upon a right noble saddle, and this saddle with the body upon it he put
upon a frame; and he dressed the body in a gambax of fine sendal, next
the skin. And he took two boards and fitted them to the body, one to
the breast and the other to the shoulders; these were so hollowed out
and fitted that they met at the sides and under the arms, and the hind
one came up to the pole, and the other up to the beard; and these
boards were fastened into the saddle, so that the body could not move.
All this was done by the morning of the twelfth day; and all that day
the people of the Cid were busied in making ready their arms, and in
loading beasts with all that they had, so that they left nothing of any
price in the whole city of Valencia, save only the empty houses. When
it was midnight they took the body of the Cid, fastened to the saddle
as it was, and placed it upon his horse Bavieca, and fastened the
saddle well; and the body sat so upright and well that it seemed as if
he was alive. And it had on painted hose of black and white, so
cunningly painted that no man who saw them would have thought but that
they were greaves and cuishes, unless he had laid his hand upon them,
and they put on it a surcoat of green sendal, having his arms blazoned
thereon, and a helmet of parchment, which was cunningly painted that
every one might have believed it to be iron; and his shield was hung
round his neck, and they placed the sword Tizona in his hand, and they
raised his arm, and fastened it up so subtilely that it was a marvel to
see how upright he held the sword. And the Bishop Don Hieronymo went on
one side of him, and the trusty Gil Diaz on the other, and he led the
horse Bavieca, as the Cid had commanded him.
[Illustration: THEY WENT OUT FROM VALENCIA AT MIDNIGHT]
And when all this had been made ready, they went out from Valencia at
midnight, through the gate of Roseros, which is towards Castille. Pero
Bermudez went first with the banner of the Cid, and with him five
hundred knights who guarded it, all well appointed. And after these
came all the baggage. Then came the body of the Cid, with an hundred
knights, all chosen men, and behind them Doña Ximena with all her
company, with six hundred knights in the rear. All these went out so
silently, and with such a measured pace, that it seemed as if there
were only a score. And by the time that they had all gone out it was
broad day.
Now Alvar Fañez Minaya had set the host in order, and while the Bishop
Don Hieronymo and Gil Diaz led away the body of the Cid, and Doña
Ximena, and the baggage, he fell upon the Moors. First, he attacked the
tents of that Moorish queen, the negress, who lay nearest to the city;
and this onset was so sudden, that they killed full a hundred and fifty
Moors before they had time to take arms or go to horse. But that Moorish
negress was so skillful in drawing the Turkish bow, that it was held for
a marvel; and it is said that they called her in Arabic Nugueymat Turya,
which is to say, _the Star of the Archers_. And she was the first that
got on horseback, and with some fifty that were with her, did some hurt
to the company of the Cid; but in time they slew her, and her people
fled to the camp. And so great was the uproar and confusion, that few
there were who took arms, but instead thereof they turned their backs
and fled toward the sea.
And when King Bucar and his kings saw this, they were astonished. And
it seemed to them that there came against them on the part of the
Christians full seventy thousand knights, all as white as snow; and
before them a knight of great stature, upon a white horse with a bloody
cross, who bore in one hand a white banner, and in the other a sword
which seemed to be of fire, and he made a great mortality among the
Moors who were flying. And King Bucar and the other kings were so
greatly dismayed that they never checked the reins till they had ridden
into the sea; and the company of the Cid rode after them, smiting and
slaying and giving them no respite; and they smote down so many that it
was marvelous, for the Moors did not turn their heads to defend
themselves. And when they came to the sea, so great was the press among
them to get to the ships, that more than ten-thousand died in the
water. And of the six and thirty kings, twenty and two were slain. And
King Bucar and they who escaped with him hoisted sails and went their
way.
Then Alvar Fañez and his people, when they had discomfited the Moors,
spoiled the field, and the spoil thereof was so great that they could
not carry it away. And they loaded camels and horses with the noblest
things which they found, and went after the Bishop Don Hieronymo and
Gil Diaz, who, with the body of the Cid, and Doña Ximena, and the
baggage, had gone on till they were clear of the host, and then waited
for those who were gone against the Moors. And so great was the spoil
of that day, that there was no end to it: and they took up gold, and
silver, and other precious things as they rode through the camp, so
that the poorest man among the Christians, horseman or on foot, became
rich with what he won that day.
