous to come within a Norwegian mile of it. Boats,
yachts, and ships have been carried away by not guarding against it
before they were within its reach. It likewise happens frequently that
whales come too near the stream, and are overpowered by its violence; and
then it is impossible to describe their howlings and bellowings in their
fruitless struggles to disengage themselves. A bear once, attempting to
swim from Lofoden to Moskoe, was caught by the stream and borne down,
while he roared terribly, so as to be heard on shore. Large stocks of
firs and pine trees, after being absorbed by the current, rise again
broken and torn to such a degree as if bristles grew upon them. This
plainly shows the bottom to consist of craggy rocks, among which they are
whirled to and fro. This stream is regulated by the flux and reflux of
the sea—it being constantly high and low water every six hours. In the
year 1645, early in the morning of Sexagesima Sunday, it raged with such
noise and impetuosity that the very stones of the houses on the coast
fell to the ground.”
In regard to the depth of the water, I could not see how this could have
been ascertained at all in the immediate vicinity of the vortex. The
“forty fathoms” must have reference only to portions of the channel close
upon the shore either of Moskoe or Lofoden. The depth in the center of
the Moskoe-strom must be immeasurably greater; and no better proof of
this fact is necessary than can be obtained from even the sidelong glance
into the abyss of the whirl which may be had from the highest crag of
Helseggen. Looking down from this pinnacle upon the howling Phlegethon
below, I could not help smiling at the simplicity with which the honest
Jonas Ramus records, as a matter difficult of belief, the anecdotes of
the whales and the bears; for it appeared to me, in fact, a self-evident
thing that the largest ships of the line in existence, coming within
the influence of that deadly attraction, could resist it as little as a
feather the hurricane, and must disappear bodily and at once.
The attempts to account for the phenomenon—some of which, I remember,
seemed to me sufficiently plausible in perusal—now wore a very different
and unsatisfactory aspect. The idea generally received is that this, as
well as three smaller vortices among the Faroe Islands, “have no other
cause than the collision of waves rising and falling, at flux and reflux,
against a ridge of rocks and shelves, which confines the water so that
it precipitates itself like a cataract; and thus the higher the flood
rises, the deeper must the fall be, and the natural result of all is a
whirlpool or vortex, the prodigious suction of which is sufficiently
known by lesser experiments.”—These are the words of the _Encyclopedia
Britannica_. Kircher and others imagine that in the center of the channel
of the Maelstrom is an abyss penetrating the globe, and issuing in some
very remote part—the Gulf of Bothnia being somewhat decidedly named in
one instance. This opinion, idle in itself, was the one to which, as I
gazed, my imagination most readily assented; and, mentioning it to the
guide, I was rather surprised to hear him say that, although it was the
view almost universally entertained of the subject by the Norwegians,
it nevertheless was not his own. As to the former notion he confessed
his inability to comprehend it; and here I agreed with him—for, however
conclusive on paper, it becomes altogether unintelligible, and even
absurd, amid the thunder of the abyss.
THE GUIDE’S MARVELOUS TALE
“You have had a good look at the whirl now,” said the old man, “and if
you will creep round this crag, so as to get in its lee, and deaden the
roar of the water, I will tell you a story that will convince you I ought
to know something of the Moskoe-strom.”
I placed myself as desired, and he proceeded.
“Myself and my two brothers once owned a schooner-rigged smack of about
seventy tons burden, with which we were in the habit of fishing among
the islands beyond Moskoe, nearly to Vurrgh. In all violent eddies at
sea there is good fishing, at proper opportunities, if one has only the
courage to attempt it; but among the whole of the Lofoden coastmen we
three were the only ones who made a regular business of going out to the
islands, as I tell you. The usual grounds are a great way lower down to
the southward. There fish can be got at all hours, without much risk,
and therefore these places are preferred. The choice spots over here
among the rocks, however, not only yield the finest variety, but in far
greater abundance; so that we often got in a single day what the more
timid of the craft could not scrape together in a week. In fact, we made
it a matter of desperate speculation—the risk of life standing instead of
labor, and courage answering for capital.
“We kept the smack in a cove about five miles higher up the coast than
this; and it was our practice, in fine weather, to take advantage of
the fifteen minutes’ slack to push across the main channel of the
Moskoe-strom, far above the pool, and then drop down upon anchorage
somewhere near Otterholm, or Sandflesen, where the eddies are not so
violent as elsewhere. Here we used to remain until nearly time for slack
water again, when we weighed and made for home. We never set out upon
this expedition without a steady side wind for going and coming—one that
we felt sure would not fail us before our return—and we seldom made a
miscalculation upon this point. Twice, during six years, we were forced
to stay all night at anchor on account of a dead calm, which is a rare
thing indeed just about here; and once we had to remain on the ground
nearly a week, starving to death, owing to a gale which blew up shortly
after our arrival, and made the channel too boisterous to be thought
of. Upon this occasion we should have been driven out to sea in spite
of everything (for the whirlpools threw us round and round so violently
that, at length, we fouled our anchor and dragged it) if it had not been
that we drifted into one of the innumerable cross currents—here today
and gone tomorrow—which drove us under the lee of Flimen, where, by good
luck, we brought up.
“I could not tell you the twentieth part of the difficulties we
encountered ‘on the ground’—it is a bad spot to be in, even in good
weather—but we made shift always to run the gauntlet of the Moskoe-strom
itself without accident; although at times my heart has been in my mouth
when we happened to be a minute or so behind or before the slack. The
wind sometimes was not as strong as we thought it at starting, and then
we made rather less way than we could wish, while the current rendered
the smack unmanageable. My eldest brother had a son eighteen years old,
and I had two stout boys of my own. These would have been of great
assistance at such times, in using the sweeps, as well as afterward in
fishing—but, somehow, although we ran the risk ourselves, we had not the
heart to let the young ones get into the danger—for, after all said and
done, it _was_ a horrible danger, and that is the truth.
“It is now within a few days of three years since what I am going to tell
you occurred. It was on the tenth of July, 18—, a day which the people of
this part of the world will never forget—for it was one in which blew the
most terrible hurricane that ever came out of the heavens. And yet all
the morning, and indeed until late in the afternoon, there was a gentle
and steady breeze from the southwest, while the sun shone brightly, so
that the oldest seaman among us could not have foreseen what was to
follow.
“The three of us—my two brothers and myself—had crossed over to the
islands about two o’clock P.M., and soon nearly loaded the smack with
fine fish, which, we all remarked, were more plenty that day than we had
ever known them. It was just seven, _by my watch_, when we weighed and
started for home, so as to make the worst of the Strom at slack water,
which we knew would be at eight.
“We set out with a fresh wind on our starboard quarter, and for some time
spanked along at a great rate, never dreaming of danger, for indeed we
saw not the slightest reason to apprehend it. All at once we were taken
aback by a breeze from over Helseggen. This was most unusual—something
that had never happened to us before—and I began to feel a little uneasy,
without exactly knowing why: We put the boat on the wind, but could make
no headway at all for the eddies, and I was upon the point of proposing
to return to the anchorage, when, looking astern, we saw the whole
horizon covered with a singular copper-covered cloud that rose with the
most amazing velocity.
“In the meantime the breeze that had headed us off fell away, and we were
dead becalmed, drifting about in every direction. This state of things,
however, did not last long enough to give us time to think about it. In
less than a minute the storm was upon us—in less than two the sky was
entirely overcast—and what with this and the driving spray, it became
suddenly so dark that we could not see each other in the smack.
“Such a hurricane as then blew it is folly to attempt describing. The
oldest seaman in Norway never experienced anything like it. We had let
our sails go by the run before it cleverly took us; but, at the first
puff, both our masts went by the board as if they had been sawed off—the
mainmast taking with it my youngest brother, who had lashed himself to it
for safety.
“Our boat was the lightest feather of a thing that ever sat so upon
water. It had a complete flush deck, with only a small hatch near the
bow, and this hatch it had always been our custom to batten down when
about to cross the Strom, by way of precaution against the chopping
seas. But for this circumstance we should have foundered at once—for
we lay entirely buried for some moments. How my elder brother escaped
destruction I cannot say, for I never had an opportunity of ascertaining.
For my part, as soon as I had let the foresail run, I threw myself flat
on deck, with my feet against the narrow gunwale of the bow, and with
my hands grasping a ringbolt near the foot of the foremast. It was mere
instinct that prompted me to do this—which was undoubtedly the very best
thing I could have done—for I was too much flurried to think.
SWEPT INTO THE MAELSTROM
“For some moments we were completely deluged, as I say, and all this time
I held my breath, and clung to the bolt. When I could stand it no longer
I raised myself upon my knees, still keeping hold with my hands, and thus
got my head clear. Presently our little boat gave herself a shake, just
as a dog does in coming out of the water, and thus rid herself, in some
measure, of the seas. I was now trying to get the better of the stupor
that had come over me, and to collect my senses so as to see what was to
be done, when I felt somebody grasp my arm. It was my elder brother, and
my heart leaped for joy, for I had made sure that he was overboard—but
the next moment all this joy was turned into horror—for he put his mouth
close to my ear, and screamed out the word ‘_Moskoe-strom!_’
“No one will ever know what my feelings were at that moment. I shook from
head to foot as if I had had the most violent fit of the ague. I knew
what he meant by that one word well enough—I knew what he wished to make
me understand. With the wind that now drove us on, we were bound for the
whirl of the Strom, and nothing could save us!
“You perceive that in crossing the Strom _channel_, we always went a long
way up above the whirl, even in the calmest weather, and then had to wait
and watch carefully for the slack—but now we were driving right upon the
pool itself, and in such a hurricane as this! ‘To be sure,’ I thought,
‘we shall get there just about the slack—there is some little hope in
that’—but in the next moment I cursed myself for being so great a fool
as to dream of hope at all. I knew very well that we were doomed, had we
been ten times a ninety-gun ship.
“By this time the first fury of the tempest had spent itself, or perhaps
we did not feel it so much as we scudded before it; but at all events
the seas, which at first had been kept down by the wind, and lay flat and
frothing, now got up into absolute mountains. A singular change, too,
had come over the heavens. Around in every direction it was still black
as pitch, but nearly overhead there burst out, all at once, a circular
rift of clear sky—as clear as I ever saw—and of a deep bright blue—and
through it there blazed forth the full moon with a luster that I never
before knew her to wear. She lit up everything about us with the greatest
distinctness—but, oh, God, what a scene it was to light up!
