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SCHOOL READING BY GRADES
_SIXTH YEAR_
BY
JAMES BALDWIN
[Illustration]
NEW YORK CINCINNATI CHICAGO
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1897, BY
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY.
SCH. READ. SIXTH YEAR.
W. P. 12
PREFACE.
The pupil who is in his sixth year at school should be able to read
quite well. He should be able to pronounce at sight and without
hesitation all new or unusual words; and when reading aloud, his tones
should be so clear, his enunciation so faultless, and his manner so
agreeable that his hearers shall listen with pleasure and shall have a
ready understanding of whatever is being read. He is now prepared to
devote more and more attention to literary criticism--that is, to the
study of the peculiarities of style which distinguish any selection,
the passages which are remarkable for their beauty, their truth, or
their adaptation to the particular purpose for which they were
written. The habit should be cultivated of looking for and enjoying
the admirable qualities of any literary production, and particularly
of such productions as are generally recognized as the classics of our
language. While learning to distinguish between good literature and
that sort of writing which, properly speaking, is not literature at
all, the pupil's acquaintance with books is enlarged and extended. He
learns to know what are the best books and why they are so considered;
and he acquires some knowledge of the lives of the best authors and of
the circumstances under which certain of their works were produced.
The present volume is designed to aid the learner in the acquisition
of all these ends. The selections are of a highly interesting
character, and illustrate almost every variety of English composition.
To assist in their comprehension, many of the selections are
introduced or followed by brief historical or bibliographical notes.
Hints also are given as to collateral, or supplementary readings on a
variety of subjects. To assist the pupil still further to enlarge his
acquaintance with books and authors, additional notes, literary and
biographical, are given in the appendix; here also may be found
several pages of brief notes explanatory of difficult passages,
unusual expressions, and historical references, such as might
otherwise be stumbling stones in the way of the learner. The numerous
portraits of authors is another important feature designed to add to
the interest and beauty of the book, and to assist the pupil to a more
intimate acquaintance with the makers of our literature. Most of the
full-page pictures are reproductions of famous paintings, and these,
while serving as illustrations of the text which they accompany, are
designed to introduce the learner to some of the masters of art also,
and perform the more important office of cultivating and enlarging his
æsthetic tastes and sympathies.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
Two Ways of Telling a Story _Jean Ingelow_ 7
The Death of the Flowers _William Cullen Bryant_ 18
The Great Volcanic Eruption _J. T. Van Gestel_ 20
The Return of Columbus _Washington Irving_ 25
What the Sunbeams do _Arabella B. Buckley_ 29
Horatius at the Bridge _Thomas Babington Macaulay_ 32
How Sir Francis Drake sailed
round the World _James A. Froude_ 44
A Brave Rescue and a Rough Ride _Richard D. Blackmore_ 51
The Glory of God _From the Psalms of David_ 65
The Battle of Bannockburn _Sir Walter Scott_ 66
The Soldier's Dream _Thomas Campbell_ 75
Lord Ullin's Daughter _Thomas Campbell_ 76
Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata 78
The Story of Tempe Wick _Frank R. Stockton_ 83
Life in Norman England _W. F. Collier_ 89
The Romance of the Swan's Nest _Elizabeth Barrett Browning_ 98
A Patriarch of the Olden Time _From the "Book of Job"_ 102
How Cortés entered the City of
Mexico _William H. Prescott_ 104
The Skylark _James Hogg_ 112
The Mystery of the Tadpole _George Henry Lewes_ 113
The Glove and the Lions _Leigh Hunt_ 119
True Growth _Ben Jonson_ 120
The Shipwreck _Charles Dickens_ 121
The Happy Valley _Dr. Samuel Johnson_ 135
The Pass of Killiecrankie _W. E. Aytoun_ 138
Summer Rain _Henry Ward Beecher_ 143
Life in the Backwoods _William Dean Howells_ 146
How they besieged the Town _Charles Reade_ 153
Lochinvar _Sir Walter Scott_ 163
On a Tropical River _Charles Kingsley_ 165
The Flag of Our Country _Robert C. Winthrop_ 173
The High Tide on the Coast of
Lincolnshire, 1571 _Jean Ingelow_ 175
The Story of Thomas Becket
I. His Life _Anonymous_ 181
II. His Death _Arthur Penrhyn Stanley_ 185
The Pilgrims (1620) _Edward Everett_ 192
The Landing of the Pilgrims _Felicia Hemans_ 195
Patriotism _William Cowper_ 196
The Robin _Charles Conrad Abbott_ 197
Motions of Birds _Gilbert White_ 200
Origin of Rivers _John Tyndall_ 202
Address at the Dedication of
Gettysburg Cemetery _Abraham Lincoln_ 205
The American Flag _Joseph Rodman Drake_ 206
The Last Fight in the Coliseum,
A.D. 404 _Charlotte M. Yonge_ 208
The Passing of Arthur _Alfred Tennyson_ 216
THE PRINCIPLES OF GOOD READING 225
AUTHORS AND BOOKS 228
EXPLANATORY NOTES 235
FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.