THE BURIAL
On the third day after the coming of King Don Alfonso, they would have
interred the body of the Cid; but when the king heard what Doña Ximena
had said, that while it was so fair and comely it should not be laid in
a coffin, he held that what she said was good. And he sent for the
ivory chair which had been carried to the Cortes of Toledo, and gave
order that it should be placed on the right of the altar of St. Peter;
and he laid a cloth of gold upon it, and upon that placed a cushion
covered with a right noble tartari, and he ordered a graven tabernacle
to be made over the chair, richly wrought with azure and gold, having
thereon the blazonry of the kings of Castille and Leon, and the king of
Navarre, and the Infante of Aragon, and of the Cid Ruydiez the
Campeador. And he himself, and the king of Navarre, and the Infante of
Aragon, and the Bishop Don Hieronymo, to do honor to the Cid, helped to
take his body from between the two boards, in which it had been
fastened at Valencia. And when they had taken it out, the body was so
firm that it bent not on either side, and the flesh so firm and comely,
that is seemed as if he were yet alive. And the king thought that what
they purported to do and had thus begun, might full well be effected.
And they clad the body in a full noble tartari, and in cloth of purple,
which the Soldan of Persia had sent him, and put him on hose of the
same, and set him in his ivory chair; and in his left hand they placed
his sword Tizona in its scabbard, and the strings of his mantle in his
right. And in this fashion the body of the Cid remained there ten years
and more, till it was taken thence, as the history will relate anon.
And when his garments waxed old, other good ones were put on.
Now Don Garcia Tellez, the abbot, and the trusty Gil Diaz, were wont
every year to make a great festival on the day of the Cid's departure,
and on that anniversary they gave food and clothing to the poor, who
came from all parts round about. And it came to pass when they made the
seventh anniversary, that a great multitude assembled as they were wont
to do, and many Moors and Jews came to see the strange manner of the
Cid's body. And it was the custom of the abbot Don Garcia Tellez, when
they made that anniversary, to make a right noble sermon to the people:
and because the multitude which had assembled was so great that the
church could not hold them, they went out into the open place before
the monastery, and he preached unto them there.
And while he was preaching there remained a Jew in the church, who
stopped before the body of the Cid, looking at him to see how nobly he
was there seated, having his countenance so fair and comely, and his
long beard in such goodly order, and his sword Tizona in its scabbard
in his left hand, and the strings of his mantle in his right, even in
such manner as King Don Alfonso had left him, save only that the
garments had been changed, it being now seven years since the body had
remained there in that ivory chair. Now there was not a man in the
church save this Jew, for all the others were hearing the preachment
which the abbot made. And when this Jew perceived that he was alone, he
began to think within himself and say, "This is the body of that
Ruydiez the Cid, whom they say no man in the world ever took by the
beard while he lived. . . . I will take him by the beard now, and see
what he can do to me." And with that he put forth his hand to pull the
beard of the Cid; . . . but before his hand could reach it, God who
would not suffer this thing to be done, sent his spirit into the body,
and the Cid let the strings of his mantle go from his right hand,
and laid hand on his sword Tizona, and drew it a full palm's length
out of the scabbard.
And when the Jew saw this, he fell upon his back for great fear, and
began to cry out so loudly, that all they who were without the church
heard him, and the abbot broke off his preachment and went into the
church to see what it might be. And when they came they found this Jew
lying upon his back before the ivory chair, like one dead, for he had
ceased to cry out, and had swooned away. And then the Abbot Don Garcia
Tellez looked at the body of the Cid, and saw that his right hand was
upon the hilt of the sword, and that he had drawn it out a full palm's
length; and he was greatly amazed.
And he called for holy water, and threw it in the face of the Jew, and
with that the Jew came to himself.
Then the abbot asked him what all this meant, and he told him the whole
truth; and he knelt down upon his knees before the abbot, and besought
him of his mercy that he would make a Christian of him, because of this
great miracle which he had seen, and baptize him in the name of Jesus
Christ, for he would live and die in his faith, holding all other to be
but error. And the abbot baptized him in the name of the Holy Trinity,
and gave him to name Diego Gil.
And all who were there present were greatly amazed, and they made a
great outcry and great rejoicings to God for this miracle, and for the
power which he had shown through the body of the Cid in this manner;
for it was plain that what the Jew said was verily and indeed true,
because the posture of the Cid was changed. And from that day forward
Diego Gil remained in the monastery as long as he lived, doing service
to the body of the Cid.
After that day the body of the Cid remained in the same posture, for
they never took his hand off the sword, nor changed his garments more,
and thus it remained three years longer, till it had been there ten
years in all. And then the nose began to change color. And when the
Abbot Don Garcia Tellez and Gil Diaz saw this, they weened that it was
no longer fitting for the body to remain in that manner. And three
bishops from the neighbouring provinces met there, and with many masses
and vigils, and great honour, they interred the body after this manner.
They dug a vault before the altar, beside the grave of Doña Ximena, and
vaulted it over with a high arch; and there they placed the body of the
Cid, seated as it was in the ivory chair, and in his garments, and with
the sword in his hand, and they hung up his shield and his banner upon
the walls.
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG
_By_ Oliver Goldsmith
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a Man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes,
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a Dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This Dog and Man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The Dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad and bit the Man.
Around from all the neighboring streets
The wond'ring neighbors ran,
And swore the Dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a Man.
The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the Dog was mad,
They swore the Man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied:
The Man recover'd of the bite,
The Dog it was that died.
MOTHER'S WAY
[Footnote: _From Father Ryan's Poems, copyright by P. J. Kennedy &
Sons, N. Y._]
_By_ FATHER RYAN
Oft within our little cottage,
As the shadows gently fall,
While the sunlight touches softly
One sweet face upon the wall,
Do we gather close together,
And in hushed and tender tone
Ask each other's full forgiveness
For the wrong that each has done.
Should you wonder why this custom
At the ending of the day,
Eye and voice would quickly answer:
"It was once our mother's way."
If our home be bright and cheery,
If it holds a welcome true,
Opening wide its door of greeting
To the many--not the few;
If we share our father's bounty
With the needy day by day,
'Tis because our hearts remember
This was ever mother's way.
Sometimes when our hands grow weary,
Or our tasks seem very long;
When our burdens look too heavy,
And we deem the right all wrong;
Then we gain a new, fresh courage,
And we rise to proudly say:
"Let us do our duty bravely--
This was our dear mother's way."
Then we keep her memory precious,
While we never cease to pray
That at last, when lengthening shadows
Mark the evening of our day,
They may find us waiting calmly
To go home our mother's way.
SONG OF THE BROOK
_By_ ALFRED TENNYSON
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I chatter over stony ways;
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses.
And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
_By_ GRACE E. SELLON
Among the most distinguished and interesting buildings in the town of
Portland, Maine, is the rather severe-looking house built in the latter
part of the eighteenth century by General Peleg Wadsworth. From the
very date of its erection, this structure became the object of not a
little pride among the citizens of Portland as the first in the town to
be made of brick; but this local fame grew in the course of a century
to world-wide celebrity when the dwelling came to be known as the
childhood home of the most loved of American poets.
In 1808 the daughter of General Wadsworth, with her husband, Stephen
Longfellow, and their two little children, removed from the house in
the eastern part of Portland, where their second son, Henry, had been
born a little over a year before, to live in the Wadsworth home. There
the young mother, surrounded by the scenes endeared to her as those in
which her own youth had been spent, devoted herself to the care and
training of her children, while the father continued to pursue an
honorable career as a lawyer and able representative, in public
affairs, of the Federalist party. As the years passed, the little
family grew considerably until it came to consist of four girls and
five boys. Yet the mother found time for close companionship with all
of her children and active interest in the affairs of each. And the
father, though much occupied with duties outside of the home, watched
carefully the progress made by his boys and girls and tried to put in
their way the advantages that would help them to become rightminded and
useful men and women.
[Illustration: HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 1807-1882]
Indeed, so wholesome and well-ordered was the Longfellow home that it
must have been a pleasant place to look in upon when all the family had
assembled at evening in the living room. While the mother read perhaps
from a book of verse, for she was especially fond of poetry, and the
father gave himself up to some work on history, theology or law, the
children would study quietly for probably an hour or more. Then, their
lessons prepared, they would draw up in a little group to listen to a
story, possibly from the _Arabian Nights_, or would gather about the
piano in the parlor where Henry would sing to them the popular songs of
that day. Sometimes the music would become so irresistibly gay that the
children would begin to dance to its accompaniment and to awaken the
echoes of the staid old dwelling-house with sounds of unrestrained
delight that would have fallen with startling effect upon the ears of
their Puritan ancestors.
Always a leader in these amusements was Henry Longfellow. His lively
nature found especial delight in social pleasures. In fact, when he was
but eight months old his mother discovered that he wished "for nothing
so much as singing and dancing." Then, too, he was fond of playing
ball, of swimming, coasting and skating and of all the other ordinary
games and sports. However, he was an especially thoughtful boy, and
even from his earliest years was a very conscientious student and took
pride in making a good record at school. During the years passed at the
Portland Academy, where he was placed when six years old, he worked so
industriously and with such excellent results that although he found it
very hard--too hard in fact--to be perfect in deportment, his earnest
efforts were recognized by the master of the school who sent home from
time to time a _billet_ or short statement in which Henry's recitations
and his general conduct were highly praised. The _billet_ was a matter
of no small consequence to the boy, at least in the earliest part of his
school life, for in his first letter--a few lines written with much
labor when he was seven years old, and sent to his father in Boston--one
of the four sentences that make up the curt little note announces with
due pride, "I shall have a billet on Monday."
While the boy was pursuing his regular studies at school, he found
interest in reading other books than those required in his school
course--various English classics contained in his father's library.
Like the delight that he felt in such reading, was that which he found
in rambling through the woods on the outskirts of the town and about
the farms of his two grandfathers and of his uncle Stephenson. He liked
the quiet of natural scenes, and was moved with deep wonder by the
ever-changing beauty of the woods and fields, the ocean and the
mountains. Because of this genuine love for nature and his tender
regard for every living creature, he could not share his companions'
pleasure in hunting expeditions. Indeed, it is said that on one
occasion when he had shot a robin, he became so filled with pity and
sorrow for the little dead bird that he could never again take part in
such cruel sport.
It was not long before the effect of the combined influences of Henry
Longfellow's reading of classic poets and of his rambles about the
country surrounding his native town was made apparent in an event that
doubtless seemed to him then to be the most important that had befallen
in his career of thirteen years. He had been visiting his grandfather
Wadsworth at Hiram, and while there had gone to a near-by town where is
situated Lovell's Pond, memorable as the scene of a struggle with the
Indians.
Henry had been so moved by the story that he could relieve his feelings
only by telling it in verse. The four stanzas thus produced he so
longed to see in print that he could not resist the desire to convey
them secretly to the letter-box of the Portland _Gazette_, and deposit
them there with mingled hope and mistrust. With what keen expectation he
awaited the appearance of the newspaper perhaps only other youthful
authors in like positions can fully feel. When at length the paper
arrived, Henry must wait until his father had very deliberately opened
it, read its columns and then without comment had laid it aside, before
he could learn the fate of his verses.
But when, at length, he had the opportunity to scan the columns of the
paper, he forgot all his anxiety and the hard period of waiting. There
on the page before him he saw:
_The Battle of Lovell's Pond_
Cold, cold is the north wind and rude is the blast
That sweeps like a hurricane loudly and fast,
As it moans through the tall waving pines lone and drear,
Sings a requiem sad o'er the warrior's bier.
The war-whoop is still, and the savage's yell
Has sunk into silence along the wild dell;
The din of the battle, the tumult, is o'er
And the war-clarion's voice is now heard no more.
The warriors that fought for their country--and bled,
Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed;
No stone tells the place where their ashes repose,
Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes.
They died in their glory, surrounded by fame,
And Victory's loud trump their death did proclaim;
They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast,
And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.
_Henry_.
It is little wonder that through the day he read the verses again and
again and that his thoughts were filled with the excitement and joy of
success. That evening while visiting at the home of Judge Mellen, the
father of one of his closest friends, he was sitting interestedly
listening to a conversation on the subject of poetry, when he was
startled by seeing the judge take up the _Gazette_ and hearing him
say: "Did you see the piece in to-day's paper? Very stiff, remarkably
stiff; moreover, it is all borrowed, every word of it." So unexpected
and harsh was the censure that Henry felt almost crushed and could
hardly conceal his feelings until he could reach home. Not until he had
gone to bed and was shielded from all critical eyes did he give vent to
his bitter disappointment.
In the following year (1821), his course at the Academy having come to
an end, he took the entrance examinations for Bowdoin College. Though
both he and his elder brother passed these successfully, they did not
go to the College at Brunswick for another year. Henry then entered
upon his course of study with such earnestness and enthusiasm that in a
class, consisting of students several of whom later became notable, he
ranked as one of the first. Like his classmate Hawthorne, he was
especially devoted to the study of literature. So genial and courteous
was his bearing toward all, and such a lively interest did he take in
all the worthier activities of the life at the college, that though he
chose as his intimate friends only those whose tastes agreed with his
own, he was generally liked and admired.
Perhaps the success of his course at Bowdoin increased his confidence
in his ability to write for publication, though indeed it had been
proved that the outcome of his first venture along this line had not
after all destroyed the budding hopes of the young writer. For previous
to entering college he had continued to make contributions to the
_Gazette_. Other compositions in both prose and verse were now sent at
various times to the Portland periodical; and in October, 1824, appeared
in a Boston magazine entitled _The United States Literary Gazette_ the
first of a series of seventeen poems composed by _H. W. L._
A constant sympathizer and admirer during these early years of
authorship was Henry's friend William Browne, a boy whose literary
aspirations had led him to form with Henry, before the latter entered
Bowdoin, a sort of association by which various literary enterprises
were attempted. Indeed, it seems probable that at this time Henry
looked rather to such companions than to his parents for appreciation
of his developing ability. At all events, we find him writing to his
father in March, 1824:
"I feel very glad that I am not to be a physician--that there are quite
enough in the world without me. And now, as somehow or other this
subject has been introduced, I am curious to know what you do intend to
make of me--whether I am to study a profession or not; and if so, what
profession. I hope your ideas upon this subject will agree with mine,
for I have a particular and strong prejudice for one course of life, to
which you, I fear, will not agree. It will not be worth while for me to
mention what this is, until I become more acquainted with your own
wishes."
Later, however, urged by the unpleasant prospect of being compelled to
obey his father's desire that he become a lawyer, Henry decided that he
must express his own hopes quite plainly. In a letter of December,
1824, appears the passage: