And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered--
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamed it again.
Methought from the battlefield's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track;
'Twas autumn--and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;
I heard my own mountain goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.
"Stay, stay with us!--rest; thou art weary and worn!"
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away!
--_Thomas Campbell._
LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.
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?"
"Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this Lord Ullin's daughter.
[Illustration: Thomas Campbell.]
"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.
"Oh 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 gathered o'er her.
And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing.
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore:
His wrath was changed to wailing;
For, sore dismayed, 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 lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing:
The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.
--_Thomas Campbell._
BEETHOVEN'S MOONLIGHT SONATA.
Among the great musical composers of modern times there have been few
who rank with Ludwig van Beethoven. This famous man was born in Bonn,
Germany, in 1770; he died at Vienna in 1827. It may be truthfully said
that the works of Beethoven created a new epoch in the history and
development of music, and his compositions lose none of their
popularity as the years go by.
Beethoven's life was a sad one. He was alone in the world, deaf, and the
object of unkind treatment by those who should have been his friends.
How nobly he rose above all petty annoyances, we can readily understand
when we listen to the grand and solemn strains of his immortal music.
The following story illustrates the kindliness of his nature and shows
how some of his works seemed to be almost the result of inspiration.
* * * * *
It happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter's evening I called upon
Beethoven; for I wished him to take a walk, and afterwards sup with
me. In passing through a dark, narrow street, he suddenly paused.
"Hush!" he said, "what sound is that? It is from my Sonata in F. Hark!
how well it is played!"
[Illustration: Ludwig van Beethoven.]
It was a little, mean dwelling, and we paused outside and listened.
The player went on; but, in the midst of the finale, there was a
sudden break; then the voice of sobbing. "I cannot play any more. It
is so beautiful; it is utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh,
what would I not give to go to the concert at Cologne!"
"Ah! my sister," said her companion; "why create regrets when there is
no remedy? We can scarcely pay our rent."
"You are right, and yet I wish for once in my life to hear some really
good music. But it is of no use."
Beethoven looked at me. "Let us go in," he said.
"Go in!" I exclaimed. "What can we go in for?"
"I will play to her," he said, in an excited tone. "Here is
feeling--genius--understanding! I will play to her, and she will
understand it." And, before I could prevent him, his hand was upon
the door. It opened, and we entered.
A pale young man was sitting by the table, making shoes; and near him,
leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned piano, sat a young girl,
with a profusion of light hair falling over her face.
"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music and was tempted to
enter. I am a musician."
The girl blushed, and the young man looked grave and somewhat annoyed.
"I--I also overheard something of what you said," continued my friend.
"You wish to hear--that is, you would like--that is--shall I play for
you?"
There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so
comical and pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was
broken in a moment.
"Thank you," said the shoemaker; "but our piano is so wretched, and we
have no music."
"No music!" echoed my friend; "how, then, does the young lady--" He
paused, and colored; for, as he looked in the girl's face, he saw that
she was blind. "I--I entreat your pardon," he stammered. "I had not
perceived before. Then you play by ear? But where do you hear the
music, since you frequent no concerts?"
"We lived at Bruhl for two years, and while there, I used to hear a
lady practicing near us. During the summer evenings her windows were
generally open, and I walked to and fro outside to listen to her."
She seemed so shy that Beethoven said no more, but seated himself
quietly before the piano and began to play. He had no sooner struck
the first chord than I knew what would follow. Never, during all the
years I knew him, did I hear him play as he then played to that blind
girl and her brother. He seemed to be inspired; and, from the instant
that his fingers began to wander along the keys, the very tone of the
instrument seemed to grow sweeter and more equal.
The brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture. The former
laid aside his work; the latter, with her head bent slightly forward,
and her hands pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the
end of the piano, as if fearful lest even the beating of her heart
should break the flow of those magical sounds.
Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sank, flickered, and
went out. Beethoven paused, and I threw open the shutters, admitting a
flood of brilliant moonlight. The room was almost as light as before,
the moon's rays falling strongest upon the piano and player. His head
dropped upon his breast; his hands rested upon his knees; he seemed
absorbed in deep thought. He remained thus for some time. At length
the young shoemaker rose and approached him eagerly.
"Wonderful man!" he said, in a low tone. "Who and what are you?"
"Listen!" said Beethoven, and he played the opening bars of the Sonata
in F. A cry of recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming, "Then
you are Beethoven!" they covered his hands with tears and kisses.
He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties. "Play to us once
more--only once more!"
He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. The moon shone
brightly in through the window, and lighted up his glorious, ragged
head and massive figure. "I will improvise a Sonata to the Moonlight!"
said he, looking up thoughtfully to the sky and stars. Then his hands
dropped on the keys, and he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely
movement, which crept gently over the instrument, like the calm flow
of moonlight over the dark earth. This was followed by a wild, elfin
passage in triple time--a sort of grotesque interlude, like the dance
of sprites upon the lawn. Then came a swift agitato finale--a
breathless, hurrying, trembling movement, descriptive of flight, and
uncertainty, and vague impulsive terror, which carried us away on its
rustling wings, and left us all in emotion and wonder.
"Farewell to you!" said Beethoven, pushing back his chair, and turning
toward the door--"farewell to you!"
"You will come again?" asked they, in one breath.
He paused and looked compassionately, almost tenderly, at the face of
the blind girl.
"Yes, yes," he said hurriedly, "I will come again, and give the young
lady some lessons! Farewell! I will come again!"
Their looks followed us in silence more eloquent than words till we
were out of sight.
"Let us make haste back," said Beethoven, "that I may write out that
Sonata while I can yet remember it."
We did so, and he sat over it until long past day dawn. And this was
the origin of that Moonlight Sonata with which we are all so fondly
acquainted.
THE STORY OF TEMPE WICK.
There are so many curious and unexpected things which may happen in time
of war, especially to people who live in parts of a country where the
enemy may be expected to come, or where the friendly army is already
encamped, that it is impossible to guard against unpleasant occurrences;
and it often happens that the only thing to be depended upon when an
emergency arises, is presence of mind, and quickness of wit.
[Illustration: Frank R. Stockton.]
In these qualities, New Jersey girls have never shown themselves behind
their sisters of other parts of the country, and a very good proof of
this is shown by an incident which took place near Morristown during the
time that the American army was quartered in that neighborhood.
Not far from the town was a farm then known as Wick's farm, situated
in a beautiful wooded country. The daughter of Mr. Wick, named Tempe
(probably short for Temperance), was the owner of a very fine horse,
and on this beautiful animal it was her delight to ride over the roads
and through the woods of the surrounding country. She had been
accustomed to horses since she was a child, and was not afraid to ride
anywhere by herself.
When she first began to canter over these hills and dales, it had been
in times of peace, when there was nothing in this quiet country of
which any one might be afraid; and now, although these were days of
war, she felt no fear. There were soldiers not far away, but these she
looked upon as her friends and protectors; for Washington and his army
had encamped in that region to defend the country against the approach
of the enemy. If any straggling Redcoats should feel a desire to come
along the hills, they would be very apt to restrain their inclinations
so long as they knew that that brave American army was encamped near by.
So Miss Tempe Wick, fearing nothing, rode far and wide, as she had
been in the habit of doing, and every day she and her good steed
became better and better acquainted with each other.
One fine afternoon, as Tempe was slowly riding homeward, within a mile
of her house, she met half a dozen soldiers in Continental uniform,
and two of them, stepping in front of her, called upon her to stop.
When she had done so, one of them seized her bridle. She did not know
the men; but still, as they belonged to Washington's army, who were
her countrymen and friends, she saw no reason to be afraid, and asked
them what they wanted.
At first she received no answer, for they were very busily occupied in
looking at her horse and expressing their satisfaction at the fine
points of the animal. Tempe had had her horse praised before; but
these men were looking at him, and talking about him, very much as if
he were for sale and they were thinking of buying. Presently one of
the men said to her that this was a very excellent horse that she was
riding, and they wanted it. To this Tempe exclaimed, in great
amazement, that it was her own horse, that she wanted him herself, and
had no wish to dispose of him. Some of the soldiers laughed, and one
of them told her that the troops were about to move, and that good
horses were greatly needed, and that they had orders to levy upon the
surrounding country and take horses wherever they could find them.
Now was Tempe astonished beyond measure. If half a dozen British
soldiers had surrounded her, and had declared that they intended to
rob her of her horse, she would not have wondered at it, for they
would have taken it as the property of an enemy. But that the soldiers
of her own country, the men on whom she and all her friends and
neighbors depended for protection and safety, should turn on her and
rob her, as if they had been a set of marauding Hessians, was
something she could scarcely comprehend. But it did not take her long
to understand, that no matter who they were or what they
were,--whether they thought they had a right to do what they
threatened, or whether they had no regard for right and justice,--they
were in earnest, and intended to take her horse. When this conviction
flashed into the mind of Tempe Wick, there also flashed into it a
determination to show these men that a Jersey girl had a will of her
own, and that if they wanted her property, they would have to do a
great deal more than simply to come to her and ask her to hand it over
to them.
After a little parley, during which the man who held her bridle let go
of it, supposing she was about to dismount, she suddenly gave her
spirited horse a sharp cut with the whip, dashed between two of the
soldiers, and before they could comprehend what had happened she was
off and away.
As fast as they could run, the soldiers followed her, one or two of
them firing their guns in the air, thinking to frighten her and make
her stop; but, as though she had been a deer and her pursuers ordinary
hunters, she swiftly sped away from them.
But they did not give up the chase. Some of them knew where this girl
lived, and were confident that when they reached her house, they would
have the horse. If they had known it was such a fine animal, they
would have come after it before. According to their belief, good
horses should go into the army, and people who staid at home, and
expected other people to fight for them, ought to be willing to do
what they could to help in the good cause, and at least give their
horses to the army.
As Tempe sat upon her bounding steed, she knew very well that the
soldiers could never catch her; but her heart sank within her as she
thought of what would happen when they came to the farm and demanded
her horse. Running away from them was only postponing her trouble for
a little while, for there was no one about the place who could prevent
those men from going to the barn and taking away the animal.
It would be of no use to pass her house and ride on and on. Where
should she go? She must come back sometime, and all the soldiers would
have to do would be to halt at the farm, and wait until she returned.
And even if she should take her horse into the wood and tie him to a
tree, they would know by her coming back on foot that she had left him
at no great distance, and they would be sure to follow his tracks and
find him.
As Tempe rode swiftly on, her thoughts galloped as fast as her horse,
and before she reached the house she had come to a conclusion as to
the best thing to be done. She did not ride toward the barn, but
dashed through the gateway of the large yard, and sprang from her
steed. As she turned in, she looked down the road; but the men were
not in sight. What she was going to do was something which people
never did, but it was the only thing she could think of, and she was a
girl whose actions were as quick as her ideas were original. Without
stopping an instant, she took her horse to the back door, and led him
boldly into the house.
This was not the sort of stable to which Tempe's horse or any other
American horse was accustomed; but this animal knew his mistress, and
where she led, he was willing to follow. If one of the farm hands had
attempted to take the creature into the house, there would probably
have been some rearing and plunging; but nothing of this kind happened
as our Jersey girl, with her hand on her horse's bridle, led him
quickly inside and closed the door behind him. As the story goes, she
took him through the kitchen, and then into the parlor, without the
slightest regard to the injury his shoes might do to the well-kept
floor; and from the parlor she led him into a bedroom on the lower
floor, which was usually used as a guest chamber, but which never
before had such a guest as this.
This room had but a single window, the shutters of which were kept
closed when it was not in use, and there was no entrance to it except
through the door which opened from the parlor. The door was quickly
closed, and Tempe stood with her horse in the darkness.
When the soldiers reached the farm they went to the barn. They
examined the outhouses, visited the pasture fields, and made a
thorough search, high and low, near and far; but no sign of a horse
could they find. Of course, the notion that the animal was concealed
in the house did not enter their minds, and the only way in which they
could account for the total disappearance of the horse was, that Tempe
had ridden off with him--where they knew not. We do not know how long
they waited for the sight of a hungry horse coming home to his supper,
but we do know that while there was the slightest danger of her dear
horse being taken away from her, that animal remained a carefully
attended guest in the spare room of the Wick house; and the tradition
is, that he staid there three weeks. There Tempe waited on him as if
he had been a visitor of high degree; and if she was afraid to go to
the barn to bring him hay and oats, she doubtless gave him biscuit and
soft bread,--dainties of which a horse is very fond, especially when
they are brought to him by such a kind mistress as Tempe.
When the cavalry moved away from their camp near Morristown, no one of
them rode on that fine horse on which they had seen a girl gayly
cantering, and which, when they had been about to put their hands upon
it, had flown away, like a butterfly from under the straw hat of a
schoolboy. When the troops were gone, the horse came out of the guest
chamber and went back to his stall in the stable; and that room in
which he passed so many quiet days, and the door through which the
horse timidly stepped under the shadow of that hospitable roof, are
still to be seen at the old Wick house, which stands now, as it stood
then, with its shaded yard and the great willow tree behind it, on the
pleasant country road by which we may drive from Morristown to Mendham
by the way of Washington Corner.
--_From "Stories of New Jersey," by Frank R. Stockton._
LIFE IN NORMAN ENGLAND.
The tall frowning keep and solid walls of the great stone castles, in
which the Norman barons lived, betokened an age of violence and
suspicion. Beauty gave way to the needs of safety. Girdled with its
green and slimy ditch, round the inner edge of which ran a parapeted
wall pierced along the top with shot holes, stood the buildings,
spreading often over many acres.
[Illustration:
From a Photograph. Engraved by John Evans.
Ruins of a Norman Castle.
]
If an enemy managed to cross the moat and force the gateway, in spite
of a portcullis crashing from above, and melted lead pouring in
burning streams from the perforated top of the rounded arch, but
little of his work was yet done; for the keep lifted its huge angular
block of masonry within the inner bailey or courtyard, and from the
narrow chinks in its ten-foot wall rained a sharp incessant shower of
arrows, sweeping all approaches to the high and narrow stair, by which
alone access could be had to its interior.
These loopholes were the only windows, except in the topmost story,
where the chieftain, like a vulture in his rocky nest, watched all the
surrounding country. The day of splendid oriels had not yet come in
castle architecture.
Thus a baron in his keep could defy, and often did defy, the king upon
his throne. Under his roof, eating daily at his board, lived a throng
of armed retainers; and around his castle lay farms tilled by martial
franklins, who at his call laid aside their implements of husbandry,
took up the sword and spear, which they could wield with equal skill,
and marched beneath his banner to the war.
With robe ungirt and head uncovered each tenant had done homage and
sworn an oath of fealty, placing his joined hands between those of the
sitting baron, and humbly saying as he knelt, "I become your man from
this day forward, of life and limb and of earthly worship; and unto you
I shall be true and faithful, and bear to you faith for the tenements
that I claim to hold of you, saving the faith that I owe unto our
sovereign lord the king." A kiss from the baron completed the ceremony.
The furniture of a Norman keep was not unlike that of an English
house. There was richer ornament--more elaborate carving. A
_faldestol_, the original of our arm-chair, spread its drapery and
cushions for the chieftain in his lounging moods. His bed now boasted
curtains and a roof, although, like the English lord, he still lay
only upon straw. Chimneys tunneled the thick walls, and the cupboards
glittered with glass and silver. Horn lanterns and the old spiked
candlesticks lit up his evening hours, when the chessboard arrayed its
clumsy men, carved out of walrus tusk, then commonly called
whale's-bone. But the baron had an unpleasant trick of breaking the
chessboard on his opponent's head, when he found himself checkmated;
which somewhat marred said opponent's enjoyment of the game. Dice of
horn and bone emptied many a purse in Norman England.
[Illustration: Horn Lantern.]
Dances and music whiled away the long winter nights; and on summer
evenings the castle courtyards resounded with the noise of football,
_kayles_ (a sort of ninepins), wrestling, boxing, leaping, and the
fierce joys of the bull bait. But out of doors, when no fighting was
on hand, the hound, the hawk, and the lance attracted the best
energies and skill of the Norman gentleman.
Rousing the forest game with dogs, they shot at it with barbed and
feathered arrows. A field of ripening corn never turned the chase
aside: it was one privilege of a feudal baron to ride as he pleased
over his tenants' crops, and another to quarter his insolent hunting
train in the farmhouses which pleased him best! The elaborate details
of _woodcraft_ became an important part of a noble boy's education;
for the numerous bugle calls and scientific dissection of a dead stag
took many seasons to learn.
After the Conquest, to kill a deer or own a hawk came more than ever
to be regarded as the special privilege of the aristocracy. The hawk,
daintily dressed, as befitted the companion of nobility, with his head
wrapped in an embroidered hood, and a peal of silver bells tinkling
from his rough legs, sat in state, bound with leathern jesses to the
wrist, which was protected by a thick glove. The ladies and the clergy
loved him. By many a mere the abbots ambled on their ponies over the
swampy soil, and sweet shrill voices cheered the long-winged hawk, as
he darted off in pursuit of the soaring quarry.
[Illustration: The Hawk.]
The author of "Ivanhoe" has made the tournament a picture familiar to
all readers of romance. It therefore needs no long description here.
It was held in honor of some great event--a coronation, wedding, or
victory. Having practiced well during squirehood at the _quintain_,
the knight, clad in full armor, with visor barred and the colors of
his lady on crest and scarf, rode into the lists, for which some level
green was chosen and surrounded with a palisade.