ARTIST
Columbus at Barcelona _R. Balaca_ 24
The Defense of the Bridge _A. I. Keller_ 37
Ruins of a Norman Castle _From a photograph_ 90
The Lions _Rosa Bonheur_ 118
The Shipwreck _A. Marlon_ 129
Canterbury Cathedral _From a photograph_ 187
The Departure of the Mayflower _A. W. Bayes_ 194
The Last Prayer--Christian
Martyrs in the Coliseum _J. L. Gerome_ 212
PORTRAITS OF AUTHORS.
Washington Irving Title-page
Thomas Babington Macaulay 32
James Anthony Froude 50
Thomas Campbell 76
Frank R. Stockton 83
Elizabeth Barrett Browning 98
William H. Prescott 104
George Henry Lewes 113
Leigh Hunt 119
Charles Dickens 121
Dr. Samuel Johnson 135
Henry Ward Beecher 143
William Dean Howells 146
Charles Reade 153
Charles Kingsley 165
Jean Ingelow 175
Arthur Penrhyn Stanley 191
Edward Everett 192
John Tyndall 202
Abraham Lincoln 205
Joseph Rodman Drake 206
Charlotte M. Yonge 208
Acknowledgments are due to the following persons for their
courteous permission to use valuable selections from their works:
Dr. Charles C. Abbott for the essay on "The Robin"; Mr. William
Dean Howells for his sketch of "Life in the Backwoods"; The J. B.
Lippincott Company for the selections from Prescott's "Conquest of
Mexico" and Abbott's "Birdland Echoes"; and Mr. Frank R. Stockton
for "The Story of Tempe Wicke."
SCHOOL READING.
SIXTH YEAR.
TWO WAYS OF TELLING A STORY.
I.
Who is this? A careless little midshipman, idling about in a great
city, with his pockets full of money.
He is waiting for the coach: it comes up presently, and he gets on the
top of it, and looks about him.
They soon leave the chimney pots behind them; his eyes wander with
delight over the harvest fields, he smells the honeysuckle in the
hedgerow, and he wishes he was down among the hazel bushes, that he
might strip them of the milky nuts; then he sees a great wain piled up
with barley, and he wishes he was seated on the top of it; then they
go through a little wood, and he likes to see the checkered shadows of
the trees lying across the white road; and then a squirrel runs up a
bough, and he can not forbear to whoop and halloo, though he can not
chase it to its nest.
The other passengers are delighted with his simplicity and childlike
glee; and they encourage him to talk to them about the sea and ships,
especially Her Majesty's ship "The Asp," wherein he has the honor to
sail. In the jargon of the sea, he describes her many perfections,
and enlarges on her peculiar advantages; he then confides to them how
a certain middy, having been ordered to the masthead as a punishment,
had seen, while sitting on the topmast crosstrees, something
uncommonly like the sea serpent--but, finding this hint received with
incredulous smiles, he begins to tell them how he hopes that, some
day, he shall be promoted to have charge of the poop. The passengers
hope he will have that honor; they have no doubt he deserves it. His
cheeks flush with pleasure to hear them say so, and he little thinks
that they have no notion in what "that honor" may happen to consist.
The coach stops: the little midshipman, with his hands in his pockets,
sits rattling his money, and singing. There is a poor woman standing
by the door of the village inn; she looks careworn, and well she may,
for, in the spring, her husband went up to the city to seek for work.
He got work, and she was expecting soon to join him there, when alas!
a fellow-workman wrote her word how he had met with an accident, how
he was very ill and wanted his wife to come and nurse him. But she has
two young children, and is destitute; she must walk up all the way,
and she is sick at heart when she thinks that perhaps he may die among
strangers before she can reach him.
She does not think of begging, but seeing the boy's eyes attracted to
her, she makes him a courtesy, and he withdraws his hand and throws
her down a sovereign. She looks at it with incredulous joy, and then
she looks at him.
"It's all right," he says, and the coach starts again, while, full of
gratitude, she hires a cart to take her across the country to the
railway, that the next night she may sit by the bedside of her sick
husband.
The midshipman knows nothing about that; and he never will know.
The passengers go on talking--the little midshipman has told them who
he is, and where he is going; but there is one man who has never
joined in the conversation; he is dark-looking and restless; he sits
apart; he has seen the glitter of the falling coin, and now he watches
the boy more narrowly than before.
He is a strong man, resolute and determined; the boy with the pockets
full of money will be no match for him. The midshipman has told the
other passengers that his father's house is the parsonage at Y----;
the coach goes within five miles of it, and he means to get down at
the nearest point, and walk, or rather run over to his home, through
the great wood.
The man decides to get down too, and go through the wood; he will rob
the little midshipman; perhaps, if he cries out or struggles, he will
do worse. The boy, he thinks, will have no chance against him; it is
quite impossible that he can escape; the way is lonely, and the sun
will be down.
No. There seems indeed little chance of escape; the half-fledged bird
just fluttering down from its nest has no more chance against the
keen-eyed hawk, than the little light-hearted sailor boy will have
against him--at least so thinks the man as he makes his plans.
II.
The coach reaches the village where the boy is to alight. He wishes
the other passengers "good evening," and runs lightly down between the
scattered houses. The man has got down also, and is following.
The path lies through the village churchyard; there is evening
service, and the door is wide open, for it is warm. The little
midshipman stops by the door, looks in, and listens. The clergyman has
just risen, and is giving out his text. Thirteen months have past
since the boy was within a house of prayer; and a feeling of pleasure
and awe induces him to stand still and listen.
"Are not two sparrows [he hears] sold for a farthing? and one of them
shall not fall on the ground without your Father. But the very hairs
of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not, therefore, ye are of more
value than many sparrows."
He hears the opening sentences of the sermon; and then he remembers
his home, and comes softly out of the porch, full of a calm and
serious pleasure. The clergyman has reminded him of his father, and
his careless heart is now filled with the echoes of his voice and of
his prayers. He thinks on what the clergyman said, of the care of our
heavenly Father for us; he remembers how, when he left home, his
father prayed that he might be preserved through every danger; he does
not remember any particular danger that he has been exposed to,
excepting in the great storm; but he is grateful that he has come home
in safety, and he hopes whenever he shall be in danger, which he
supposes he shall be some day--he hopes, that then the providence of
God will watch over him, and protect him. And so he presses onward to
the entrance of the wood.
The man is there before him. He has pushed himself into the thicket,
and cut a heavy club; he suffers the boy to go on before, and then he
comes out and follows him. It is too light at present for his deed of
darkness and too near the entrance of the wood, but he knows that
shortly the path will branch off into two, and the right one for the
boy to take will be dark and lonely.
But what prompts the little midshipman, when not fifty yards from the
branching of the path, to break into a sudden run? It is not fear, for
he never dreams of danger. Some sudden impulse, or some wild wish for
home, makes him dash off suddenly, with a whoop and a bound. On he
goes, as if running a race; the path bends, and the man loses sight of
him. "But I shall have him yet," he thinks; "he can not keep this pace
up long."
The boy has nearly reached the place where the path divides, when he
startles a young white owl that can scarcely fly, and it goes whirring
along, close to the ground, before him. He gains upon it; another
moment, and it will be his. Now it gets the start again; they come to
the branching of the paths, and the bird goes down the wrong one. The
temptation to follow is too strong to be resisted; he knows that
somewhere, deep in the wood, there is a cross track by which he can
get into the path he has left; if only he runs a little faster, he
shall be at home nearly as soon.
On he rushes; the path takes a bend, and he is just out of sight when
his pursuer comes where the paths divide. The boy has turned to the
right; the man takes the left, and the faster they both run the
farther they are asunder.
The white owl still leads him on; the path gets darker and narrower;
at last he finds that he has missed it altogether, and his feet are on
the soft ground. He flounders about among the trees, vexed with
himself, and panting after his race. At last he finds another track,
and pushes on as fast as he can. He has lost his way--but he keeps
bearing to the left; and, though it is now dark, he thinks that he
must reach the main path sooner or later.
He does not know this part of the wood, but he runs on. O, little
midshipman! why did you chase that owl? If you had kept in the path
with the dark man behind you, there was a chance that you might have
outrun him; or, if he had overtaken you, some passing wayfarer might
have heard your cries, and come to save you. Now you are running on
straight to your death, for the forest water is deep and black at the
bottom of this hill. O, that the moon might come out and show it to you!
The moon is under a thick canopy of heavy black clouds; and there is
not a star to glitter on the water and make it visible. The fern is
soft under his feet as he runs and slips down the sloping hill. At
last he strikes his foot against a stone, stumbles, and falls. Two
minutes more and he will roll into the black water.
"Heyday!" cries the boy, "what's this? Oh, how it tears my hands! Oh,
this thorn bush! Oh, my arms! I can't get free!" He struggles and
pants. "All this comes of leaving the path," he says; "I shouldn't
have cared for rolling down if it hadn't been for this bush. The fern
was soft enough. I'll never stray in a wood at night again. There,
free at last! And my jacket nearly torn off my back!"
With a good deal of patience, and a great many scratches, he gets free
of the thorn which had arrested his progress, when his feet were
within a yard of the water, manages to scramble up the bank, and makes
the best of his way through the wood.
And now, as the clouds move slowly onward, the moon shows her face on
the black surface of the water; and the little white owl comes and
hoots, and flutters over it like a wandering snowdrift. But the boy is
deep in the wood again, and knows nothing of the danger from which he
has escaped.
III.
All this time the dark passenger follows the main track, and believes
that his prey is before him. At last he hears a crashing of dead
boughs, and presently the little midshipman's voice not fifty yards
before him. Yes, it is too true; the boy is in the cross track. He
will pass the cottage in the wood directly, and after that his pursuer
will come upon him.
The boy bounds into the path; but, as he passes the cottage, he is so
thirsty that he thinks he must ask the people if they will sell him a
cup of tea.
He enters without ceremony. "Tea?" says the woodman, who is sitting at
his supper. "No, we have no tea; but perhaps my wife can give thee a
drink of milk. Come in." So he comes in, and shuts the door; and,
while he sits waiting for the milk, footsteps pass. They are the
footsteps of his pursuer, who goes on with the club in his hand, and
is angry and impatient that he has not yet come up with him.
The woman goes to her little dairy for the milk, and the boy thinks
she is a long time. He drinks it, thanks her, and takes his leave.
Fast and fast the man runs on, and, as fast as he can, the boy runs
after him. It is very dark, but there is a yellow streak in the sky,
where the moon is plowing up a furrowed mass of gray cloud, and one or
two stars are blinking through the branches of the trees.
Fast the boy follows, and fast the man runs on, with his weapon in his
hand. Suddenly he hears the joyish whoop--not before, but behind him.
He stops and listens breathlessly. Yes, it is so. He pushes himself
into the thicket, and raises his club to strike when the boy shall pass.
On he comes, running lightly, with his hands in his pockets. A sound
strikes at the same instant on the ears of both; and the boy turns
back from the very jaws of death to listen. It is the sound of wheels,
and it draws rapidly nearer. A man comes up, driving a little gig.
"Halloa?" he says, in a loud, cheerful voice. "What! benighted,
youngster?"
"Oh, is it you, Mr. Davis?" says the boy; "no, I am not benighted; or,
at any rate, I know my way out of the wood."
The man draws farther back among the shrubs. "Why, bless the boy," he
hears the farmer say, "to think of our meeting in this way. The parson
told me he was in hopes of seeing thee some day this week. I'll give
thee a lift. This is a lonely place to be in this time o' night."
"Lonely!" says the boy, laughing. "I don't mind that; and if you know
the way, it's as safe as the quarter-deck."
So he gets into the farmer's gig, and is once more out of reach of the
pursuer. But the man knows that the farmer's house is a quarter of a
mile nearer than the parsonage, and in that quarter of a mile there is
still a chance of committing the robbery. He determines still to make
the attempt, and cuts across the wood with such rapid strides that he
reaches the farmer's gate just as the gig drives up to it.
"Well, thank you, farmer," says the midshipman, as he prepares to get
down.
"I wish you good night, gentlemen," says the man, when he passes.
"Good night, friend," the farmer replies. "I say, my boy, it's a dark
night enough; but I have a mind to drive you on to the parsonage, and
hear the rest of this long tale of yours about the sea serpent."
The little wheels go on again. They pass the man; and he stands still
in the road to listen till the sound dies away. Then he flings his
club into the hedge, and goes back. His evil purposes have all been
frustrated--the thoughtless boy, without knowing anything about it,
has baffled him at every turn.
IV.
And now the little midshipman is at home--the joyful meeting has taken
place; and when they have all admired his growth, and measured his
height on the window frame, and seen him eat his supper, they begin to
question him about his adventures, more for the pleasure of hearing
him talk than any curiosity.
"Adventures!" says the boy, seated between his father and mother on a
sofa. "Why, mother, I wrote you an account of the voyage, and there's
nothing else to tell. Nothing happened to-day--at least nothing
particular."
"Did you come by the coach we told you of?" asks his father.
"Oh, yes, papa; and when we had got about twenty miles, there came up
a beggar, while we changed horses, and I threw down, as I thought, a
shilling, but, as it fell, I saw it was a sovereign. She was very
honest, and showed me what it was, but I didn't take it back, for you
know, it's a long time since I gave anything to anybody."
"Very true, my boy," his mother answers; "but you should not be
careless with your money.
"I suppose you got down at the crossroads?" says his elder brother.
"Yes, and went through the wood. I should have been here sooner if I
hadn't lost my way there."
"Lost your way!" says his mother, alarmed. "My dear boy, you should
not have left the path at dusk."
"Oh, mother," says the little midshipman, with a smile, "you're always
thinking we're in danger. If you could see me sometimes sitting at the
jib-boom end, or across the main topmast crosstrees, you _would_ be
frightened. But what danger can there be in a wood?"
"Well, my boy," she answers, "I don't wish to be over-anxious, and to
make my children uncomfortable by my fears. What did you stray from
the path for?"
"Only to chase a little owl, mother; but I didn't catch her after all.
I got a roll down a bank, and caught my jacket against a thorn bush,
which was rather unlucky. Ah! three large holes I see in my sleeve.
And so I scrambled up again, and got into the path, and stopped at the
cottage for some milk. What a time the woman kept me, to be sure! But
very soon Mr. Davis drove up in his gig, and he brought me on to the
gate."
"And so this story being brought to a close," his father says, "we
find that you had no adventures at all!"
"No, papa, nothing happened; nothing particular, I mean."
Nothing particular! If they could have known, they would have thought
lightly in comparison of the dangers of "the jib-boom end, and the
main topmast crosstrees." But they did not know, any more than we do,
of the dangers that hourly beset us. Some few dangers we are aware of,
and we do what we can to provide against them; but, for the greater
portion, "our eyes are held that we can not see." We walk securely
under His guidance, without whom "not a sparrow falleth to the
ground!" and when we have had escapes that the angels have wondered
at, we come home and say, perhaps, that "nothing has happened; at
least nothing particular."
--_Jean Ingelow._
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang
and stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
The windflower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the goldenrod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague
on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and
glen.
And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will
come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are
still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he
bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side.
In the cold, moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the
leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:
Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
THE GREAT VOLCANIC ERUPTION.
In 1883 the most destructive volcanic eruption ever known occurred in
the Straits of Sunda and the neighboring islands. The trouble began on
Sunday morning, the 13th of May. Java, Sumatra, and Borneo were
convulsed by earthquakes. The surface of the earth rocked, houses
tumbled down, and big trees were shaken to the ground. Earthquakes are
no rarity in those islands, but this earthquake showed no signs of
ceasing. The earth quivered constantly, and from its depths there
seemed to rise strange sounds and hollow explosions.
On Thursday there came a telegram from Anjer, ninety miles away, on
the northwest coast of Java, intimating that a volcano had broken out
at Krakatoa island, about thirty miles west of Anjer, in Sunda Strait.
I was requested by the Dutch government to go to the scene of action
and take scientific observations, and by four o'clock that afternoon I
started with a party on board a special steamer from Batavia.
As we rounded the northern extremity of Java, we saw ascending from
Krakatoa, still fifty miles away, an immense column of smoke. Its
appearance changed as we approached. First it looked like flame, then it
appeared to be steam, and finally it had the appearance of a pillar of
fire inside one of white fleecy wool. The diameter of this pillar of
fire and smoke was, I should think, at least one and a half miles. All
the while we heard that sullen, thunderous roar which had been a feature
of this disturbance ever since Sunday, and was now becoming louder.
We remained on deck all night and watched. The din increased till we
could with difficulty hear one another's voices. Dawn approached, and
when the rays of the sun fell on the shores of Krakatoa, we saw them
reflected from what we thought was a river, and we resolved to steam
into its mouth and disembark.
When we came to within three quarters of a mile of the shore, we
discovered that what we supposed to be a river was a torrent of molten
sulphur. The smell almost overpowered us. We steamed away to the
windward, and made for the other side of the island.
This island, though volcanic, had up till now been quiet for at least
a century. It was eight or ten miles long and four wide, and was
covered with forests of fine mahogany and rosewood trees. It was
inhabited by a few fishermen, but we found no signs of these people.
The land, down to the water's edge, was covered with powdered pumice
stone, which rained down from the clouds around the great column of
fire. Everything with life had already disappeared from the landscape,
which was covered with a steaming mass of stones and ashes.
Several of us landed and began walking towards the volcano. We sank
deep in the soft pumice, which blistered our feet with its heat. I
climbed painfully upwards toward the crater, in order to measure it
with my sextant; but in a short time the heat melted the mercury off
the mirror of the instrument. I was then half a mile from the crater.
As I was returning to the shore, I saw the bottom of each footstep I
had made on my way up glowing red with the heat from beneath. We
photographed the scene from the deck of the steamer, where the fire
hose was kept playing constantly, wetting the rigging and everything
about the ship to prevent her from taking fire.
The steamer then returned to Batavia, and I went to reside at Anjer.
From my villa on the hillside a mile inland, I could see Krakatoa,
thirty miles away, belching out its never-ending eruption. We supposed
that it would go on till it burned itself out, and that then it would
become quiet again. But in this we were mistaken.
On Sunday morning, the 12th of August, nearly three months later, I
was sitting on the veranda of my house taking my morning cup of tea. I
saw the fishing boats lying at anchor in the bay, the fishermen
themselves being on shore at rest. As my gaze rested on the boats, I
suddenly became aware that they were all beginning to move rapidly in
one direction. Then in an instant, to my intense surprise, they all
disappeared.
I ran farther up the hillside to get a better view, and looked far out
to sea. Instantly a great glare of fire right in the midst of the sea
caught my eye. All the way across the bay and the strait, in a line of
flame reaching to Krakatoa itself, the bottom of the sea seemed to
have cracked open so that the subterraneous fires were belching forth.
On either side the waters were pouring into this gulf with a
tremendous noise, but the fire was not extinguished.
The hissing roar brought out the people of Anjer in excited crowds. My
eyes were turned away for a moment as I beckoned to some one, and
during that moment came a terrible, deafening explosion. It stunned
me; and when I was able again to turn my eyes toward the bay, I could
see nothing. The whole scene was shrouded in darkness, from amid which
came cries and groans, the creaking of breaking beams in the houses,
and, above all, the roar of the breakers on the shore. The city of
Anjer, with its sixty thousand people, had been engulfed!
I afterwards found that the water was one hundred feet deep where the
city of Anjer had been, and that the coast line had moved one and a
half miles inland. A big island in the strait had been split in two,
with a wide passage between its parts. An island to the northwest of
Krakatoa had wholly disappeared. The air was filled with minute
particles of dust, which after some weeks spread even to Europe and
America. What the causes of such a tremendous convulsion may have
been, it is quite impossible accurately to say.
* * * * *
The foregoing narrative was written by J. T. Van Gestel, who was at
the time residing in the island of Java. Compare his description of
this event with those of the eruption of Vesuvius and the destruction
of Pompeii, given in "School Reading by Grades--Fifth Year." Read also
the younger Pliny's description of the eruption of Vesuvius. It may be
found in Church and Brodribb's translation of selections from Pliny's
Letters. Other interesting readings about volcanoes may be found in
"Volcanoes, Past and Present," by Edward Hull, and in "Volcanoes and
Earthquakes," by Dr. George Hartwig.
[Illustration:
From the Painting by R. Balaca. Engraved by Robert Varley.
Columbus at Barcelona.
]
THE RETURN OF COLUMBUS.
The fame of the discovery made by Columbus had resounded throughout
the nation, and, as his route lay through several of the finest and
most populous provinces of Spain, his journey appeared like the
progress of a sovereign. Wherever he passed, the country poured forth
its inhabitants, who lined the road and thronged the villages. The
streets, windows, and balconies of the towns were filled with eager
spectators, who rent the air with acclamations. His journey was
continually impeded by the multitude pressing to gain a sight of him
and of the Indians, who were regarded with as much astonishment as if
they had been natives of another planet. It was impossible to satisfy
the craving curiosity which assailed himself and his attendants at
every stage with innumerable questions; popular rumor, as usual, had
exaggerated the truth, and had filled the newly found country with all
kinds of wonders.
About the middle of April Columbus arrived at Barcelona, where every
preparation had been made to give him a solemn and magnificent
reception. The beauty and serenity of the weather in that genial
season and favored climate contributed to give splendor to this
memorable ceremony. As he drew near the place, many of the more
youthful courtiers and hidalgos, together with a vast concourse of the
populace, came forth to meet and welcome him. His entrance into this
noble city has been compared to one of those triumphs which the Romans
were accustomed to decree to conquerors. First were paraded the
Indians, painted according to their savage fashion, and decorated with
their national ornaments of gold; after these were borne various kinds
of live parrots, together with stuffed birds and animals of unknown
species, and rare plants supposed to be of precious qualities; while
great care was taken to make a conspicuous display of Indian coronets,
bracelets, and other decorations of gold, which might give an idea of
the wealth of the newly discovered regions. After this followed
Columbus on horseback, surrounded by a brilliant cavalcade of Spanish
chivalry. The streets were almost impassable from the countless
multitude; the windows and balconies were crowded with the fair; the
very roofs were covered with spectators. It seemed as if the public
eye could not be sated with gazing on these trophies of an unknown
world, or on the remarkable man by whom it had been discovered. There
was a sublimity in this event that mingled a solemn feeling with the
public joy. It was looked upon as a vast and signal dispensation of
Providence in reward for the piety of the monarchs; and the majestic
and venerable appearance of the discoverer, so different from the
youth and buoyancy generally expected from roving enterprise, seemed
in harmony with the grandeur and dignity of his achievement.
To receive him with suitable pomp and distinction, the sovereigns had
ordered their throne to be placed in public, under a rich canopy of
brocade of gold, in a vast and splendid saloon. Here the king and
queen awaited his arrival, seated in state, with the Prince Juan
beside them, and attended by the dignitaries of their court, and the
principal nobility of Castile, Valencia, Catalonia, and Aragon, all
impatient to behold the man who had conferred so incalculable a
benefit upon the nation. At length Columbus entered the hall,
surrounded by a brilliant crowd of cavaliers, among whom, says Las
Casas, he was conspicuous for his stately and commanding person,
which, with his countenance rendered venerable by his gray hairs, gave
him the august appearance of a senator of Rome. A modest smile lighted
up his features, showing that he enjoyed the state and glory in which
he came; and certainly nothing could be more deeply moving to a mind
inflamed by noble ambition, and conscious of having greatly deserved,
than these testimonials of the admiration and gratitude of a nation,
or rather of a world. As Columbus approached, the sovereigns rose, as
if receiving a person of the highest rank. Bending his knees, he
offered to kiss their hands; but there was some hesitation on their
part to permit this act of homage. Raising him in the most gracious
manner, they ordered him to seat himself in their presence; a rare
honor in this proud and punctilious court.
At their request, he now gave an account of the most striking events
of his voyage, and a description of the islands discovered. He
displayed specimens of unknown birds and other animals; of rare plants
of medicinal and aromatic virtues; of native gold in dust, in crude
masses, or labored into barbaric ornaments; and, above all, the
natives of these countries, who were objects of intense and
inexhaustible interest. All these he pronounced mere harbingers of
greater discoveries yet to be made, which would add realms of
incalculable wealth to the dominions of their majesties, and whole
nations of proselytes to the true faith.
When he had finished, the sovereigns sank on their knees, and, raising
their clasped hands to heaven, their eyes filled with tears of joy and
gratitude, poured forth thanks and praises to God for so great a
providence; all present followed their example; a deep and solemn
enthusiasm pervaded that splendid assembly, and prevented all common
acclamations of triumph. The anthem _Te Deum laudamus_, chanted by the
choir of the royal chapel, with the accompaniment of instruments, rose
in full body of sacred harmony, bearing up as it were the feelings and
thoughts of the auditors to heaven, "so that" says the venerable Las
Casas, "it seemed as if in that hour they communicated with celestial
delights." Such was the solemn and pious manner in which the brilliant
court of Spain celebrated this sublime event; offering up a grateful
tribute of melody and praise, and giving glory to God for the
discovery of another world.
* * * * *
This description of the reception of the great discoverer after his
return from his first voyage, is from Washington Irving's famous book
entitled "The Life and Voyages of Columbus." Other readings on the
same subject are to be found in Prescott's "Ferdinand and Isabella,"
Kingston's "Notable Voyagers," Mrs. Bolton's "Famous Voyagers,"
Saunders' "Story of the Discovery of the New World," and McMaster's
"School History of the United States."
WHAT THE SUNBEAMS DO.