“I now made one or two attempts to speak to my brother—but, in some
manner which I could not understand, the din had so increased that I
could not make him hear a single word, although I screamed at the top
of my voice in his ear. Presently he shook his head, looking as pale as
death, and held up one of his fingers, as if to say _listen_!
“At first I could not make out what he meant—but soon a hideous thought
flashed upon me. I dragged my watch from its fob. It was not going. I
glanced at its face by the moonlight, and then burst into tears as I
flung it far away into the ocean. _It had run down at seven o’clock! We
were behind the time of the slack, and the whirl of the Strom was in full
fury!_
“When a boat is well built, properly trimmed, and not deep laden, the
waves in a strong gale, when she is going large, seem always to slip from
beneath her—which appears very strange to a landsman—and this is what is
called _riding_, in sea phrase.
“Well, so far we had ridden the swells very cleverly; but presently a
gigantic sea happened to take us right under the counter, and bore us
with it as it rose—up—up—as if into the sky. I would not have believed
that any wave could rise so high. And then down we came with a sweep,
a slide, and a plunge, that made me feel sick and dizzy, as if I was
falling from some lofty mountain-top in a dream. But while we were up I
had thrown a quick glance around—and that one glance was all-sufficient.
I saw our exact position in an instant. The Moskoe-strom whirlpool was
about a quarter of a mile dead ahead—but no more like the everyday
Moskoe-strom than the whirl as you now see it is like a mill-race. If I
had not known where we were, and what we had to expect, I should not have
recognized the place at all. As it was, I involuntarily closed my eyes in
horror. The lids clenched themselves together as if in a spasm.
“It could not have been more than two minutes afterwards until we
suddenly felt the waves subside, and were enveloped in foam. The boat
made a sharp half turn to larboard, and then shot off in its new
direction like a thunderbolt. At the same moment the roaring noise of
the water was completely drowned in a kind of shrill shriek—such a sound
as you might imagine given out by the water-pipes of many thousand steam
vessels, letting off their steam all together. We were now in the belt
of surf that always surrounds the whirl; and I thought, of course, that
another moment would plunge us into the abyss—down which we could only
see indistinctly on account of the amazing velocity with which we were
borne along. The boat did not seem to sink into the water at all, but to
skim like an air-bubble upon the surface of the surge. Her starboard side
was next the whirl, and on the larboard arose the world of ocean we had
left. It stood like a huge, writhing wall between us and the horizon.
“It may appear strange, but now, when we were in the very jaws of the
gulf, I felt more composed than when we were only approaching it. Having
made up my mind to hope no more, I got rid of a great deal of that terror
which unmanned me at first. I suppose it was despair that strung my
nerves.
“It may look like boasting—but what I tell you is truth—I began to
reflect how magnificent a thing it was to die in such a manner, and how
foolish it was in me to think of so paltry a consideration as my own
individual life, in view of so wonderful a manifestation of God’s power.
I do believe that I blushed with shame when this idea crossed my mind.
After a little while I became possessed with the keenest curiosity about
the whirl itself. I positively felt a _wish_ to explore its depths, even
at the sacrifice I was going to make; and my principal grief was that
I should never be able to tell my old companions on shore about the
mysteries I should see. These, no doubt, were singular fancies to occupy
a man’s mind in such extremity—and I have often thought since, that the
revolutions of the boat around the pool might have rendered me a little
light-headed.
“There was another circumstance which tended to restore my
self-possession; and this was the cessation of the wind, which could
not reach us in our present situation—for, as you saw yourself, the
belt of surf is considerably lower than the general bed of the ocean,
and this latter now towered above us, a high, black, mountainous ridge.
If you have never been at sea in a heavy gale, you can form no idea of
the confusion of mind occasioned by the wind and spray together. They
blind, deafen, and strangle you, and take away all power of action
or reflection. But we were now, in a great measure, rid of these
annoyances—just as death-condemned felons in prisons are allowed petty
indulgences forbidden them while their doom is yet uncertain.
“How often we made the circuit of the belt it is impossible to say.
We careered round and round for perhaps an hour, flying rather than
floating, getting gradually more and more into the middle of the surge,
and then nearer and nearer to its horrible inner edge. All this time I
had never let go of the ringbolt. My brother was at the stern, holding on
to a small empty water-cask which had been securely lashed under the coop
of the counter, and was the only thing on deck that had not been swept
overboard when the gale first took us. As we approached the brink of the
pit he let go his hold upon this, and made for the ring, from which, in
the agony of his terror, he endeavored to force my hands, as it was not
large enough to afford us both a secure grasp. I never felt deeper grief
than when I saw him attempt this act—although I knew he was a madman when
he did it—a raving maniac through sheer fright. I did not care, however,
to contest the point with him. I knew it could make no difference whether
either of us held on at all; so I let him have the bolt, and went astern
to the cask. This there was no great difficulty in doing; for the smack
flew round steadily enough, and upon an even keel—only swaying to and
fro, with the immense sweeps and swelters of the whirl. Scarcely had
I secured myself in my new position, when we gave a wild lurch to
starboard, and rushed headlong into the abyss. I muttered a hurried
prayer to God, and thought all was over.
“As I felt the sickening sweep of the descent, I had instinctively
tightened my hold upon the barrel, and closed my eyes. For some seconds
I dared not open them—while I expected instant destruction, and wondered
that I was not already in my death-struggles with the water. But moment
after moment elapsed. I still lived. The sense of falling had ceased;
and the motion of the vessel seemed much as it had been before, while in
the belt of foam, with the exception that she now lay more along. I took
courage and looked once again upon the scene.
“Never shall I forget the sensations of awe, horror, and admiration with
which I gazed about me. The boat appeared to be hanging, as if by magic,
midway down, upon the interior surface of a funnel vast in circumference,
prodigious in depth, and whose perfectly smooth sides might have been
mistaken for ebony, but for the bewildering rapidity with which they spun
around, and for the gleaming and ghastly radiance they shot forth, as
the rays of the full moon, from that circular rift amid the clouds which
I have already described, streamed in a flood of golden glory along the
black walls, and far away down into the inmost recesses of the abyss.
“At first I was too much confused to observe anything accurately.
The general burst of terrific grandeur was all that I beheld. When I
recovered myself a little, however, my gaze fell instinctively downward.
In this direction I was able to obtain an unobstructed view, from the
manner in which the smack hung on the inclined surface of the pool. She
was quite upon an even keel—that is to say, her deck lay in a plane
parallel with that of the water—but this latter sloped at an angle of
more than forty-five degrees, so that we seemed to be lying upon our
beam-ends. I could not help observing, nevertheless, that I had scarcely
more difficulty in maintaining my hold and footing in this situation,
than if we had been upon a dead level; and this, I suppose, was owing to
the speed at which we revolved.
“The rays of the moon seemed to search the very bottom of the profound
gulf; but still I could make out nothing distinctly, on account of a
thick mist in which everything there was enveloped, and over which there
hung a magnificent rainbow, like that narrow and tottering bridge which
Mussulmans say is the only pathway between Time and Eternity. This mist,
or spray, was no doubt occasioned by the clashing of the great walls of
the funnel, as they all met together at the bottom—but the yell that went
up to the heavens from out of that mist, I dare not attempt to describe.
“Our first slide into the abyss itself, from the belt of foam above,
had carried us to a great distance down the slope; but our farther
descent was by no means proportionate. Round and round we swept—not with
any uniform movement, but in dizzying swings and jerks, that sent us
sometimes only a few hundred yards—sometimes nearly the complete circuit
of the whirl. Our progress downward, at each revolution, was slow, but
very perceptible.
THE MARVELOUS ESCAPE
“Looking about me upon the wide waste of liquid ebony on which we were
thus borne, I perceived that our boat was not the only object in the
embrace of the whirl. Both above and below us were visible fragments
of vessels, large masses of building timber and trunks of trees, with
many smaller articles, such as pieces of house furniture, broken boxes,
barrels, and staves. I have already described the unnatural curiosity
which had taken the place of my original terrors. It appeared to grow
upon me as I drew nearer and nearer to my dreadful doom. I now began
to watch, with a strange interest, the numerous things that floated in
our company. I _must_ have been delirious—for I even sought _amusement_
in speculating upon the relative velocities of their several descents
toward the foam below. ‘This fir tree,’ I found myself at one time
saying, ‘will certainly be the next thing that takes the awful plunge
and disappears,’—and then I was disappointed to find that the wreck of a
Dutch merchant ship overtook it and went down before. At length, after
making several guesses of this nature, and being deceived in all—this
fact—the fact of my invariable miscalculation, set me upon a train of
reflection that made my limbs again tremble, and my heart beat heavily
once more.
“It was not a new terror that thus affected me, but the dawn of a more
exciting _hope_. This hope arose partly from memory, and partly from
present observation. I called to mind the great variety of buoyant matter
that strewed the coast of Lofoden, having been absorbed and then thrown
forth by the Moskoe-strom. By far the greater number of the articles
were shattered in the most extraordinary way—so chafed and roughened
as to have the appearance of being stuck full of splinters—but then I
distinctly recollected that there were _some_ of them which were not
disfigured at all. Now I could not account for this difference except by
supposing that the roughened fragments were the only ones which had been
_completely absorbed_—that the others had entered the whirl at so late a
period of the tide, or, from some reason, had descended so slowly after
entering, that they did not reach the bottom before the turn of the flood
came, or of the ebb, as the case might be. I conceived it possible, in
either instance, that they might thus be whirled up again to the level
of the ocean, without undergoing the fate of those which had been drawn
in more early or absorbed more rapidly. I made, also, three important
observations. The first was, that as a general rule, the larger the
bodies were, the more rapid their descent; the second, that, between two
masses of equal extent, the one spherical, and the other _of any other
shape_, the superiority in speed of descent was with the sphere; the
third, that, between two masses of equal size, the one cylindrical, and
the other of any other shape, the cylinder was absorbed the more slowly.
Since my escape, I have had several conversations on this subject with
an old schoolmaster of the district; and it was from him that I learned
the use of the words ‘cylinder’ and ‘sphere.’ He explained to me—although
I have forgotten the explanation—how what I observed was, in fact, the
natural consequence of the forms of the floating fragments, and showed
me how it happened that a cylinder, swimming in a vortex, offered more
resistance to its suction, and was drawn in with greater difficulty, than
an equally bulky body, of any form whatever.
“There was one startling circumstance which went a great way in enforcing
these observations, and rendering me anxious to turn them to account, and
this was that, at every revolution, we passed something like a barrel,
or else the yard or mast of a vessel, while many of these things, which
had been on our level when I first opened my eyes upon the wonders of the
whirlpool, were now high up above us, and seemed to have moved but little
from their original station.
“I no longer hesitated what to do. I resolved to lash myself securely to
the water cask upon which I now held, to cut it loose from the counter,
and to throw myself with it into the water. I attracted my brother’s
attention to signs, pointed to the floating barrels that came near us,
and did everything in my power to make him understand what I was about
to do. I thought at length that he comprehended my design—but, whether
this was the case or not, he shook his head despairingly, and refused to
move from his station by the ringbolt. It was impossible to reach him;
the emergency admitted of no delay; and so, with a bitter struggle, I
resigned him to his fate, fastened myself to the cask by means of the
lashings which secured it to the counter, and precipitated myself with it
into the sea, without another moment’s hesitation.
“The result was precisely what I had hoped it might be. As it is myself
who now tells you this tale—as you see that I _did_ escape—and as you are
already in possession of the mode in which this escape was effected, and
must therefore anticipate all that I have further to say—I will bring my
story quickly to conclusion. It might have been an hour, or thereabout,
after my quitting the smack, when, having descended to a vast distance
beneath me, it made three or four wild gyrations in rapid succession,
and, bearing my loved brother with it, plunged headlong, at once and
forever, into the chaos of foam below. The barrel to which I was attached
sunk very little farther than half the distance between the bottom of
the gulf and the spot at which I leaped overboard, before a great change
took place in the character of the whirlpool. The slope of the sides of
the vast funnel became momently less and less steep. The gyrations of
the whirl grew, gradually, less and less violent. By degrees, the froth
and the rainbow disappeared, and the bottom of the gulf seemed slowly to
uprise. The sky was clear, the winds had gone down, and the full moon
was setting radiantly in the west, when I found myself on the surface
of the ocean, in full view of the shores of Lofoden, and above the spot
where the pool of the Moskoe-strom _had been_. It was the hour of the
slack; but the sea still heaved in mountainous waves from the effects of
the hurricane. I was borne violently into the channel of the strom, and
in a few minutes was hurried down the coast into the ‘grounds’ of the
fishermen. A boat picked me up—exhausted from fatigue—and (now that the
danger was removed) speechless from the memory of its horror. Those who
drew me on board were my old mates and daily companions, but they knew me
no more than they would have known a traveler from the spirit-land. My
hair, which had been raven-black the day before, was as white as you see
it now. They say, too, that the whole expression of my countenance had
changed. I told them my story—they did not believe it. I now tell it to
you—and I can scarcely expect you to put more faith in it than did the
merry fishermen of Lofoden.”
NOTES AND QUESTIONS
=Biography.= Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) was the greatest poet and
short story writer the South has produced. His parents belonged
by profession to the stage; his mother was English and his father
American by birth. Born in Boston, he was left an orphan at an early
age, and was adopted by a Mr. Allan, a wealthy citizen of Richmond,
Virginia. Poe was sent to school in London, and later he attended the
University of Virginia, and the military academy at West Point. Mr.
Allan lavished money and other inducements upon him in vain efforts
to get him to settle down to a permanent profession, but finally
abandoned him to his own resources. From that time on, Poe eked out a
living by publishing poems and tales, by contributions to newspapers
and magazines, and by editorial work. But he was too erratic in his
habits to retain long either positions or friends. His writings,
like his character, were weird, mysterious, haunted by brooding
melancholy. But his poetry is perhaps the most purely musical of any
in our language—for Poe believed that poetry should be the language
of the feelings rather than of thought, and that it should therefore
seek to produce its effects through “harmony of sweet sounds” rather
than through the meaning of its lines. His prose tales of mystery
and adventure are remarkable for their imaginative and poetic style;
they have served as models for many well known writers. Poe was the
originator of the modern short story.
Poe’s erratic, troubled life ended at Baltimore, in 1849, in the
fortieth year of his age. The pathos of it is well summed up in the
inscription on a memorial tablet erected to him in the New York
Museum of Art: “He was great in his genius, unhappy in his life,
wretched in his death, but in his fame, immortal.”
=Discussion.= 1. Locate the scene of this story on a map. 2. Read
from the dictionary and encyclopedia to learn about whirlpools. 3.
What do you learn from Jonas Ramus’s description of the whirlpool?
4. How does the _Encyclopedia Britannica_ account for the vortex? 5.
What was the theory of Kircher? 6. How does the hero account for his
apparent age? 7. Relate briefly in your own words the hero’s story
of his experience in the maelstrom. 8. What tempted him to brave the
dangers of the whirlpool? 9. Account for his miscalculation of the
time of the slack. 10. What three observations did the hero make
while descending into the maelstrom? 11. How did he make his escape?
12. How does Poe try to give an idea of the noise of the whirlpool?
13. How does it differ from Hawthorne’s description of the roar of
Niagara? (See page 466.) 14. How had the “ordinary accounts of the
vortex” prepared Poe to see it? 15. In what were these accounts of
the vortex inadequate? 16. Compare this with Hawthorne’s statement
concerning what he had read of Niagara. 17. From this story what do
you think of Poe’s powers of imagination and description? 18. What
other authors have you read that have similar powers? 19. Point
out descriptions in this selection that you particularly like. 20.
Pronounce the following: ungovernable; maelstrom; vortices; herbage;
gauntlet; ague; buoyant.
=Phrases=
sheer unobstructed precipice, 192, 4
particularizing manner, 192, 18
deplorably desolate, 192, 29
precipitous descents, 194, 3
gleaming spray, 194, 15
terrific funnel, 194, 16
boisterous rapidity, 195, 10
fruitless struggles, 195, 26
flux and reflux, 195, 33
immediate vicinity, 196, 2
abyss of the whirl, 196, 8
plausible in perusal, 196, 18
collision of waves, 196, 21
desperate speculation, 197, 22
flood of golden glory, 204, 20
terrific grandeur, 204, 24
wide waste of liquid ebony, 205, 17
the gyrations of the whirl, 207, 37
THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY
CHARLES DICKENS
CHAPTER I—THE WRECK
RAVENDER TAKES COMMAND OF THE GOLDEN MARY
I was apprenticed to the Sea when I was twelve years old, and I have
encountered a great deal of rough weather, both literal and metaphorical.
It has always been my opinion since I first possessed such a thing as
an opinion, that the man who knows only one subject is next tiresome to
the man who knows no subject. Therefore, in the course of my life I have
taught myself whatever I could, and although I am not an educated man, I
am able, I am thankful to say, to have an intelligent interest in most
things.
A person might suppose, from reading the above, that I am in the habit
of holding forth about number one. That is not the case. Just as if I
were to come into a room among strangers, and must either be introduced
or introduce myself, so I have taken the liberty of passing these few
remarks, simply and plainly that it may be known who and what I am.
I will add no more of the sort than that my name is William George
Ravender, that I was born at Penrith half a year after my own father
was drowned, and that I am on the second day of this present blessed
Christmas week of one thousand eight hundred and fifty-six, fifty-six
years of age.
When the rumor first went flying up and down that there was gold in
California—which, as most people know, was before it was discovered
in the British colony of Australia—I was in the West Indies, trading
among the Islands. Being in command and likewise part-owner of a smart
schooner, I had my work cut out for me, and I was doing it. Consequently,
gold in California was no business of mine.
But, by the time when I came home to England again, the thing was as
clear as your hand held up before you at noon-day. There was Californian
gold in the museums and in the goldsmiths’ shops, and the very first
time I went upon ’Change, I met a friend of mine (a seafaring man like
myself), with a Californian nugget hanging to his watch-chain. I handled
it. It was as like a peeled walnut with bits unevenly broken off here and
there, and then electrotyped all over, as ever I saw anything in my life.
I am a single man (she was too good for this world and for me, and she
died six weeks before our marriage-day), so when I am ashore, I live
in my house at Poplar. My house at Poplar is taken care of and kept
ship-shape by an old lady who was my mother’s maid before I was born. She
is as handsome and as upright as any old lady in the world. She is as
fond of me as if she had ever had an only son, and I were he. Well do I
know wherever I sail that she never lays down her head at night without
having said, “Merciful Lord! bless and preserve William George Ravender,
and send him safe home, through Christ our Savior!” I have thought of it
in many a dangerous moment, when it has done me no harm, I am sure.
In my house at Poplar, along with this old lady, I lived quiet for the
best part of a year, having had a long spell of it among the Islands,
and having (which was very uncommon in me) taken the fever rather badly.
At last, being strong and hearty, and having read every book I could lay
hold of right out, I was walking down Leadenhall Street in the City of
London, thinking of turning-to again, when I met what I call Smithick and
Watersby of Liverpool. I chanced to lift up my eyes from looking in at a
ship’s chronometer in a window, and I saw him bearing down upon me, head
on.
It is, personally, neither Smithick, nor Watersby, that I here mention,
nor was I ever acquainted with any man of either of those names, nor do
I think that there has been any one of either of those names in that
Liverpool House for years back. But, it is in reality the House itself
that I refer to; and a wiser merchant or a truer gentleman never stepped.
“My dear Captain Ravender,” says he. “Of all the men on earth, I wanted
to see you most. I was on my way to you.”
“Well!” says I. “That looks as if you _were_ to see me, don’t it?” With
that I put my arm in his, and we walked on toward the Royal Exchange,
and when we got there, walked up and down at the back of it where the
Clock-Tower is. We walked an hour and more, for he had much to say to me.
He had a scheme for chartering a new ship of their own to take out cargo
to the diggers and emigrants in California, and to buy and bring back
gold. Into the particulars of that scheme I will not enter, and I have no
right to enter. All I say of it is, that it was a very original one, a
very fine one, a very sound one, and a very lucrative one beyond doubt.
He imparted it to me as freely as if I had been a part of himself. After
doing so, he made me the handsomest sharing offer that ever was made to
me, boy or man—or I believe to any other captain in the Merchant Navy—and
he took this round turn to finish with:
“Ravender, you are well aware that the lawlessness of that coast and
country at present is as special as the circumstances in which it is
placed. Crews of vessels outward bound desert as soon as they make the
land; crews of vessels homeward bound, ship at enormous wages, with the
express intention of murdering the captain and seizing the gold freight;
no man can trust another, and the devil seems let loose. Now,” says he,
“you know my opinion of you, and you know I am only expressing it, and
with no singularity, when I tell you that you are almost the only man on
whose integrity, discretion, and energy—” etc., etc. For I don’t want to
repeat what he said, though I was and am sensible of it.
Notwithstanding my being, as I have mentioned, quite ready for a voyage,
still I had some doubts of this voyage. Of course I knew, without being
told, that there were peculiar difficulties and dangers in it, a long way
over and above those which attend all voyages. It must not be supposed
that I was afraid to face them; but, in my opinion a man has no manly
motive or sustainment in his own breast for facing dangers, unless he has
well considered what they are, and is quietly able to say to himself,
“None of these perils can now take me by surprise; I shall know what
to do for the best in any of them; all the rest lies in the higher and
greater hands to which I humbly commit myself.” On this principle I have
so attentively considered (regarding it as my duty) all the hazards I
have ever been able to think of, in the ordinary way of storm, shipwreck,
and fire at sea, that I hope I should be prepared to do in any of those
cases whatever could be done, to save the lives entrusted to my charge.
As I was thoughtful, my good friend proposed that he should leave me to
walk there as long as I liked, and that I should dine with him by-and-by
at his club in Pall Mall. I accepted the invitation and I walked up and
down there, quarter-deck fashion, a matter of a couple of hours; now and
then looking up at the weathercock as I might have looked up aloft; and
now and then taking a look into Cornhill, as I might have taken a look
over the side.
All dinner-time, and all after dinner-time, we talked it over again. I
gave him my views of his plan, and he very much approved of the same.
I told him I had nearly decided, but not quite. “Well, well,” says he,
“come down to Liverpool tomorrow with me, and see the Golden Mary.” I
liked the name (her name was Mary, and she was golden, if golden stands
for good), so I began to feel that it was almost done when I said I
would go to Liverpool. On the next morning but one we were on board the
Golden Mary. I might have known, from his asking me to come down and see
her, what she was. I declare her to have been the completest and most
exquisite Beauty that ever I set my eyes upon.
We had inspected every timber in her, and had come back to the gangway
to go ashore from the dock-basin, when I put out my hand to my friend.
“Touch upon it,” says I, “and touch heartily. I take command of this ship
and I am hers and yours, if I can get John Steadiman for my chief mate.”
John Steadiman had sailed with me four voyages. The first voyage John was
third mate out to China, and came home second. The other three voyages he
was my first officer. At this time of chartering the Golden Mary, he was
aged thirty-two. A brisk, bright, blue-eyed fellow, a very neat figure
and rather under the middle size, never out of the way and never in it,
a face that pleased everybody and that all children took to, a habit of
going about singing as cheerily as a blackbird, and a perfect sailor.
We were in one of those Liverpool hackney-coaches in less than a minute,
and we cruised about in her upwards of three hours, looking for John.
John had come home from Van Diemen’s Land barely a month before, and I
had heard of him as taking a frisk in Liverpool. We asked after him,
among many other places, at the two boarding-houses he was fondest
of, and we found he had had a week’s spell at each of them; but, he
had gone here and gone there, and had set off “to lay out on the
main-to’-gallant-yard of the highest Welsh mountain” (so he had told the
people of the house), and where he might be then, or when he might come
back nobody could tell us. But it was surprising, to be sure, to see how
every face brightened the moment there was mention made of the name of
Mr. Steadiman.
We were taken aback at meeting with no better luck, and we had wore ship
and put her head for my friend’s, when as we were jogging through the
streets, I clap my eyes on John himself coming out of a toy-shop! He was
carrying a little boy, and conducting two uncommon pretty women to their
coach, and he told me afterwards that he had never in his life seen one
of the three before, but that he was so taken with them on looking in
at the toy-shop while they were buying the child a cranky Noah’s Ark,
very much down by the head, that he had gone in and asked the ladies’
permission to treat him to a tolerably correct Cutter there was in the
window, in order that such a handsome boy might not grow up with a
lubberly idea of naval architecture.
We stood off and on until the ladies’ coachman began to give way, and
then we hailed John. On his coming aboard of us, I told him, very
gravely, what I had said to my friend. It struck him, as he said himself,
amidships. He was quite shaken by it. “Captain Ravender,” were John
Steadiman’s words, “such an opinion from you is true commendation, and
I’ll sail around the world with you for twenty years if you hoist the
signal, and stand by you for ever!” And now indeed I felt that it was
done, and that the Golden Mary was afloat.
Grass never grew yet under the feet of Smithick and Watersby. The riggers
were out of that ship in a fortnight’s time, and we had begun taking in
cargo. John was always aboard, seeing everything stowed with his own
eyes; and whenever I went aboard myself early or late, whether he was
below in the hold, or on deck at the hatchway, or overhauling his cabin,
nailing up pictures in it of the Blush Roses of England, the Blue Belles
of Scotland, and the female Shamrock of Ireland, of a certainty I heard
John singing like a blackbird.
THE START FOR CALIFORNIA
We had room for twenty passengers. Our sailing advertisement was no
sooner out, than we might have taken these twenty times over. In entering
our men, I and John (both together) picked them, and we entered none but
good hands—as good as were to be found in that port. And so, in a good
ship of the best build, well owned, well arranged, well officered, well
manned, well found in all respects, we parted with our pilot at a quarter
past four o’clock in the afternoon of the seventh of March, one thousand
eight hundred and fifty-one, and stood with a fair wind out to sea.
It may be easily believed that up to that time I had had no leisure to be
intimate with my passengers. The most of them were then in their berths
seasick; however, in going among them, telling them what was good for
them, persuading them not to be there, but to come up on deck and feel
the breeze, and in rousing them with a joke, or a comfortable word, I
made acquaintance with them, perhaps, in a more friendly and confidential
way from the first, than I might have done at the cabin table.
Of my passengers, I need only particularize, just at present, a
bright-eyed blooming young wife who was going out to join her husband in
California, taking with her their only child, a little girl three years
old, whom he had never seen; a sedate young woman in black, some five
years older (about thirty as I should say), who was going out to join a
brother; and an old gentleman, a good deal like a hawk if his eyes had
been better and not so red, who was always talking, morning, noon, and
night, about the gold discovery. But, whether he was making the voyage,
thinking his old arms could dig for gold, or whether his speculation
was to buy it, or to barter for it, or to cheat for it, or to snatch it
anyhow from other people, was his secret. He kept his secret.
These three and the child were the soonest well. The child was a most
engaging child, to be sure, and very fond of me; though I am bound to
admit that John Steadiman and I were borne on her pretty little books
in reverse order, and that he was captain there, and I was mate. It was
beautiful to watch her with John, and it was beautiful to watch John
with her. Few would have thought it possible, to see John playing at
Bo-peep round the mast, that he was the man who had caught up an iron bar
and struck a Malay and a Maltese dead, as they were gliding with their
knives down the cabin stair aboard the bark Old England, when the captain
lay ill in his cot, off Sauger Point. But he was; and give him his back
against a bulwark, he would have done the same by half a dozen of them.
The name of the young mother was Mrs. Atherfield, the name of the young
lady in black was Miss Coleshaw, and the name of the old gentleman was
Mr. Rarx.
As the child had a quantity of shining fair hair, clustering in curls all
around her face, and as her name was Lucy, Steadiman gave her the name
of Golden Lucy. So, we had the Golden Lucy and the Golden Mary; and John
kept up the idea to that extent as he and the child went playing about
the decks, that I believe she used to think the ship was alive somehow—a
sister or companion, going to the same place as herself. She liked to
be by the wheel, and in fine weather, I have often stood by the man
whose trick it was at the wheel, only to hear her, sitting near my feet,
talking to the ship. Never had a child such a doll before, I suppose; but
she made a doll of the Golden Mary, and used to dress her up by tying
ribbons and little bits of finery to the belaying pins; and nobody ever
moved them, unless it was to save them from being blown away.
Of course I took charge of the two young women, and I called them “my
dear,” and they never minded, knowing that whatever I said was said in a
fatherly and protecting spirit. I gave them their places on each side of
me at dinner, Mrs. Atherfield on my right and Miss Coleshaw on my left;
and I directed the unmarried lady to serve out the breakfast, and the
married lady to serve out the tea. Likewise I said to my black steward in
their presence, “Tom Snow, these two ladies are equally the mistresses of
this house, and do you obey their orders equally”; at which Tom laughed,
and they all laughed.
Old Mr. Rarx was not a pleasant man to look at, nor yet to talk to, or to
be with, for no one could help seeing that he was a sordid and selfish
character, and that he had warped further and further out of the straight
with time. Not but what he was on his best behavior with us, as everybody
was; for we had no bickering among us, for’ard or aft. I only mean to
say, he was not the man one would have chosen for a messmate. If choice
there had been, one might even have gone a few points out of one’s course
to say, “No! Not him!” But, there was one curious inconsistency in Mr.
Rarx. That was, that he took an astonishing interest in the child. He
looked, and I may add, he was, one of the last men to care at all for a
child, or care much for any human creature. Still, he went so far as to
be habitually uneasy, if the child was long on deck, out of his sight. He
was always afraid of her falling overboard, or falling down a hatchway,
or of a block or what not coming down upon her from the rigging in the
working of the ship, or of her getting some hurt or other. He used to
look at her and touch her, as if she was something precious to him. He
was always solicitous about her not injuring her health, and constantly
entreated her mother to be careful of it. This was so much the more
curious, because the child did not like him, but used to shrink away from
him, and would not even put out her hand to him without coaxing from
others. I believe that every soul on board frequently noticed this, and
not one of us understood it. However, it was such a plain fact, that John
Steadiman said more than once when old Mr. Rarx was not within earshot,
that if the Golden Mary felt a tenderness for the dear old gentleman she
carried in her lap, she must be bitterly jealous of the Golden Lucy.
Before I go any further with this narrative, I will state that our ship
was a bark of three hundred tons, carrying a crew of eighteen men, a
second mate in addition to John, a carpenter, an armorer or smith, and
two apprentices (one a Scotch boy, poor little fellow). We had three
boats; the Long-boat, capable of carrying twenty-five men; the Cutter,
capable of carrying fifteen; and the Surf-boat, capable of carrying ten.
I put down the capacity of these boats according to the numbers they were
really meant to hold.
We had tastes of bad weather and head-winds, of course; but, on the
whole, we had as fine a run as any reasonable man could expect, for sixty
days. I then began to enter two remarks in the ship’s Log and in my
Journal; first, that there was an unusual and amazing quantity of ice;
second, that the nights were most wonderfully dark in spite of the ice.
For five days and a half, it seemed quite useless and hopeless to alter
the ship’s course so as to stand out of the way of this ice. I made
what southing I could; but, all that time, we were beset by it. Mrs.
Atherfield, after standing by me on deck once, looking for some time in
an awed manner at the great bergs that surrounded us, said in a whisper,
“Oh! Captain Ravender, it looks as if the whole solid earth had changed
into ice, and broken up!” I said to her, laughing, “I don’t wonder that
it does, to your inexperienced eyes, my dear.” But I had never seen a
twentieth part of the quantity, and, in reality, I was pretty much of her
opinion.
However, at two P. M. on the afternoon of the sixth day, that is to say,
when we were sixty-six days out, John Steadiman, who had gone aloft,
sang out from the top, that the sea was clear ahead. Before four P. M. a
strong breeze springing up right astern, we were in open water at sunset.
The breeze then freshening into half a gale of wind, and the Golden Mary
being a very fast sailer, we went before the wind merrily, all night.
I had thought it impossible that it could be darker than it had been,
until the sun, moon, and stars should fall out of the Heavens, and Time
should be destroyed; but, it had been next to light, in comparison with
what it was now. The darkness was so profound, that looking into it was
painful and oppressive—like looking, without a ray of light, into a dense
black bandage put as close before the eyes as it could be, without
touching them. I doubled the lookout, and John and I stood in the bow
side-by-side, never leaving it all night. Yet I should no more have known
that he was near me when he was silent, without putting out my arm and
touching him, than I should if he had turned in and been fast asleep
below. We were not so much looking out, all of us, as listening to the
utmost, both with our eyes and ears.
Next day, I found that the mercury in the barometer, which had risen
steadily since we cleared the ice, remained steady. I had had very good
observations, with now and then the interruption of a day or so, since
our departure. I got the sun at noon, and found that we were in Lat. 58°
S., Long. 60° W., off New South Shetland; in the neighborhood of Cape
Horn. We were sixty-seven days out, that day. The ship’s reckoning was
accurately worked and made up. The ship did her duty admirably, all on
board were well, and all hands were as smart, efficient, and contented as
it was possible to be.
When the night came on again as dark as before, it was the eighth night
I had been on deck. Nor had I taken more than a very little sleep in the
daytime, my station being always near the helm, and often at it, while
we were among the ice. Few but those who have tried it can imagine the
difficulty and pain of only keeping the eyes open—physically open—under
such circumstances, in such darkness. They get struck by the darkness,
and blinded by the darkness. They make patterns in it, and they flash in
it, as if they had gone out of your head to look at you. On the turn of
midnight, John Steadiman, who was alert and fresh (for I had always made
him turn in by day), said to me, “Captain Ravender, I entreat of you to
go below. I am sure you can hardly stand, and your voice is getting weak,
sir. Go below, and take a little rest. I’ll call you if a block chafes.”
I said to John in answer, “Well, well, John! Let us wait till the turn of
one o’clock, before we talk about that.” I had just had one of the ship’s
lanterns held up, that I might see how the night went by my watch, and it
was then twenty minutes after twelve.
At five minutes before one, John sang out to the boy to bring the lantern
again, and when I told him once more what the time was, entreated and
prayed of me to go below. “Captain Ravender,” says he, “all’s well; we
can’t afford to have you laid up for a single hour; and I respectfully
and earnestly beg of you to go below.” The end of it was, that I agreed
to do so, on the understanding that if I failed to come up of my own
accord within three hours, I was to be punctually called. Having settled
that, I left John in charge. But I called him to me once afterwards, to
ask him a question. I had been to look at the barometer, and had seen the
mercury still perfectly steady, and had come up the companion again to
take a last look about me—if I can use such a word in reference to such
darkness—when I thought that the waves, as the Golden Mary parted them
and shook them off, had a hollow sound in them; something that I fancied
was a rather unusual reverberation. I was standing by the quarterdeck
rail on the starboard side, when I called John aft to me, and bade him
listen. He did so with the greatest attention. Turning to me he then
said, “Rely upon it, Captain Ravender, you have been without rest too
long, and the novelty is only in the state of your sense of hearing.” I
thought so too by that time, and I think so now, though I can never know
for absolute certain in this world, whether it was or not.
When I left John Steadiman in charge, the ship was still going at a great
rate through the water. The wind still blew right astern. Though she was
making great way, she was under shortened sail, and had no more than she
could easily carry. All was snug, and nothing complained. There was a
pretty sea running, but not a high sea neither, nor at all a confused one.
I turned in, as we seamen say, all standing. The meaning of that is, I
did not pull my clothes off—no, not even so much as my coat; though I
did my shoes, for my feet were badly swelled with the deck. There was
a little swing-lamp alight in my cabin. I thought, as I looked at it
before shutting my eyes, that I was so tired of darkness and troubled by
darkness, that I could have gone to sleep best in the midst of a million
of flaming gas-lights. That was the last thought I had before I went off,
except the prevailing thought that I should not be able to get to sleep
at all.
THE WRECK
I dreamed that I was back at Penrith again, and was trying to get round
the church, which had altered its shape very much since I last saw it,
and was cloven all down the middle of the steeple in a most singular
manner. Why I wanted to get round the church I don’t know; but I was as
anxious to do it as if my life depended on it. Indeed, I believe it did
in the dream. For all that, I could not get round the church. I was still
trying, when I came against it with a violent shock, and was flung out of
my cot against the ship’s side. Shrieks and a terrific outcry struck me
far harder than the bruising timbers, and amidst sounds of grinding and
crashing, and a heavy rushing and breaking of water—sounds I understood
too well—I made my way on deck. It was not an easy thing to do, for the
ship heeled over frightfully, and was beating in a furious manner.
I could not see the men as I went forward, but I could hear that they
were hauling in sail, in disorder. I had my trumpet in my hand, and,
after directing and encouraging them in this till it was done, I hailed
first John Steadiman, and then my second mate, Mr. William Rames. Both
answered clearly and steadily. Now, I had practiced them and all my crew,
as I have ever made it a custom to practice all who sail with me, to take
certain stations and wait my orders, in case of any unexpected crisis.
When my voice was heard hailing, and their voices were heard answering,
I was aware, through all the noises of the ship and sea, and all the
crying of the passengers below, that there was a pause. “Are you ready,
Rames?”—“Ay, ay, sir!”—“Then light up, for God’s sake!” In a moment he
and another were burning blue-lights, and the ship and all on board
seemed to be enclosed in a mist of light, under a great black dome.
The light shone up so high that I could see the huge Iceberg upon which
we had struck, cloven at the top and down the middle, exactly like
Penrith Church in my dream. At the same moment I could see the watch last
relieved crowding up and down on deck; I could see Mrs. Atherfield and
Miss Coleshaw thrown about on the top of the companion as they struggled
to bring the child up from below; I could see that the masts were going
with the shock and the beating of the ship; I could see the frightful
breach stove in on the starboard side, half the length of the vessel,
and the sheathing and timbers spirting up; I could see that the Cutter
was disabled, in a wreck of broken fragments; and I could see every eye
turned upon me. It is my belief that if there had been ten thousand eyes
there, I should have seen them all, with their different looks. And all
this in a moment. But you must consider what a moment.
I saw the men, as they looked at me, fall toward their appointed
stations, like good men and true. If she had not righted, they could
have done very little there or anywhere but die—not that it is little
for a man to die at his post—I mean they could have done nothing to save
the passengers and themselves. Happily, however, the violence of the
shock with which we had so determinedly borne down direct on that fatal
Iceberg, as if it had been our destination instead of our destruction,
had so smashed and pounded the ship that she got off in this same instant
and righted. I did not want the carpenter to tell me she was filling and
going down; I could see and hear that. I gave Rames the word to lower the
Long-boat and the Surf-boat, and I myself told off the men for each duty.
Not one hung back, or came before the other. I now whispered to John
Steadiman, “John, I stand at the gangway here, to see every soul on board
safe over the side. You shall have the next post of honor, and shall be
the last but one to leave the ship. Bring up the passengers, and range
them behind me; and put what provision and water you can get at in the
boats. Cast your eye forward, John, and you’ll see you have not a moment
to lose.”
My noble fellows got the boats over the side as orderly as I ever saw
boats lowered with any sea running, and when they were launched, two or
three of the nearest men in them as they held on, rising and falling with
the swell, called out, looking up at me, “Captain Ravender, if anything
goes wrong with us, and you are saved, remember, we stood by you!”—“We’ll
all stand by one another ashore, yet, please God, my lads!” says I. “Hold
on bravely, and be tender with the women.”
The women were an example to us. They trembled very much, but they were
quiet and perfectly collected. “Kiss me, Captain Ravender,” says Mrs.
Atherfield, “and God in heaven bless you, you good man!” “My dear,” says
I, “those words are better for me than a life-boat.” I held her child in
my arms till she was in the boat, and then kissed the child and handed
her safe down. I now said to the people in her, “You have got your
freight, my lads, all but me, and I am not coming yet awhile. Pull away
from the ship, and keep off!”
That was the Long-boat. Old Mr. Rarx was one of her complement, and he
was the only passenger who had greatly misbehaved since the ship struck.
Others had been a little wild, which was not to be wondered at, and
not very blamable; but, he had made a lamentation and uproar which it
was dangerous for the people to hear, as there is always contagion in
weakness and selfishness. His incessant cry had been that he must not be
separated from the child, that he couldn’t see the child, and that he and
the child must go together. He had even tried to wrest the child out of
my arms, that he might keep her in his. “Mr. Rarx,” said I to him when
it came to that, “I have a loaded pistol in my pocket; and if you don’t
stand out of the gangway, and keep perfectly quiet, I shall shoot you
through the heart, if you have got one.” Says he, “You won’t do murder,
Captain Ravender!” “No, sir,” says I, “I won’t murder forty-four people
to humor you, but I’ll shoot you to save them.” After that he was quiet,
and stood shivering a little way off, until I named him to go over the
side.
The Long-boat being cast off, the Surf-boat was soon filled. There only
remained aboard the Golden Mary, John Mullion, the man who had kept
on burning the blue-lights (and who had so lighted every new one at
every old one before it went out, as quietly as if he had been at an
illumination); John Steadiman; and myself. I hurried those two into the
Surf-boat, called to them to keep off, and waited with a grateful and
relieved heart for the Long-boat to come and take me in, if she could. I
looked at my watch, and it showed me, by the blue-light, ten minutes past
two. They lost no time. As soon as she was near enough, I swung myself
into her, and called to the men, “With a will, lads! She’s reeling!”
We were not an inch too far out of the inner vortex of her going down,
when, by the blue-light which John Mullion still burnt in the bow of the
Surf-boat, we saw her lurch, and plunge to the bottom head-foremost. The
child cried, weeping wildly, “O the dear Golden Mary! O look at her! Save
her! Save the poor Golden Mary!” And then the light burned out, and the
black dome seemed to come down upon us.
ADRIFT IN LIFE BOATS
I suppose if we had all stood atop of a mountain, and seen the whole
remainder of the world sink away from under us, we could hardly have
felt more shocked and solitary than we did when we knew we were alone on
the wide ocean, and that the beautiful ship in which most of us had been
securely asleep within half an hour was gone for ever. There was an awful
silence in our boat, and such a kind of palsy on the rowers and the man
at the rudder, that I felt they were scarcely keeping her before the sea.
I spoke out then, and said, “Let every one here thank the Lord for our
preservation!” All the voices answered (even the child’s), “We thank the
Lord!” I then said the Lord’s Prayer, and all hands said it after me with
a solemn murmuring. Then I gave the word “Cheerily, O men, cheerily!”
and I felt that they were handling the boat again as a boat ought to be
handled.
The Surf-boat now burned another blue-light to show us where they were,
and we made for her, and laid ourselves as nearly alongside of her as we
dared. I had always kept my boats with a coil or two of good stout stuff
in each of them, so both boats had a rope at hand. We made a shift, with
much labor and trouble, to get near enough to one another to divide the
blue-lights (they were no use after that night, for the sea-water soon
got at them), and to get a tow-rope out between us. All night long we
kept together, sometimes obliged to cast off the rope, and sometimes
getting it out again, and all of us wearying for the morning—which
appeared so long in coming that old Mr. Rarx screamed out, in spite of
his fears of me, “The world is drawing to an end, and the sun will never
rise any more!”
When the day broke, I found that we were all huddled together in a
miserable manner. We were deep in the water; being, as I found on
mustering, thirty-one in number, or at least six too many. In the
Surf-boat they were fourteen in number, being at least four too many. The
first thing I did, was to get myself passed to the rudder—which I took
from that time—and to get Mrs. Atherfield, her child, and Miss Coleshaw,
passed on to sit next me. As to old Mr. Rarx, I put him in the bow, as
far from us as I could. And I put some of the best men near us in order
that if I should drop there might be a skillful hand ready to take the
helm.
The sea moderating as the sun came up, though the sky was cloudy and
wild, we spoke the other boat, to know what stores they had, and to
overhaul what we had. I had a compass in my pocket, a small telescope,
a double-barreled pistol, a knife, and a fire-box and matches. Most of
my men had knives, and some had a little tobacco; some, a pipe as well.
We had a mug among us, and an iron spoon. As to provisions, there were
in my boat two bags of biscuit, one piece of raw beef, one piece of raw
pork, a bag of coffee, roasted but not ground (thrown in, I imagine, by
mistake, for something else), two small casks of water, and about half a
gallon of rum in a keg. The Surf-boat, having rather more rum than we,
and fewer to drink it, gave us, as I estimated, another quart into our
keg. In return, we gave them three double handfuls of coffee, tied up in
a piece of a handkerchief; they reported that they had aboard besides, a
bag of biscuit, a piece of beef, a small cask of water, a small box of
lemons, and a Dutch cheese. It took a long time to make these exchanges,
and they were not made without risk to both parties; the sea running
quite high enough to make our approaching near to one another very
hazardous. In the bundle with the coffee, I conveyed to John Steadiman
(who had a ship’s compass with him), a paper written in pencil, and torn
from my pocket-book, containing the course I meant to steer, in the hope
of making land, or being picked up by some vessel—I say in the hope,
though I had little hope of either deliverance. I then sang out to him,
so as all might hear, that if we two boats could live or die together, we
would; but, that if we should be parted by the weather, and join company
no more, they should have our prayers and blessings, and we asked for
theirs. We then gave them three cheers, which they returned, and I saw
the men’s heads droop in both boats as they fell to their oars again.
These arrangements had occupied the general attention advantageously
for all, though (as I expressed in the last sentence) they ended in a
sorrowful feeling. I now said a few words to my fellow-voyagers on the
subject of the small stock of food on which our lives depended if they
were preserved from the great deep, and on the rigid necessity of our
eking it out in the most frugal manner. One and all replied that whatever
allowance I thought best to lay down should be strictly kept to. We made
a pair of scales out of a thin scrap of iron-plating and some twine, and
I got together for weights such of the heaviest buttons among us as I
calculated made up some fraction over two ounces. This was the allowance
of solid food served out once a day to each, from that time to the end;
with the addition of a coffee-berry, or sometimes half a one, when the
weather was very fair, for breakfast. We had nothing else whatever, but
half a pint of water each per day, and sometimes, when we were coldest
and weakest, a teaspoonful of rum each, served out as a dram. I know
how learnedly it can be shown that rum is poison, but I also know that
in this case, as in all similar cases I have ever read of—which are
numerous—no words can express the comfort and support derived from it.
Nor have I the least doubt that it saved the lives of far more than half
our number. Having mentioned half a pint of water as our daily allowance,
I ought to observe that sometimes we had less, and sometimes we had
more; for much rain fell, and we caught it in a canvas stretched for the
purpose.
Thus, at that tempestuous time of the year, and in that tempestuous
part of the world, we shipwrecked people rose and fell with the waves.
It is not my intention to relate (if I can avoid it) such circumstances
appertaining to our doleful condition as have been better told in many
other narratives of the kind than I can be expected to tell them. I will
only note, in so many passing words, that day after day and night after
night, we received the sea upon our backs to prevent it from swamping the
boat; that one party was always kept bailing, and that every hat and
cap among us soon got worn out, though patched up fifty times, as the
only vessels we had for that service; that another party lay down in the
bottom of the boat, while a third rowed; and that we were soon all in
boils and blisters and rags.
The other boat was a source of such anxious interest to all of us that I
used to wonder whether, if we were saved, the time could ever come when
the survivors in this boat of ours could be at all indifferent to the
fortunes of the survivors in that. We got out a tow-rope whenever the
weather permitted, but that did not often happen, and how we two parties
kept within the same horizon, as we did, He, who mercifully permitted
it to be so for our consolation, only knows. I never shall forget the
looks with which, when the morning light came, we used to gaze about
us over the stormy waters, for the other boat. We once parted company
for seventy-two hours, and we believed them to have gone down, as they
did us. The joy on both sides when we came within view of one another
again, had something in a manner Divine in it; each was so forgetful of
individual suffering, in tears of delight and sympathy for the people in
the other boat.
I have been wanting to get round to the individual or personal part of my
subject, as I call it, and the foregoing incident puts me in the right
way. The patience and good disposition aboard of us, was wonderful. I was
not surprised by it in the women; for all men born of women know what
great qualities they will show when men fail; but, I own I was a little
surprised by it in some of the men. Among one-and-thirty people assembled
at the best of times, there will usually, I should say, be two or three
uncertain tempers. I knew that I had more than one rough temper with me
among my own people, for I had chosen those for the Long-boat that I
might have them under my eye. But, they softened under their misery, and
were as considerate of the ladies, and as compassionate of the child,
as the best among us, or among men—they could not have been more so. I
heard scarcely any complaining. The party lying down would moan a good
deal in their sleep, and I would often notice a man—not always the same
man, it is to be understood, but clearly all of them at one time or
other—sitting moaning at his oar, or in his place, as he looked mistily
over the sea. When it happened to be long before I could catch his eye,
he would go on moaning all the time in the dismalest manner; but when
our looks met, he would brighten and leave off. I almost always got the
impression that he did not know what sound he had been making, but that
he thought he had been humming a tune.
Our sufferings from cold and wet were far greater than our sufferings
from hunger. We managed to keep the child warm; but, I doubt if any one
else among us ever was warm for five minutes together; and the shivering,
and the chattering of teeth, were sad to hear. The child cried a little
at first for her lost playfellow, the Golden Mary; but hardly ever
whimpered afterwards; and when the state of the weather made it possible,
she used now and then to be held up in the arms of some of us, to look
over the sea for John Steadiman’s boat. I see the golden hair and the
innocent face now, between me and the driving clouds, like an angel going
to fly away.
It happened on the second day, toward night, that Mrs. Atherfield, in
getting little Lucy to sleep, sang her a song. She had a soft, melodious
voice, and when she had finished it, our people up and begged for
another. She sang them another, and after it had fallen dark ended with
the Evening Hymn. From that time, whenever anything could be heard above
the sea and wind, and while she had any voice left, nothing would serve
the people but that she should sing at sunset. She always did, and always
ended with the Evening Hymn. We mostly took up the last line, and shed
tears when it was done, but not miserably. We had a prayer night and
morning, also, when the weather allowed of it.
Twelve nights and eleven days we had been driving in the boat, when
old Mr. Rarx began to be delirious, and to cry out to me to throw the
gold overboard or it would sink us, and we should all be lost. For days
past the child had been declining, and that was the great cause of his
wildness. He had been over and over again shrieking out to me to give
her all the remaining meat, to give her all the remaining rum, to save
her at any cost, or we should all be ruined. At this time, she lay in
her mother’s arms at my feet. One of her little hands was almost always
creeping about her mother’s neck or chin. I had watched the wasting of
the little hand, and I knew it was nearly over.
The old man’s cries were so discordant with the mother’s love, and
submission, that I called out to him in an angry voice, unless he held
his peace on the instant, I would order him to be knocked on the head
and thrown overboard. He was mute then, until the child died, very
peacefully, an hour afterwards; which was known to all in the boat by
the mother’s breaking out into lamentations for the first time since the
wreck—for she had great fortitude and constancy, though she was a little
gentle woman. Old Mr. Rarx then became quite ungovernable, tearing what
rags he had on him, raging in imprecations, and calling to me that if I
had thrown the gold overboard (always the gold with him!) I might have
saved the child. “And now,” says he, in a terrible voice, “we shall
founder, and all go to the Devil, for our sins will sink us, when we have
no innocent child to bear us up!” We soon discovered with amazement, that
this old wretch had only cared for the life of the pretty little creature
dear to all of us, because of the influence he superstitiously hoped she
might have in preserving him! Altogether it was too much for the smith,
or armorer, who was sitting next the old man, to bear. He took him by the
throat and rolled him under the thwarts, where he lay still enough for
hours afterwards.
All that thirteenth night, Miss Coleshaw, lying across my knees as I kept
the helm, comforted and supported the poor mother. Her child, covered
with a pea-jacket of mine, lay in her lap. It troubled me all night to
think that there was no Prayer-Book among us, and that I could remember
but very few of the exact words of the burial service. When I stood up at
broad day, all knew what was going to be done, and I noticed that my poor
fellows made the motion of uncovering their heads, though their heads had
been stark bare to the sky and sea for many a weary hour. There was a
long heavy swell on, but otherwise it was a fair morning, and there were
broad fields of sunlight on the waves in the east. I said no more than
this: “I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord. He raised the
daughter of Jairus the ruler, and said she was not dead but slept. He
raised the widow’s son. He arose Himself, and was seen of many. He loved
little children, saying, ‘Suffer them to come unto Me and rebuke them
not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.’ In His name, my friends, and
committed to His merciful goodness!” With those words I laid my rough
face softly on the placid little forehead, and buried the Golden Lucy in
the grave of the Golden Mary.
Having had it on my mind to relate the end of this dear little child, I
have omitted something from its exact place, which I will supply here. It
will come quite as well here as anywhere else.
Foreseeing that if the boat lived through the stormy weather, the time
must come, and soon come, when we should have absolutely no morsel
to eat, I had one momentous point often in my thoughts. Although I
had, years before that, fully satisfied myself that the instances in
which human beings in the last distress have fed upon each other, are
exceedingly few, and have very seldom indeed (if ever) occurred when
the people in distress, however dreadful their extremity, have been
accustomed to moderate forbearance and restraint; I say, though I had
long before quite satisfied my mind on this topic, I felt doubtful
whether there might not have been in former cases some harm and danger
from keeping it out of sight and pretending not to think of it. I felt
doubtful whether some minds, growing weak with fasting and exposure and
having such a terrific idea to dwell upon in secret, might not magnify
it until it got to have an awful attraction about it. This was not a
new thought of mine, for it had grown out of my reading. However, it
came over me stronger than it had ever done before—as it had reason for
doing—in the boat, and on the fourth day I decided that I would bring
out into the light that unformed fear which must have been more or less
darkly in every brain among us. Therefore, as a means of beguiling
the time and inspiring hope, I gave them the best summary in my power
of Bligh’s voyage of more than three thousand miles, in an open boat,
after the Mutiny of the Bounty, and of the wonderful preservation of
that boat’s crew. They listened throughout with great interest, and I
concluded by telling them that, in my opinion, the happiest circumstance
in the whole narrative was that Bligh, who was no delicate man, either,
had solemnly placed it on record therein that he was sure and certain
that under no conceivable circumstances whatever would that emaciated
party, who had gone through all the pains of famine, have preyed on one
another. I cannot describe the visible relief which this spread through
the boat, and how the tears stood in every eye. From that time I was as
well convinced as Bligh himself that there was no danger, and that this
phantom, at any rate, did not haunt us.
Now, it was a part of Bligh’s experience that when the people in his boat
were most cast down, nothing did them so much good as hearing a story
told by one of their number. When I mentioned that, I saw that it struck
the general attention as much as it did my own, for I had not thought
of it until I came to it in my summary. This was on the day after Mrs.
Atherfield first sang to us. I proposed that, whenever the weather would
permit, we should have a story two hours after dinner (I always issued
the allowance I have mentioned at one o’clock, and called it by that
name), as well as our song at sunset. The proposal was received with a
cheerful satisfaction that warmed my heart within me; and I do not say
too much when I say that those two periods in the four-and-twenty hours
were expected with positive pleasure, and were really enjoyed by all
hands. Specters as we soon were, in our bodily wasting, our imaginations
did not perish like the gross flesh upon our bones. Music and Adventure,
two of the great gifts of Providence to mankind, could charm us long
after that was lost.
The wind was almost always against us after the second day; and for many
days together we could not nearly hold our own. We had all varieties of
bad weather. We had rain, hail, snow, wind, mist, thunder, and lightning.
Still the boats lived through the heavy seas, and still we perishing
people rose and fell with the great waves.
Sixteen nights and fifteen days, twenty nights and nineteen days,
twenty-four nights and twenty-three days. So the time went on.
Disheartening as I knew that our progress, or want of progress, must be,
I never deceived them as to my calculations of it. In the first place, I
felt that we were all too near eternity for deceit; in the second place,
I knew that if I failed, or died, the man who followed me must have a
knowledge of the true state of things to begin upon. When I told them at
noon, what I reckoned we had made or lost, they generally received what
I said in a tranquil and resigned manner, and always gratefully toward
me. It was not unusual at any time of the day for some one to burst out
weeping loudly without any new cause; and, when the burst was over, to
calm down a little better than before. I had seen exactly the same thing
in a house of mourning.
During the whole of this time, old Mr. Rarx had had his fits of calling
out to me to throw the gold (always the gold!) overboard, and of heaping
violent reproaches upon me for not having saved the child; but now, the
food being all gone, and I having nothing left to serve out but a bit
of coffee-berry now and then, he began to be too weak to do this, and
consequently fell silent. Mrs. Atherfield and Miss Coleshaw generally
lay, each with an arm across one of my knees and her head upon it. They
never complained at all. Up to the time of her child’s death, Mrs.
Atherfield had bound up her own beautiful hair every day; and I took
particular notice that this was always before she sang her song at night,
when every one looked at her. But she never did it after the loss of her
darling; and it would have been now all tangled with dirt and wet, but
that Miss Coleshaw was careful of it long after she was, herself, and
would sometimes smooth it down with her weak thin hands.
We were past mustering a story now; but one day, at about this period,
I reverted to the superstition of old Mr. Rarx, concerning the Golden
Lucy, and told them that nothing vanished from the eye of God, though
much might pass away from the eyes of men. “We were all of us,” says I,
“children once; and our baby feet have strolled in green woods ashore;
and our baby hands have gathered flowers in gardens, where the birds were
singing. The children that we were, are not lost to the great knowledge
of our Creator. Those innocent creatures will appear with us before
Him, and plead for us. What we were in the best time of our generous
youth will arise and go with us too. The purest part of our lives will
not desert us at the pass to which all of us here present are gliding.
What we were then, will be as much in existence before Him, as what we
are now.” They were no less comforted by this consideration, than I was
myself; and Miss Coleshaw, drawing my ear nearer to her lips, said,
“Captain Ravender, I was on my way to marry a disgraced and broken man,
whom I dearly loved when he was honorable and good. Your words seem to
have come out of my own poor heart.” She pressed my hand upon it, smiling.
Twenty-seven nights and twenty-six days. We were in no want of
rain-water, but we had nothing else. And yet, even now, I never turned
my eyes on a waking face but it tried to brighten before mine. O what
a thing it is, in a time of danger and in the presence of death, the
shining of a face upon a face! I have heard it broached that orders
should be given in great new ships by electric telegraph. I admire
machinery as much as any man, and am as thankful to it as any man can be
for what it does for us. But it will never be a substitute for the face
of a man, with his soul in it, encouraging another man to be brave and
true. Never try it for that. It will break down like a straw.
I now began to remark certain changes in myself which I did not like.
They caused me much disquiet. I often saw the Golden Lucy in the air
above the boat. I often saw her I have spoken of before, sitting beside
me. I saw the Golden Mary go down, as she really had gone down, twenty
times in a day. And yet the sea was mostly, to my thinking, not sea
neither, but moving country and extraordinary mountainous regions, the
like of which have never been beheld. I felt it time to leave my last
words regarding John Steadiman, in case any lips should last out to
repeat them to any living ears. I said that John had told me (as he had
on deck) that he had sung out “Breakers ahead!” the instant they were
audible, and had tried to wear ship, but she struck before it could
be done. (His cry, I dare say, had made my dream.) I said that the
circumstances were altogether without warning, and out of any course that
could have been guarded against; that the same loss would have happened
if I had been in charge; and that John was not to blame, but from first
to last had done his duty nobly, like the man he was. I tried to write
it down in my pocket-book, but could make no words, though I knew what
the words were that I wanted to make. When it had come to that, her
hands—though she was dead so long—laid me down gently in the bottom of
the boat, and she and the Golden Lucy swung me to sleep.
THE TALE OF THE CHIEF MATE
_All that follows was written by John Steadiman, Chief Mate:_
On the twenty-sixth day after the foundering of the Golden Mary at sea,
I, John Steadiman, was sitting in my place in the stern-sheets of the
Surf-boat, with just sense enough left in me to steer—that is to say,
with my eyes strained, wide-awake, over the bows of the boat, and my
brains fast asleep and dreaming—when I was roused upon a sudden by our
second mate, Mr. William Rames.
“Let me take a spell in your place,” says he. “And look you out for
the Long-boat astern. The last time she rose on the crest of a wave, I
thought I made out a signal flying aboard her.”
We shifted our places, clumsily and slowly enough, for we were both of us
weak and dazed with wet, cold, and hunger. I waited some time, watching
the heavy rollers astern, before the Long-boat rose atop of one of them
at the same time with us. At last, she was heaved up for a moment well in
view, and there, sure enough, was the signal flying aboard of her—a strip
of rag of some sort, rigged to an oar, and hoisted in her bows.
“What does it mean?” says Rames to me in a quavering, trembling sort of
voice. “Do they signal a sail in sight?”
“Hush, for God’s sake!” says I, clapping my hand over his mouth. “Don’t
let the people hear you. They’ll all go mad together if we mislead them
about that signal. Wait a bit, till I have another look at it.”
I held on by him, for he had set me all of a tremble with his notion of
a sail in sight, and watched for the Long-boat again. Up she rose on the
top of another roller. I made out the signal clearly, that second time,
and saw that it was rigged half-mast.
“Rames,” says I, “it’s a signal of distress. Pass the word forward to
keep her before the sea, and no more. We must get the Long-boat within
hailing distance of us, as soon as possible.”
I dropped down into my old place at the tiller without another word—for
the thought went through me like a knife that something had happened to
Captain Ravender. I should consider myself unworthy to write another line
of this statement, if I had not made up my mind to speak the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth—and I must, therefore, confess
plainly that now, for the first time, my heart sank within me. This
weakness on my part was produced in some degree, as I take it, by the
exhausting effects of previous anxiety and grief.
Our provisions—if I may give that name to what we had left—were
reduced to the rind of one lemon and about a couple of handfuls of
coffee-berries. Besides these great distresses, caused by the death,
the danger, and the suffering among my crew and passengers, I had had a
little distress of my own to shake me still more, in the death of the
child whom I had got to be very fond of on the voyage out—so fond that I
was secretly a little jealous of her being taken in the Long-boat instead
of mine when the ship foundered. It used to be a great comfort to me, and
I think to those with me also, after we had seen the last of the Golden
Mary, to see the Golden Lucy, held up by the men in the Long-boat, when
the weather allowed it, as the best and brightest sight they had to show.
She looked, at the distance we saw her from, almost like a little white
bird in the air. To miss her for the first time, when the weather lulled
a little again, and we all looked out for our white bird and looked in
vain, was a sore disappointment. To see the men’s heads bowed down and
the captain’s hand pointing into the sea when we hailed the Long-boat, a
few days after, gave me as heavy a shock and as sharp a pang of heartache
to bear as ever I remember suffering in all my life. I only mention these
things to show that if I did give way a little at first, under the dread
that our captain was lost to us, it was not without having been a good
deal shaken beforehand by more trials of one sort or another than often
fall to one man’s share.
I had got over the choking in my throat with the help of a drop of
water, and had steadied my mind again so as to be prepared against the
worst, when I heard the hail (Lord help the poor fellows, how weak it
sounded!)—
“Surf-boat, ahoy!”
I looked up, and there were our companions in misfortune tossing abreast
of us; not so near that we could make out the features of any of them,
but near enough, with some exertion for people in our condition, to make
their voices heard in the intervals when the wind was weakest.
I answered the hail, and waited a bit, and heard nothing, and then sang
out the captain’s name. The voice that replied did not sound like his;
the words that reached us were:
“Chief mate wanted on board!”
Every man of my crew knew what that meant as well as I did. As second
officer in command, there could be but one reason for wanting me on board
the Long-boat. A groan went all round us, and my men looked darkly in
each other’s faces, and whispered under their breaths:
“The captain is dead!”
I commanded them to be silent, and not to make too sure of bad news,
at such a pass as things had now come to with us. Then, hailing the
Long-boat, I signified that I was ready to go on board when the weather
would let me—stopped a bit to draw a good long breath—and then called out
as loud as I could the dreadful question:
“Is the captain dead?”
The black figures of three or four men in the after-part of the Long-boat
all stooped down together as my voice reached them. They were lost to
view for about a minute; then appeared again—one man among them was held
up on his feet by the rest, and he hailed back the blessed words (a very
faint hope went a very long way with people in our desperate situation):
“Not yet!”
The relief felt by me, and by all with me, when we knew that our captain,
though unfitted for duty, was not lost to us, it is not in words—at
least, not in such words as a man like me can command—to express. I did
my best to cheer the men by telling them what a good sign it was that
we were not as badly off yet as we had feared, and then communicated
what instructions I had to give, to William Rames, who was to be left
in command in my place when I took charge of the Long-boat. After that,
there was nothing to be done, but to wait for the chance of the wind
dropping at sunset, and the sea going down afterwards, so as to enable
our weak crews to lay the two boats alongside of each other, without
undue risk—or, to put it plainer, without saddling ourselves with the
necessity for any extraordinary exertion of strength or skill. Both
the one and the other had now been starved out of us for days and days
together.
At sunset the wind suddenly dropped, but the sea, which had been running
high for so long a time past, took hours after that before it showed any
signs of getting to rest. The moon was shining, the sky was wonderfully
clear, and it could not have been, according to my calculations, far off
midnight, when the long, slow, regular swell of the calming ocean fairly
set in, and I took the responsibility of lessening the distance between
the Long-boat and ourselves.
It was, I dare say, a delusion of mine; but I thought I had never seen
the moon shine so white and ghastly anywhere, either at sea or on land,
as she shone that night while we were approaching our companions in
misery. When there was not much more than a boat’s length between us, and
the white light streamed cold and clear over all our faces, both crews
rested on their oars with one great shudder, and stared over the gunwale
of either boat, panic-stricken at the first sight of each other.
“Any lives lost among you?” I asked, in the midst of that frightful
silence.
The men in the Long-boat huddled together like sheep at the sound of my
voice.
“None yet, but the child, thanks be to God!” answered one among them.
And at the sound of his voice, all my men shrank together like the men
in the Long-boat. I was afraid to let the horror produced by our first
meeting at close quarters after the dreadful changes that wet, cold, and
famine had produced, last one moment longer than could be helped; so,
without giving time for any more questions and answers, I commanded
the men to lay the two boats close alongside of each other. When I rose
up and committed the tiller to the hands of Rames, all my poor fellows
raised their white faces imploringly to mine. “Don’t leave us, sir,” they
said, “don’t leave us.” “I leave you,” says I, “under the command and the
guidance of Mr. William Rames, as good a sailor as I am, and as trusty
and kind a man as ever stepped. Do your duty by him, as you have done it
by me; and remember to the last, that while there is life there is hope.
God bless and help you all!”
With those words I collected what strength I had left, and caught at two
arms that were held out to me, and so got from the stern-sheets of one
boat into the stern-sheets of the other.
“Mind where you step, sir,” whispered one of the men who had helped me
into the Long-boat. I looked down as he spoke. Three figures were huddled
up below me, with the moonshine falling on them in ragged streaks through
the gaps between the men standing or sitting above them. The first face
I made out was the face of Miss Coleshaw; her eyes were wide open and
fixed on me. She seemed still to keep her senses, and, by the alternate
parting and closing of her lips, to be trying to speak, but I could not
hear that she uttered a single word. On her shoulder rested the head of
Mrs. Atherfield. The mother of our poor little Golden Lucy must, I think,
have been dreaming of the child she had lost; for there was a faint
smile just ruffling the white stillness of her face, when I first saw it
turned upward, with peaceful closed eyes toward the heavens. From her,
I looked down a little, and there, with his head on her lap, and with
one of her hands resting tenderly on his cheek—there lay the captain, to
whose help and guidance, up to this miserable time, we had never looked
in vain,—there, worn out at last in our service, and for our sakes, lay
the best and bravest man of all our company. I stole my hand in gently
through his clothes and laid it on his heart, and felt a little feeble
warmth over it, though my cold dulled touch could not detect even the
faintest beating. The two men in the stern-sheets with me, noticing what
I was doing—knowing I loved him like a brother—and seeing, I suppose,
more distress in my face than I myself was conscious of its showing, lost
command over themselves altogether, and burst into a piteous moaning,
sobbing lamentation over him. One of the two drew aside a jacket from his
feet, and showed me that they were bare, except where a wet, ragged strip
of stocking still clung to one of them. When the ship struck the Iceberg,
he had run on deck leaving his shoes in his cabin. All through the voyage
in the boat his feet had been unprotected; and not a soul had discovered
it until he dropped! As long as he could keep his eyes open, the very
look of them had cheered the men, and comforted and upheld the women.
Not one living creature in the boat, with any sense about him, but had
felt the good influence of that brave man in one way or another. Not one
but had heard him, over and over again, give the credit to others which
was due only to himself; praising this man for patience, and thanking
that man for help, when the patience and the help had really and truly,
as to the best part or both, come only from him. All this, and much
more, I heard pouring confusedly from the men’s lips while they crouched
down, sobbing and crying over their commander, and wrapping the jacket
as warmly and tenderly as they could over his cold feet. It went to my
heart to check them; but I knew that if this lamenting spirit spread
any further, all chance of keeping alight any last sparks of hope and
resolution among the boat’s company would be lost for ever. Accordingly
I sent them to their places, spoke a few encouraging words to the men
forward, promising to serve out, when the morning came, as much as I
dared, of any eatable thing left in the lockers; called to Rames, in my
old boat, to keep as near us as he safely could; drew the garments and
coverings of the two poor suffering women more closely about them; and,
with a secret prayer to be directed for the best in bearing the awful
responsibility now laid on my shoulders, took my captain’s vacant place
at the helm of the Long-boat.
This, as well as I can tell it, is the full and true account of how I
came to be placed in charge of the lost passengers and crew of the Golden
Mary, on the morning of the twenty-seventh day after the ship struck the
Iceberg, and foundered at sea.