What work do the sunbeams do for us? They do two things,--they give us
light and heat. It is by means of them alone that we see anything.
When the room was dark you could not distinguish the table, the chairs,
or even the walls of the room. Why? Because they had no light waves to
send to your eye. But as the sunbeams began to pour in at the window,
the waves played upon the things in the room; and when they hit them
they bounded off them back to your eye, as a wave of the sea bounds back
from a rock, and strikes against a passing boat. Then, when they fell
upon your eye, they entered it, and excited the retina and the nerves;
and the image of the chair or the table was carried to your brain.
Some substances send back hardly any waves of light, but let them all
pass through them. A pane of clear glass, for instance, lets nearly
all the light waves pass through it; and therefore you often can not
see the glass, because no light messengers come back to you from it.
Thus people have sometimes walked up against a glass door, and broken
it, not seeing it was there.
Those substances are transparent, which, for some reason unknown to
us, allow the ether waves to pass through them. In clear glass, all
the light waves pass through; while in a white wall the larger part of
the rays are reflected back to the eye. Into polished shining metal
the waves hardly enter at all, but are thrown back from the surface;
and so a steel knife or a silver spoon is very bright, and is clearly
seen. Quicksilver is put at the back of looking-glasses because it
reflects so many waves.
The reflected light waves not only make us see things, but they make
us see them in different colors. Imagine a sunbeam playing on a leaf:
part of its waves bound straight back from it to our eye, and make us
see the surface of the leaf; but the rest go right into the leaf
itself, and there some of them are used up and kept prisoners. The
red, orange, yellow, blue, indigo, and violet waves are all useful to
the leaf, and it does not let them go again. But it can not absorb the
green waves, and so it throws them back; and they travel to your eye,
and make you see a green color. So, when you say a leaf is green, you
mean that the leaf does not want the green waves of the sunbeam, but
sends them back to you. In the same way the scarlet geranium rejects
the red waves; a white tablecloth sends back nearly the whole of the
waves, and a black coat scarcely any.
Is it not strange that there is really no such thing as color in the
leaf, the table, the coat, or the geranium; that we see them of
different colors because they send back only certain-colored waves to
our eye?
So far we have spoken only of light; but hold your hand in the sun,
and feel the heat of the sunbeams, and then consider if the waves of
heat do not do work also. There are many waves in a sunbeam which move
too slowly to make us see light when they hit our eye; but we can feel
them as heat, though we cannot see them as light.
The simplest way of feeling heat waves is to hold a warm flatiron near
your face. You know that no light comes from it, yet you can feel the
heat waves beating violently against your face.
Now, there are many of these dark heat rays in a sunbeam, and it is
they that do most of the work in the world. It is the heat waves that
make the air hot and light, and so cause it to rise, and make winds
and air currents; and these again give rise to ocean currents. It is
these dark rays, again, that strike upon the land, and give it the
warmth which enables plants to grow. It is they also that keep up the
warmth in our own bodies, both by coming to us directly from the sun,
and also in a very roundabout way through plants.
Coal is made of plants, and the heat it gives out is the heat these
plants once took in. Think how much work is done by burning coal. Not
only are our houses warmed by coal fires and lighted by coal gas, but
our steam engines work entirely by water which has been turned into
steam by the heat of coal fires; and our steamboats travel all over
the world by means of the same power.
In the same way the oil of our lamps comes either from olives, which
grow on trees, or from coal and the remains of plants in the earth.
Even our tallow candles are made of mutton fat, and sheep eat grass;
and so, turn which way we will, we find that the light and heat on our
earth, whether it comes from fires, or candles, or lamps, or gas, is
equally the work of those waves of ether coming from the sun, which
make what we call a sunbeam.
--_From "The Fairy Land of Science," by Arabella B. Buckley._
HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE.
Tarquin the Proud was the seventh and last king of Rome. Such were his
acts of tyranny, and such the crimes of his son, "the false Sextus,"
that the people rose in rebellion, and, in the year 509 B.C., drove
him and his family away from Rome and declared that they would have no
more kings. The Tarquins took refuge among the Etruscans, whose
country bordered Rome on the north. They made a treaty of friendship
with Porsena, the king of Clusium, and induced him to raise a large
army for the purpose of forcing the Romans to allow them to return to
power. A battle was fought, and the Romans being defeated were obliged
to flee across the wooden bridge which spanned the Tiber at Rome. To
prevent Porsena from entering the city, the Roman Consul ordered that
the bridge should be destroyed.
[Illustration: Thomas Babington Macaulay.]
The story of the manner in which this was done is told by Lord
Macaulay in his "Lays of Ancient Rome," a collection of heroic ballads
relating to the times of the kings and the early consuls. The author
speaks, not in his own person, but in the person of an ancient
minstrel who is supposed to have lived about one hundred years after
the event, and who therefore knew only what a Roman citizen of that
time could have known.
But the Consul's brow was sad,
And the Consul's speech was low,
And darkly looked he at the wall,
And darkly at the foe.
"Their van will be upon us
Before the bridge goes down;
And if they once may win the bridge,
What hope to save the town?"
Then out spake brave Horatius,
The captain of the gate:
"To every man upon this Earth
Death cometh soon or late;
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods?
"Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,
With all the speed ye may;
I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in play.
In yon strait path a thousand
May well be stopped by three;
Now, who will stand on either hand,
And keep the bridge with me?"
Then out spake Spurius Lartius,--
A Ramnian proud was he:
"Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And keep the bridge with thee."
And out spake strong Herminius,--
Of Titian blood was he:
"I will abide on thy left side,
And keep the bridge with thee."
"Horatius," quoth the Consul,
"As thou say'st, so let it be."
And straight against that great array
Forth went the dauntless Three.
Meanwhile the Tuscan army,
Right glorious to behold,
Came flashing back the noonday light,
Rank behind rank, like surges bright
Of a broad sea of gold.
Four hundred trumpets sounded
A peal of warlike glee,
As that great host, with measured tread,
And spears advanced, and ensigns spread,
Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head,
Where stood the dauntless Three.
The Three stood calm and silent,
And looked upon the foes,
And a great shout of laughter
From all the vanguard rose.
And forth three chiefs came spurring
Before that deep array;
To earth they sprang, their swords they drew
And lifted high their shields, and flew
To win the narrow way.
Annus from green Tifernum,
Lord of the Hill of Vines;
And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves
Sicken in Ilva's mines;
And Picus, long to Clusium
Vassal in peace and war,
Who led to fight his Umbrian powers
From that gray crag where, girt with towers,
The fortress of Nequinum lowers
O'er the pale waves of Nar.
Stout Lartius hurled down Annus
Into the stream beneath:
Herminius struck at Seius,
And clove him to the teeth:
At Picus brave Horatius
Darted one fiery thrust;
And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms
Clashed in the bloody dust.
And now no sound of laughter
Was heard among the foes.
A wild and wrathful clamor
From all the vanguard rose.
Six spears' length from the entrance
Halted that mighty mass,
And for a space no man came forth
To win the narrow pass.
But hark! the cry is Astur:
And lo! the ranks divide;
And the great Lord of Luna
Comes with his stately stride.
Upon his ample shoulders
Clangs loud the fourfold shield,
And in his hand he shakes the brand
Which none but he can wield.
He smiled on those bold Romans
A smile serene and high;
He eyed the flinching Tuscans,
And scorn was in his eye.
Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter
Stand savagely at bay:
But will ye dare to follow,
If Astur clears the way?"
Then whirling up his broadsword
With both hands to the height,
He rushed against Horatius,
And smote with all his might.
With shield and blade Horatius
Right deftly turned the blow.
The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh;
It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh:
The Tuscans raised a joyful cry
To see the red blood flow.
[Illustration:
Drawn by A. I. Keller. Engraved by Robert Varley.
The Defense of the Bridge.
]
He reeled, and on Herminius
He leaned one breathing space;
Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds,
Sprang right at Astur's face.
Through teeth and skull and helmet,
So fierce a thrust he sped,
The good sword stood a handbreadth out
Behind the Tuscan's head!
And the great Lord of Luna
Fell at that deadly stroke,
As falls on Mount Alvernus
A thunder-smitten oak.
Far o'er the crashing forest
The giant arms lie spread;
And the pale augurs, muttering low,
Gaze on the blasted head.
Then all Etruria's noblest
Felt their hearts sink to see
On the earth the bloody corpses,
In the path the dauntless Three:
And, from the ghastly entrance
Where those bold Romans stood,
All shrank, like boys who unaware,
Ranging the woods to start a hare,
Come to the mouth of the dark lair,
Where, growling low, a fierce old bear
Lies amidst bones and blood.
Yet one man for one moment
Stood out before the crowd;
Well known was he to all the Three,
And they gave him greeting loud:
"Now welcome, welcome, Sextus!
Now welcome to thy home!
Why dost thou stay and turn away?
Here lies the road to Rome."
Thrice looked he at the city;
Thrice looked he at the dead;
And thrice came on in fury,
And thrice turned back in dread:
And, white with fear and hatred,
Scowled at the narrow way
Where, wallowing in a pool of blood,
The bravest Tuscans lay.
But meanwhile ax and lever
Have manfully been plied,
And now the bridge hangs tottering
Above the boiling tide.
"Come back, come back, Horatius!"
Loud cried the Fathers all.
"Back, Lartius! Back, Herminius!
Back, ere the ruin fall!"
Back darted Spurius Lartius;
Herminius darted back;
And, as they passed, beneath their feet
They felt the timbers crack.
But when they turned their faces,
And on the farther shore
Saw brave Horatius stand alone,
They would have crossed once more.
But with a crash like thunder
Fell every loosened beam,
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck
Lay right athwart the stream:
And a long shout of triumph
Rose from the walls of Rome,
As to the highest turret tops
Was splashed the yellow-foam.
Alone stood brave Horatius,
But constant still in mind;
Thrice thirty thousand foes before,
And the broad flood behind.
"Down with him!" cried false Sextus,
With a smile on his pale face.
"Now, yield thee!" cried Lars Porsena,
"Now yield thee to our grace."
Round turned he, as not deigning
Those craven ranks to see;
Naught spake he to Lars Porsena,
To Sextus naught spake he;
But he saw on Palatinus
The white porch of his home;
And he spake to the noble river
That rolls by the tower of Rome: