SCHOOL READING BY GRADES
_FIFTH YEAR_
BY
JAMES BALDWIN
[Illustration]
NEW YORK CINCINNATI CHICAGO
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1897, BY
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY.
SCH. READ. FIFTH YEAR.
W. P. 29
PREFACE.
The pupil who has read the earlier numbers of this series is now
prepared to study with some degree of care the peculiarities of style
which distinguish the different selections in the present volume. Hence,
while due attention must be given to the study of words merely as
words,--that is to spelling, defining, and pronouncing,--considerable
time should be occupied in observing and discussing the literary
contents, the author’s manner of narrating a story, of describing an
action or an appearance, of portraying emotion, of producing an
impression upon the mind of the reader or the hearer. The pupils should
be encouraged to seek for and point out the particular passages or
expressions in each selection which are distinguished for their beauty,
their truth, or their peculiar adaptability to the purpose in view. The
habit should be cultivated of looking for and enjoying the admirable
qualities of any literary production, and particularly of such
productions as are by common consent recognized as classical.
The lessons in this volume have been selected and arranged with a view
towards several ends: to interest the young reader; to cultivate a taste
for the best style of literature as regards both thought and expression;
to point the way to an acquaintance with good books; to appeal to the
pupil’s sense of duty, and strengthen his desire to do right; to arouse
patriotic feelings and a just pride in the achievements of our
countrymen; and incidentally to add somewhat to the learner’s knowledge
of history and science and art.
The illustrations will prove to be valuable adjuncts to the text.
Spelling, defining, and punctuation should continue to receive special
attention. Difficult words and idiomatic expressions should be carefully
studied with the aid of the dictionary and of the Word List at the end
of this volume. Persistent and systematic practice in the pronunciation
of these words and of other difficult combinations of sounds will aid in
training the pupils’ voices to habits of careful articulation and
correct enunciation.
While literary biography can be of but little, if any, value in
cultivating literary taste, it is desirable that pupils should acquire
some knowledge of the writers whose productions are placed before them
for study. To assist in the acquisition of this knowledge, and also to
serve for ready reference, a few Biographical Notes are inserted towards
the end of the volume. The brief suggestions given on page 6 should be
read and commented upon at the beginning, and frequently referred to and
practically applied in the lessons which follow.
CONTENTS.
ADAPTED FROM PAGE
Something about Books _John Ruskin_ 7
Old Chiron’s School _Charles Kingsley_ 12
The Dog of Montargis _Old Legend_ 19
The Old Oaken Bucket _Samuel Woodworth_ 29
The Village Blacksmith _Henry W. Longfellow_ 30
The Choice of Hercules 34
Christmas at the Cratchits’ _Charles Dickens_ 37
On the Mountain _St. Matthew_ 45
Betsey Hull’s Wedding _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 48
Ulysses and the Cyclops _Homer’s “Odyssey”_ 54
The Brook _Alfred Tennyson_ 67
The Lady of Shalott _Alfred Tennyson_ 70
Lessons from Nature’s Book _Sir Archibald Geikie_ 79
The Goodman of Ballengiech _Sir Walter Scott_ 87
Bugle Song _Alfred Tennyson_ 92
Some Experiences at Sea _Richard Henry Dana, Jr._ 93
The King and the Rebel _Charles E. A. Gayarré_ 97
Daniel Boone _George Bancroft_ 100
Fulton’s First Steamboat _Robert Fulton_ 108
The Planting of the Apple Tree _William Cullen Bryant_ 111
The Corn Song _John G. Whittier_ 114
Hunting the Walrus 117
The Destruction of Pompeii.
I. History _Charles Kingsley_ 124
II. Romance _Sir E. Bulwer Lytton_ 130
The Stranger on the Sill _Thomas Buchanan Read_ 140
Our Country.
I. What is Our Country? _Thomas Grimke_ 142
II. Liberty and Union _Daniel Webster_ 143
III. The Policy of Peace _John C. Calhoun_ 144
A Legend of Sleepy Hollow _Washington Irving_ 146
The Mariner’s Dream _William Dimond_ 166
The Sands o’ Dee _Charles Kingsley_ 169
The Invention of Printing 170
The Wanderer _Eugene Field_ 183
Lead Thou Me on _John Henry Newman_ 184
The American Indian _Charles Sprague_ 185
The Passing of King Arthur _Sir Thomas Malory_ 187
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 193
WORD LIST 196
PROPER NAMES PRONOUNCED 208
Acknowledgments are due to Messrs. Charles Scribner’s Sons, publishers
of the works of Eugene Field, for permission to use the poem entitled
“The Wanderer”; to Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers of the
works of H. W. Longfellow and J. G. Whittier, for the use of “The
Village Blacksmith” and “The Corn Song”; and to The J. B. Lippincott
Company, publishers of the poems of T. Buchanan Read, for the piece
entitled “The Stranger on the Sill.”
TO THE LEARNER.
A famous writer has said that the habit of reading is one’s pass to the
greatest, the purest, the most perfect pleasures that have been prepared
for human beings. “But,” he continued, “you cannot acquire this habit in
your old age; you cannot acquire it in middle age; you must do it now,
when you are young. You must learn to read, and to like reading now, or
you cannot do so when you are old.” Now, no one can derive very great
pleasure or very great profit from reading unless he is able to read
well. The boy or girl who stumbles over every hard word, or who is at a
loss to know the meaning of this or that expression, is not likely to
find much enjoyment in books. To read well to one’s self, one must be
able to read aloud in such a manner as to interest and delight those who
listen to him: and this is the chief reason why we have so many reading
books at school, and why your teachers are so careful that you should
acquire the ability to enunciate every sound distinctly, pronounce every
word properly, and read every sentence readily and with a clear
understanding of its meaning.
Is the reading exercise a task to you? Try to make it a pleasure. Ask
yourself: What is there in this lesson that teaches me something which I
did not know before? What is there in this lesson that is beautiful, or
grand, or inspiring? Has the writer said anything in a manner that is
particularly pleasing--in a manner that perhaps no one else would have
thought to say it? What particular thought or saying, in this lesson, is
so good and true that it is worth learning by heart and remembering
always. Does the selection as a whole teach anything that will tend to
make me wiser, or better, or stronger than before? Or is it merely a
source of temporary amusement to be soon forgotten and as though it had
never been? Or does it, like fine music or a noble picture, not only
give present pleasure, but enlarge my capacity for enjoyment and enable
me to discover and appreciate beautiful things in literature and art and
nature which I would otherwise never have known?
When you have asked yourself all these questions about any selection,
and have studied it carefully to find answers to them, you will be
prepared to read it aloud to your teacher and your classmates; and you
will be surprised to notice how much better you have read it than would
have been the case had you attempted it merely as a task or as an
exercise in the pronouncing of words. It is by thus always seeking to
discover things instructive and beautiful and enjoyable in books, that
one acquires that right habit of reading which has been spoken of as the
pass to the greatest, the purest, the most perfect of pleasures.
SCHOOL READING.
FIFTH YEAR.
SOMETHING ABOUT BOOKS.
[Illustration: John Ruskin.]
A beautiful book, and one profitable to those who read it carefully, is
“Sesame and Lilies” by John Ruskin. It is beautiful because of the
pleasant language and choice words in which it is written; for, of all
our later writers, no one is the master of a style more pure and more
delightful in its simplicity than Mr. Ruskin’s. It is profitable because
of the lessons which it teaches; for it was written “to show somewhat
the use and preciousness of good books, and to awaken in the minds of
young people some thought of the purposes of the life into which they
are entering, and the nature of the world they have to conquer.” The
following pertinent words concerning the choice of books have been
taken mainly from its pages:
* * * * *
All books may be divided into two classes,--books of the hour, and books
of all time. Yet it is not merely the bad book that does not last, and
the good one that does. There are good books for the hour and good ones
for all time; bad books for the hour and bad ones for all time.
The good book of the hour,--I do not speak of the bad ones,--is simply
the useful or pleasant talk of some person printed for you. Very useful
often, telling you what you need to know; very pleasant often, as a
sensible friend’s present talk would be.
These bright accounts of travels, good-humored and witty discussions of
questions, lively or pathetic story-telling in the form of novel: all
these are books of the hour and are the peculiar possession of the
present age. We ought to be entirely thankful for them, and entirely
ashamed of ourselves if we make no good use of them. But we make the
worst possible use, if we allow them to usurp the place of true books;
for, strictly speaking, they are not books at all, but merely letters or
newspapers in good print.
Our friend’s letter may be delightful, or necessary, to-day; whether
worth keeping or not, is to be considered. The newspaper may be entirely
proper at breakfast time, but it is not reading for all day. So, though
bound up in a volume, the long letter which gives you so pleasant an
account of the inns and roads and weather last year at such a place, or
which tells you some amusing story, or relates such and such
circumstances of interest, may not be, in the real sense of the word, a
_book_ at all, nor, in the real sense, to be _read_.
A book is not a talked thing, but a written thing. The book of _talk_ is
printed only because its author can not speak to thousands of people at
once; if he could, he would--the volume is mere multiplication of the
voice. You can not talk to your friend in India; if you could, you
would; you write instead; that is merely a way of carrying the voice.
But a book is _written_, not to multiply the voice merely, not to carry
it merely, but to preserve it. The author has something to say which he
perceives to be true and useful, or helpfully beautiful. So far as he
knows, no one has yet said it; so far as he knows, no one can say it. He
is bound to say it, clearly and in a melodious manner if he may;
clearly, at all events.
In the sum of his life he finds this to be the thing, or group of
things, manifest to him; this the piece of true knowledge, or sight,
which his share of sunshine and earth has allowed him to seize. He
would set it down forever; carve it on a rock, if he could, saying,
“This is the best of me; for the rest, I ate and drank and slept, loved
and hated, like another; my life was as the vapor, and is not; but this
I saw and knew; this, if anything of mine, is worth your memory.” That
is his _writing_; that is a _book_.
Now books of this kind have been written in all ages by their greatest
men--by great leaders, great statesmen, great thinkers. These are all at
your choice; and life is short. You have heard as much before; yet have
you measured and mapped out this short life and its possibilities? Do
you know, if you read this, that you can not read that--that what you
lose to-day you can not gain to-morrow?
Will you go and gossip with the housemaid, or the stableboy, when you
may talk with queens and kings? Do you ask to be the companion of
nobles? Make yourself noble, and you shall be. Do you long for the
conversation of the wise? Learn to understand it, and you shall hear it.
Very ready we are to say of a book, “How good this is--that is just what
I think!” But the right feeling is, “How strange that is! I never
thought of that before, and yet I see it is true; or if I do not now, I
hope I shall, some day.”
But whether you feel thus or not, at least be sure that you go to the
author to get at _his_ meaning, not to find yours. And be sure also, if
the author is worth anything, that you will not get at his meaning all
at once; nay, that at his whole meaning you may not for a long time
arrive in any wise. Not that he does not say what he means, and in
strong words too; but he can not say it all, and, what is more strange,
will not, but in a hidden way in order that he may be sure you want it.
When, therefore, you come to a good book, you must ask yourself, “Am I
ready to work as an Australian miner would? Are my pickaxes in good
order, and am I in good trim myself, my sleeves well up to the elbow,
and my breath good, and my temper?” For your pickaxes are your own care,
wit, and learning; your smelting furnace is your own thoughtful soul. Do
not hope to get at any good author’s meaning without these tools and
that fire; often you will need sharpest, finest carving, and the most
careful melting, before you can gather one grain of the precious gold.
I can not, of course, tell you what to choose for your library, for
every several mind needs different books; but there are some books which
we all need, and which if you read as much as you ought, you will not
need to have your shelves enlarged to right and left for purposes of
study.
If you want to understand any subject whatever, read the best book upon
it you can hear of. A common book will often give you amusement, but it
is only a noble book that will give you dear friends.
Avoid that class of literature which has a knowing tone; it is the most
poisonous of all. Every good book, or piece of book, is full of
admiration and awe; and it always leads you to reverence or love
something with your whole heart.
OLD CHIRON’S SCHOOL.
Æson was king of Iolcus by the sea; but for all that, he was an unhappy
man. For he had a stepbrother named Pelias, a fierce and lawless man who
was the doer of many a fearful deed, and about whom many dark and sad
tales were told. And at last Pelias drove out Æson, his stepbrother, and
took the kingdom for himself, and ruled over the rich town of Iolcus by
the sea.
And Æson, when he was driven out, went sadly away from the town, leading
his little son by the hand; and he said to himself, “I must hide the
child in the mountains, or Pelias will surely kill him, because he is
the heir.” So he went up from the sea across the valley, through the
vineyards and the olive groves, and across a foaming torrent toward
Pelion, the ancient mountain, whose brows are white with snow.
He went up and up into the mountain, over marsh and crag, and down, till
the boy was tired and foot-sore, and Æson had to bear him in his arms,
till he came to the mouth of a lonely cave at the foot of a mighty
cliff. Above the cliff the snow wreaths hung, dripping and cracking in
the sun; but at its foot, around the cave’s mouth, grew all fair flowers
and herbs, as if in a garden arranged in order, each sort by itself.
There they grew gayly in the sunshine, and in the spray of the torrent
from above; while from the cave came a sound of music, and a man’s voice
singing to the harp.
Then Æson put down the lad, and whispered:
“Fear not, but go in, and whomsoever you shall find, lay your hands upon
his knees, and say, ‘In the name of the Father of gods and men, I am
your guest from this day forth.’”
Then the lad went in without trembling, for he too was a hero’s son; but
when he was within, he stopped in wonder, to listen to that magic song.
And there he saw the singer lying upon bearskins and fragrant boughs;
Chiron, the ancient Centaur, the wisest of all beings beneath the sky.
Down to the waist he was a man; but below he was a noble horse; his
white hair rolled down over his broad shoulders, and his white beard
over his broad brown chest; and his eyes were wise and mild, and his
forehead like a mountain wall.
And in his hands he held a harp of gold, and struck it with a golden
key; and as he struck he sang till his eyes glittered, and filled all
the cave with light.
And he sang of the birth of Time, and of the heavens and the dancing
stars; and of the ocean, and the ether, and the fire, and the shaping of
the wondrous earth. And he sang of the treasures of the hills, and the
hidden jewels of the mine, and the veins of fire and metal, and the
virtues of all healing herbs; and of the speech of birds, and of
prophecy, and of hidden things to come.
Then he sang of health, and strength, and manhood, and a valiant heart;
and of music and hunting, and wrestling, and all the games which heroes
love; and of travel, and wars, and sieges, and a noble death in fight,;
and then he sang of peace and plenty, and of equal justice in the land;
and as he sang, the boy listened wide-eyed, and forgot his errand in the
song.
And at last Chiron was silent, and called the lad with a soft voice.
And the lad ran trembling to him, and would have laid his hands upon his
knees; but Chiron smiled, and said, “Call hither your father Æson; for I
know you and all that has befallen you.”
Then Æson came in sadly, and Chiron asked him, “Why came you not
yourself to me, Æson?”
And Æson said: “I thought, Chiron will pity the lad if he sees him come
alone; and I wished to try whether he was fearless, and dare venture
like a hero’s son. But now I entreat you, let the boy be your guest till
better times, and train him among the sons of the heroes that he may
become like them, strong and brave.”
And Chiron answered: “Go back in peace and bend before the storm like a
prudent man. This boy shall not leave me till he has become a glory to
you and to your house.”
And Æson wept over his son and went away; but the boy did not weep, so
full was his fancy of that strange cave, and the Centaur, and his song,
and the playfellows whom he was to see. Then Chiron put the lyre into
his hands, and taught him how to play it, till the sun sank low behind
the cliff, and a shout was heard outside. And then in came the sons of
the heroes,--Æneas, and Hercules, and Peleus, and many another mighty
name.
And great Chiron leaped up joyfully, and his hoofs made the cave
resound, as they shouted, “Come out, Father Chiron; come out and see our
game.” And one cried, “I have killed two deer,” and another, “I took a
wild cat among the crags.” And Hercules dragged a wild goat after him by
its horns; and Cæneus carried a bear cub under each arm, and laughed
when they scratched and bit; for neither tooth nor steel could wound
him. And Chiron praised them all, each according to his deserts.
[Illustration: And then in came the sons of the heroes.]
Only one walked apart and silent, Æsculapius, the too wise child, with
his bosom full of herbs and flowers, and round his wrist a spotted
snake; he came with downcast eyes to Chiron, and whispered how he had
watched the snake cast his old skin, and grow young again before his
eyes, and how he had gone down into a village in the vale, and cured a
dying man with a herb which he had seen a sick goat eat. And Chiron
smiled and said:
“To each there has been given his own gift, and each is worthy in his
place. But to this child there has been given an honor beyond all
honors,--to cure while others kill.”
Then some of the lads brought in wood, and split it, and lighted a
blazing fire; and others skinned the deer and quartered them, and set
them to roast before the fire; and while the venison was cooking they
bathed in the snow torrent, and washed away the dust and sweat. And then
all ate till they could eat no more--for they had tasted nothing since
the dawn--and drank of the clear spring water, for wine is not fit for
growing lads. And when the remnants were put away, they all lay down
upon the skins and leaves about the fire, and each took the lyre in
turn, and sang and played with all his heart.
And after a while they all went out to a plot of grass at the cave’s
mouth, and there they boxed, and ran, and wrestled, and laughed till
the stones fell from the cliffs.
Then Chiron took his lyre, and all the lads joined hands; and as he
played, they danced to his measure, in and out, and round and round.
There they danced hand in hand, till the night fell over land and sea,
while the black glen shone with their broad white limbs, and the gleam
of their golden hair.
And the lad danced with them, delighted, and then slept a wholesome
sleep, upon fragrant leaves of bay, and myrtle, and marjoram, and
flowers of thyme; and rose at the dawn, and bathed in the torrent, and
became a schoolfellow to the heroes’ sons. And in course of time he
forgot Iolcus, and Æson his father, and all his former life. But he grew
strong, and brave, and cunning, upon the rocky heights of Pelion, in the
keen, hungry, mountain air. And he learned to wrestle, and to box, and
to hunt, and to play upon the harp; and, next, he learned to ride, for
old Chiron often allowed him to mount upon his back; and he learned the
virtues of all herbs, and how to cure all wounds; and Chiron called him
Jason the healer, and that is his name until this day.
--_From “The Heroes; or Greek Fairy Tales,” by Charles Kingsley._
THE DOG OF MONTARGIS.
I.
In the old castle of Montargis in France, there was once a stone
mantelpiece of workmanship so rare that it was talked about by the whole
country. And yet it was not altogether its beauty that caused people to
speak of it and remember it. It was famous rather on account of the
strange scene that was carved upon it. To those who asked about its
meaning, the old custodian of the castle would sometimes tell the
following story.
It happened more than five hundred years ago, when this castle was new
and strong, and people lived and thought in very different sort from
what they do now. Among the young men of that time there was none more
noble than Aubrey de Montdidier, the nephew of the Count of Montargis;
and among all the knights who had favor at the royal court, there was
none more brave than the young Sieur de Narsac, captain of the king’s
men at arms.
Now these two men were devoted friends, and whenever their other duties
allowed them, they were sure to be in each other’s company. Indeed, it
was a rare thing to see either of them walking the streets of Paris
alone.
“I will meet you at the tournament to-morrow,” said Aubrey gayly, one
evening, as he was parting from his friend.
“Yes, at the tournament to-morrow,” said De Narsac; “and be sure that
you come early.”
The tournament was to be a grand affair. A gentleman from Provence was
to run a tilt with a famous Burgundian knight. Both men were noted for
their horsemanship and their skill with the lance. All Paris would be
out to see them.
When the time came, De Narsac was at the place appointed. But Aubrey
failed to appear. What could it mean? It was not at all like Aubrey to
forget his promise; it was seldom that he allowed anything to keep him
away from the tournament.
“Have you seen my friend Aubrey to-day?” De Narsac asked this question a
hundred times. Everybody gave the same answer, and wondered what had
happened.
The day passed and another day came, and still there was no news from
Aubrey. De Narsac had called at his friend’s lodgings, but could learn
nothing. The young man had not been seen since the morning before the
tournament.
Three days passed, and still not a word. De Narsac was greatly troubled.
He knew now that some accident must have happened to Aubrey. But what
could it have been?
Early in the morning of the fourth day he was aroused by a strange noise
at his door. He dressed himself in haste and opened it. A dog was
crouching there. It was a greyhound, so poor that its ribs stuck out, so
weak that it could hardly stand.
De Narsac knew the animal without looking at the collar on its neck. It
was Dragon, his friend Aubrey’s greyhound,--the dog who went with him
whenever he walked out, the dog who was never seen save in its master’s
company.
The poor creature tried to stand. His legs trembled from weakness; he
swayed from side to side. He wagged his tail feebly, and tried to put
his nose in De Narsac’s hand. De Narsac saw at once that he was half
starved; that he had not had food for a long time.
He led the dog into his room and fed him some warm milk. He bathed the
poor fellow’s nose and bloodshot eyes with cold water. “Tell me where is
your master,” he said. Then he set before him a full meal that would
have tempted any dog.
The greyhound ate heartily, and seemed to be much stronger. He licked De
Narsac’s hands. He fondled his feet. Then he ran to the door and tried
to make signs to his friend to follow him. He whined pitifully.
De Narsac understood. “You want to lead me to your master, I see.” He
put on his hat and went out with the dog.
Through the narrow lanes and crooked streets of the old city, Dragon led
the way. At each corner he would stop and look back to make sure that De
Narsac was following. He went over the long bridge--the only one that
spanned the river in those days. Then he trotted out through the gate of
St. Martin and into the open country beyond the walls.
In a little while the dog left the main road and took a bypath that led
into the forest of Bondy. De Narsac kept his hand on his sword now, for
they were on dangerous ground. The forest was a great resort for robbers
and lawless men, and more than one wild and wicked deed had been enacted
there.
But Dragon did not go far into the woods. He stopped suddenly near a
dense thicket of briers and tangled vines. He whined as though in great
distress. Then he took hold of the sleeve of De Narsac’s coat, and led
him round to the other side of the thicket.
There under a low-spreading oak the grass had been trampled down; there
were signs, too, of freshly turned-up earth. With moans of distress the
dog stretched himself upon the ground, and with pleading eyes looked up
into De Narsac’s face.
“Ah, my poor fellow!” said De Narsac, “you have led me here to show me
your master’s grave.” And with that he turned and hurried back to the
city; but the dog would not stir from his place.
That afternoon a company of men, led by De Narsac, rode out to the
forest. They found in the ground beneath the oak what they had
expected--the murdered body of young Aubrey de Montdidier.
“Who could have done this foul deed?” they asked of one another; and
then they wept, for they all loved Aubrey.
They made a litter of green branches, and laid the body upon it. Then,
the dog following them, they carried it back to the city and buried it
in the king’s cemetery. And all Paris mourned the untimely end of the
brave young knight.
II.
After this, the greyhound went to live with the young Sieur de Narsac.
He followed the knight wherever he went. He slept in his room and ate
from his hand. He seemed to be as much devoted to his new master as he
had been to the old.
One morning they went out for a stroll through the city. The streets
were crowded; for it was a holiday and all the fine people of Paris were
enjoying the sunlight and the fresh air. Dragon, as usual, kept close
to the heels of his master.
De Narsac walked down one street and up another, meeting many of his
friends, and now and then stopping to talk a little while. Suddenly, as
they were passing a corner, the dog leaped forward and planted himself
in front of his master. He growled fiercely; he crouched as though ready
for a spring; his eyes were fixed upon some one in the crowd.
[Illustration: The dog planted himself in front of his master.]
Then, before De Narsac could speak, he leaped forward upon a young man
whom he had singled out. The man threw up his arm to save his throat;
but the quickness of the attack and the weight of the dog caused him to
fall to the ground. There is no telling what might have followed had not
those who were with him beaten the dog with their canes, and driven him
away.
De Narsac knew the man. His name was Richard Macaire, and he belonged to
the king’s bodyguard.
Never before had the greyhound been known to show anger towards any
person. “What do you mean by such conduct?” asked his master as they
walked homeward. Dragon’s only answer was a low growl; but it was the
best that he could give. The affair had put a thought into De Narsac’s
mind which he could not dismiss.
Within less than a week the thing happened again. This time Macaire was
walking in the public garden. De Narsac and the dog were some distance
away. But as soon as Dragon saw the man, he rushed at him. It was all
that the bystanders could do to keep him from throttling Macaire. De
Narsac hurried up and called him away; but the dog’s anger was fearful
to see.
It was well known in Paris that Macaire and young Aubrey had not been
friends. It was remembered that they had had more than one quarrel. And
now the people began to talk about the dog’s strange actions, and some
went so far as to put this and that together.
At last the matter reached the ears of the king. He sent for De Narsac
and had a long talk with him. “Come back to-morrow and bring the dog
with you,” he said. “We must find out more about this strange affair.”
The next day De Narsac, with Dragon at his heels, was admitted into the
king’s audience room. The king was seated in his great chair, and many
knights and men at arms were standing around him. Hardly had De Narsac
stepped inside when the dog leaped quickly forward. He had seen Macaire,
and had singled him out from among all the rest. He sprang upon him. He
would have torn him in pieces if no one had interfered.
There was now only one way to explain the matter.
“This greyhound,” said De Narsac, “is here to denounce the Chevalier
Macaire as the slayer of his master, young Aubrey de Montdidier. He
demands that justice be done, and that the murderer be punished for his
crime.”
The Chevalier Macaire was pale and trembling. He stammered a denial of
his guilt, and declared that the dog was a dangerous beast, and ought to
be put out of the way. “Shall a soldier in the service of the king be
accused by a dog?” he cried. “Shall he be condemned on such testimony as
this? I, too, demand justice.”
“Let the judgment of God decide!” cried the knights who were present.
And so the king declared that there should be a trial by the judgment of
God. For in those rude times it was a very common thing to determine
guilt or innocence in this way--that is, by a combat between the accuser
and the accused. In such cases it was believed that God would always aid
the cause of the innocent and bring about the defeat of the guilty.
The combat was to take place that very afternoon in the great common by
the riverside. The king’s herald made a public announcement of it,
naming the dog as the accuser and the Chevalier Macaire as the accused.
A great crowd of people assembled to see this strange trial by the
judgment of God.
The king and his officers were there to make sure that no injustice was
done to either the man or the dog. The man was allowed to defend himself
with a short stick; the dog was given a barrel into which he might run
if too closely pressed.
At a signal the combat began. Macaire stood upon his guard while the dog
darted swiftly around him, dodging the blows that were aimed at him,
and trying to get at his enemy’s throat. The man seemed to have lost
all his courage. His breath came short and quick. He was trembling from
head to foot.
Suddenly the dog leaped upon him and threw him to the ground. In his
great terror he cried to the king for mercy, and acknowledged his guilt.
“It is the judgment of God!” cried the king.
The officers rushed in and dragged the dog away before he could harm the
guilty man; and Macaire was hurried off to the punishment which his
crimes deserved.
And this is the scene that was carved on the old mantelpiece in the
castle of Montargis--this strange trial by the judgment of God. Is it
not fitting that a dog so faithful, devoted, and brave should have his
memory thus preserved in stone? He is remembered also in story and song.
In France ballads have been written about him; and his strange history
has been dramatized in both French and English.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.
How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep, tangled wildwood,
And every loved spot that my infancy knew.
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it;
The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,
And e’en the rude bucket which hung in the well--
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
That moss-covered bucket I hail as a treasure;
For often at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness it rose from the well--
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from thy loved situation,
The tear of regret will oftentimes swell,
As fancy returns to my father’s plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well--
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.
--_Samuel Woodworth._
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp and black and long;
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach;
He hears his daughter’s voice
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees its close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
--_Henry W. Longfellow._
So nigh is grandeur to our dust
So near is God to man,
When Duty whispers low, “Thou must,”
The youth replies, “I can.”
--_Ralph Waldo Emerson._
[Illustration: The Village Blacksmith.
From the Painting by Sir Edwin Landseer
Engraved by Henry W. Peckwell.]
THE CHOICE OF HERCULES.
One morning when Hercules was a fair-faced lad of twelve years, he was
sent out to do an errand which he disliked very much. As he walked
slowly along the road, his heart was full of bitter thoughts; and he
murmured because others no better than himself were living in ease and
pleasure, while for him there was little but labor and pain. Thinking
upon these things, he came after a while to a place where two roads met;
and he stopped, not quite certain which one to take.
The road on his right was hilly and rough, and there was no beauty in it
or about it; but he saw that it led straight toward the blue mountains
in the far distance. The road on his left was broad and smooth, with
shade trees on either side, where sang thousands of beautiful birds; and
it went winding in and out, through groves and green meadows, where
bloomed countless flowers; but it ended in fog and mist long before
reaching the wonderful mountains of blue.
While the lad stood in doubt as to which way he should go, he saw two
ladies coming toward him, each by a different road. The one who came
down the flowery way reached him first, and Hercules saw that she was
beautiful as a summer day. Her cheeks were red, her eyes sparkled, her
voice was like the music of morning.
“O noble youth,” she said, “this is the road which you should choose. It
will lead you into pleasant ways where there is neither toil, nor hard
study, nor drudgery of any kind. Your ears shall always be delighted
with sweet sounds, and your eyes with things beautiful and gay; and you
need do nothing but play and enjoy the hours as they pass.”
By this time the other fair woman had drawn near, and she now spoke to
the lad.
“If you take my road,” said she, “you will find that it is rocky and
rough, and that it climbs many a hill and descends into many a valley
and quagmire. The views which you will sometimes get from the hilltops
are grand and glorious, while the deep valleys are dark and the uphill
ways are toilsome; but the road leads to the blue mountains of endless
fame, of which you can see faint glimpses, far away. They can not be
reached without labor; for, in fact, there is nothing worth having that
must not be won through toil. If you would have fruits and flowers, you
must plant and care for them; if you would gain the love of your
fellow-men, you must love them and suffer for them; if you would be a
man, you must make yourself strong by the doing of manly deeds.”
Then the boy saw that this lady, although her face seemed at first very
plain, was as beautiful as the dawn, or as the flowery fields after a
summer rain.
“What is your name?” he asked.
[Illustration: “If you would be a man, you must make yourself strong.”]
“Some call me Labor,” she answered, “but others know me as Truth.”
“And what is your name?” he asked, turning to the first lady.
“Some call me Pleasure,” said she with a smile; “but I choose to be
known as the Joyous One.”
“And what can you promise me at the end if I go with you?”
“I promise nothing at the end. What I give, I give at the beginning.”
“Labor,” said Hercules, “I will follow your road. I want to be strong
and manly and worthy of the love of my fellows. And whether I shall ever
reach the blue mountains or not, I want to have the reward of knowing
that my journey has not been without some worthy aim.”
CHRISTMAS AT THE CRATCHITS’.
Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned
gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap and make a goodly show for
sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second
of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master Cratchit plunged a
fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corner of his
monstrous shirt collar (Bob’s private property, conferred upon his son
and heir in honor of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself
so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable
Parks.
And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming
that outside the baker’s they had smelt the goose, and known it for
their own; and basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and onion, these
young Cratchits danced about the table and exalted Master Peter Cratchit
to the skies, while he (not proud, although his collar nearly choked
him) blew the fire, until the slow potatoes bubbling up knocked loudly
at the saucepan lid to be let out and peeled.
“What has ever got your precious father then?” said Mrs. Cratchit. “And
your brother, Tiny Tim! And Martha wasn’t as late last Christmas Day, by
half an hour!”
“Here’s Martha, mother!” said a girl, appearing as she spoke.
“Here’s Martha, mother!” cried the two young Cratchits. “Hurrah! There’s
_such_ a goose, Martha!”
“Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!” said Mrs.
Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet
for her with officious zeal.
“We’d a deal of work to finish up last night,” replied the girl, “and
had to clear away this morning, mother!”
“Well! never mind so long as you are come,” said Mrs. Cratchit. “Sit ye
down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye!”
“No, no! There’s father coming,” cried the two
[Illustration: Bob Cratchit and Tiny Tim.
From the Painting by F. Barnard. Engraved by Robert Varley.
]
young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once. “Hide, Martha, hide!”
So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with at least
three feet of comforter exclusive of the fringe hanging down before him;
and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, to look seasonable;
and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little
crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame!
“Why, where’s our Martha?” cried Bob Cratchit, looking round.
“Not coming,” said Mrs. Cratchit.
“Not coming!” said Bob, with a sudden declension in his high spirits;
for he had been Tim’s blood horse all the way from church, and had come
home rampant. “Not coming upon Christmas Day!”
Martha did not like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so
she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his
arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off
into the washhouse that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.
“And how did little Tim behave?” asked Mrs. Cratchit, when she had
rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter to his
heart’s content.
“As good as gold,” said Bob, “and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful,
sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever
heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the
church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to
remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men
see.”
Bob’s voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when
he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.
His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny
Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister
to his stool beside the fire; and while Bob, turning up his cuffs,--as
if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby,--compounded
some hot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and
round and put it on the hob to simmer; Master Peter and the two
ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon
returned in high procession.
Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of
all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of
course--and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs.
Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing
hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor; Miss
Belinda sweetened up the apple sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob
took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young
Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and
mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest
they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At
last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a
breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving
knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when
the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight
arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young
Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly
cried Hurrah!
There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there ever was
such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were
the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple sauce and mashed
potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as
Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a
bone upon the dish), they hadn’t ate it all at last! Yet every one had
had enough, and the youngest Cratchits, in particular, were steeped in
sage and onion to the eyebrows! But now the plates being changed by
Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone--too nervous to bear
witnesses--to take the pudding up and bring it in.
Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning
out! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the backyard and
stolen it, while they were merry with the goose--a supposition at which
the two young Cratchits became livid. All sorts of horrors were
supposed.
Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell
like a washing day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating house and
a pastry cook’s next door to each other, with a laundress’s next door to
that! That was the pudding! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit
entered--flushed, but smiling proudly--with the pudding like a speckled
cannon ball, so hard and firm, smoking hot, and bedight with Christmas
holly stuck into the top.
Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he
regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since
their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind,
she would confess she had her doubts about the quantity of flour.
Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it
was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have been flat
heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a
thing.
At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth
swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and
considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a
shovel full of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew
round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a
one; and at Bob Cratchit’s elbow stood the family display of glass,--two
tumblers and a custard cup without a handle.
These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden
goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while
the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob
proposed: “A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!”
Which all the family reëchoed.
“God bless us every one!” said Tiny Tim, the last of all.
He sat very close to his father’s side, upon his little stool. Bob held
his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child, and wished to
keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him.
--_From “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens._
ON THE MOUNTAIN.
And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a mountain: and when he was
set, his disciples came unto him; and he opened his mouth and taught
them, saying: Blessed are the poor in spirit; for theirs is the kingdom
of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn; for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the meek; for they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness; for
they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful; for they shall obtain
mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart; for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers; for they shall be called the children of
God. Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake; for
theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are ye when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall
say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice and be
exceeding glad; for great is your reward in heaven.
Ye have heard that it hath been said by them of old time, Thou shalt not
forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine oaths: but I say
unto you, Swear not at all; neither by heaven; for it is God’s throne:
nor by the earth; for it is his foot-stool: neither by Jerusalem; for
it is the city of the great King.
Neither shalt thou swear by thy head, because thou canst not make one
hair white or black. But let your communication be, Yea, yea; Nay, nay:
for whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil.
Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for
a tooth: but I say unto you, That ye resist not evil; but whosoever
shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.
And if any man will sue thee at law, and take away thy coat, let him
have thy cloak also. And whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go
with him twain. Give to him that asketh thee, and from him that would
borrow of thee turn not thou away.
Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbor and
hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that
curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which
despitefully use you, and persecute you; that ye may be the children of
your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the
evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.
For if ye love them that love you, what reward have ye? Do not even the
publicans the same? And if ye salute your brethren only, what do ye
more than others? Do not even the publicans so? Be ye, therefore,
perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect....
Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it
shall be opened unto you; for every one that asketh, receiveth; and he
that seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh, it shall be opened. Or
what man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a
stone? Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent?
If ye then, being evil know how to give good gifts unto your children,
how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to
them that ask him? Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men
should do to you, do ye even so to them.
Whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them, I will liken
him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock: and the rain
descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that
house; and it fell not; for it was founded upon a rock. And every one
that heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened
unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the sand: and the rain
descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that
house; and it fell: and great was the fall of it.
--_From the Gospel according to St. Matthew._
BETSEY HULL’S WEDDING.
In the early days of New England all the money that was used was brought
from Europe. Coins of gold and silver from England were the most
plentiful; but now and then one might see a doubloon, or some piece of
smaller value, that had been made in Spain or Portugal. As for paper
money, or bank bills, nobody had ever heard of them.
Money was so scarce that people were often obliged to barter instead of
buying and selling. That is, if a lady wanted a yard of dress goods, she
would perhaps exchange a basket of fruit or some vegetables for it; if a
farmer wanted a pair of shoes, he might give the skin of an ox for it;
if he needed nails, he might buy them with potatoes. In many places
there was not money enough of any kind to pay the salaries of the
ministers; and so, instead of gold or silver, they were obliged to take
fish and corn and wood and anything else that the people could spare.
As the people became more numerous, and there was more trade among them,
the want of money caused much inconvenience. At last, the General Court
of the colony passed a law providing for the coinage of small pieces of
silver--shillings, sixpences, and threepences. They also appointed
Captain John Hull to be mint-master for the colony, and gave him the
exclusive right to make this money. It was agreed that for every twenty
shillings coined by him, he was to keep one shilling to pay him for his
work.
And now, all the old silver in the colony was hunted up and carried to
Captain Hull’s mint. Battered silver cans and tankards, silver buckles,
broken spoons, old sword hilts, and many other such curious old articles
were doubtless thrown into the melting pot together. But by far the
greater part of the silver consisted of bullion from the mines of South
America, which the English buccaneers had taken from the Spaniards and
brought to Massachusetts. All this old and new silver was melted down
and coined; and the result was an immense amount of bright shillings,
sixpences, and threepences. Each had the date, 1652, on one side, and
the figure of a pine tree on the other; hence, the shillings were called
pine-tree shillings.
[Illustration: Pine-tree Shilling.]
When the members of the General Court saw what an immense number of
coins had been made, and remembered that one shilling in every twenty
was to go into the pockets of Captain John Hull, they began to think
that the mint-master was having the best of the bargain. They offered
him a large amount, if he would but give up his claim to that twentieth
shilling. But the Captain declared that he was well satisfied to let
things stand as they were. And so he might be, for in a few years his
money bags and his strong box were all overflowing with pine-tree
shillings.
Now, the rich mint-master had a daughter whose name I do not know, but
whom I will call Betsey. This daughter was a fine, hearty damsel, by no
means so slender as many young ladies of our own days. She had been fed
on pumpkin pies, doughnuts, Indian puddings, and other Puritan dainties,
and so had grown up to be as round and plump as any lass in the colony.
With this round, rosy Miss Betsey, a worthy young man, Samuel Sewell by
name, fell in love; and as he was diligent in business, and a member of
the church, the mint-master did not object to his taking her as his
wife. “Oh, yes, you may have her,” he said in his rough way; “but you
will find her a heavy enough burden.”
On the wedding day we may suppose that honest John Hull dressed himself
in a plum-colored coat, all the buttons of which were made of pine-tree
shillings. The buttons of his waistcoat were sixpences, and the knees of
his small clothes were buttoned with silver threepences. Thus attired,
he sat with dignity in the huge armchair which had been brought from
old England expressly for his comfort. On the other side of the room sat
Miss Betsey. She was blushing with all her might, and looked like a
full-blown peony or a great red apple.
There, too, was the bridegroom, dressed in a fine purple coat and
gold-laced waistcoat. His hair was cropped close to his head, because
Governor Endicott had forbidden any man to wear it below the ears. But
he was a very personable young man; and so thought the bridesmaids and
Miss Betsey herself.
When the marriage ceremony was over, Captain Hull whispered a word to
two of his men servants, who immediately went out, and soon returned
lugging in a large pair of scales. They were such a pair as wholesale
merchants use for weighing bulky commodities; and quite a bulky
commodity was now to be weighed in them.
“Daughter Betsey,” said the mint-master, “get into one side of these
scales.” Miss Betsey--or Mrs. Sewell, as we must now call her--did as
she was bid, like a dutiful child, without any question of why and
wherefore. But what her father could mean, unless to make her husband
pay for her by the pound (in which case she would have been a dear
bargain), she had not the least idea.
“Now,” said honest John Hull to the servants, “bring that box hither.”
The box to which the mint-master pointed was a huge, square, iron-bound,
oaken chest; it was big enough, my children, for three or four of you to
play at hide and seek in. The servants tugged with might and main, but
could not lift this enormous receptacle, and were finally obliged to
drag it across the floor. Captain Hull then took a key from his girdle,
unlocked the chest, and lifted its ponderous lid.
Behold! it was full to the brim of bright pine-tree shillings fresh from
the mint; and Samuel Sewell began to think that his father-in-law had
got possession of all the money in the Massachusetts treasury. But it
was only the mint-master’s honest share of the coinage.
Then the servants, at Captain Hull’s command, heaped double handfuls of
shillings into one side of the scales, while Betsey remained in the
other. Jingle, jingle went the shillings, as handful after handful was
thrown in, till, plump and ponderous as she was, they fairly weighed the
young lady from the floor.
“There, son Sewell!” cried the honest mint-master, “take these shillings
for my daughter’s portion. It is not every wife that is worth her weight
in silver.”
--_Adapted from “Grandfather’s Chair” by Nathaniel Hawthorne._
[Illustration: A Puritan Wedding Procession.
From the Painting by C. G. Turner. Engraved by Angelo Negri.
]
ULYSSES AND THE CYCLOPS.
Among all the great poems that have ever been written none are grander
or more famous than the “Iliad” and the “Odyssey,” of the old Greek poet
Homer. They were composed and recited nearly three thousand years ago,
and yet nothing that has been written in later times has so charmed and
delighted mankind. In the “Iliad” the poet tells how the Greeks made war
upon Troy, and how they did brave deeds around the walls of that famed
city, and faltered not till they had won the stubborn fight. In the
“Odyssey” he tells how the Greek hero Ulysses or Odysseus, when the war
was ended, set sail for his distant home in Ithaca; how he was driven
from his course by the wind and waves; and how he was carried against
his will through unknown seas and to strange, mysterious shores where no
man had been before.
[Illustration: Homer.]
One of the most famous passages in the “Odyssey” is that in which
Ulysses relates the story of his meeting with the one-eyed giant,
Polyphemus. He tells it in this manner:
When we had come to the land, we saw a cave not far from the sea. It was
a lofty cave roofed over with laurels, and in it large herds of sheep
and goats were used to rest. About it a high outer court was built with
stones set deep in the ground, and with tall pines and oaks crowned with
green leaves. In it was wont to sleep a man of monstrous size who
shepherded his flocks alone and had no dealings with others, but dwelt
apart in lawlessness of mind. Indeed, he was a monstrous thing, most
strangely shaped; and he was unlike any man that lives by bread, but
more like the wooded top of some towering hill that stands out apart and
alone from others.
Then I bade the rest of my well-loved company stay close by the ship and
guard it; but I chose out twelve of my bravest men and sallied forth. We
bore with us a bag of corn and a great skin filled with dark sweet wine;
for in my lordly heart I had a foreboding that we should meet a man, a
strange, strong man who had little reason and cared nothing for the
right.
Soon we came to the cave, but he was not within; he was shepherding his
fat flocks in the pastures. So we went into the cave and looked around.
There we saw many folds filled with lambs and kids. Each kind was penned
by itself; in one fold were the spring lambs, in one were the summer
lambs, and in one were the younglings of the flock. On one side of the
cave were baskets well laden with cheeses; and the milk pails and the
bowls and the well-wrought vessels into which he milked were filled with
whey.
[Illustration: He came back driving his flocks.]
Then my men begged me to take the cheeses and return, and afterwards to
make haste and drive off the kids and lambs to the swift ship and sail
without delay over the salt waves. Far better would it have been had I
done as they wished; but I bade them wait and see the giant himself, for
perhaps he would give me gifts as a stranger’s due. Then we kindled a
fire and made a burnt-offering; and we ate some of the cheeses, and sat
waiting for him till he came back driving his flocks. In his arms he
carried a huge load of dry wood to be used in cooking supper. This he
threw down with a great noise inside the cave, and we in fear hid
ourselves in the dark corners behind the rocks.
As for the giant, he drove into the wide cavern all those of his flock
that he was wont to milk; but the males, both of the sheep and of the
goats, he left outside in the high-walled yard. Then he lifted a huge
door stone and set it in the mouth of the cave; it was a stone so
weighty that two-and-twenty good, four-wheeled wagons could scarce have
borne it off the ground. Then he sat down and milked the ewes and the
bleating goats, each in its turn, and beneath each ewe he placed her
young. After that he curdled half of the white milk and stored it in
wicker baskets; and the other half he let stand in pails that he might
have it for his supper.
Now, when he had done all his work busily, he kindled the fire, and as
its light shone into all parts of the cave, he saw us. “Strangers, who
are you?” he cried. “Whence sail you over the wet ways? Are you on some
trading voyage, or do you rove as sea robbers over the briny deep?”
Such were his words, and so monstrous was he and so deep was his voice
that our hearts were broken within us for terror. But, for all that, I
stood up and answered him, saying:
“Lo, we are Greeks, driven by all manner of winds over the great gulf of
the sea. We seek our homes, but have lost our way and know not where we
go. Now we have landed on this shore, and we come to thy knees, thinking
perhaps that thou wilt give us a stranger’s gift, or make any present,
as is the due of strangers. Think upon thy duty to the gods; for we are
thy suppliants. Have regard to Jupiter, the god of the sojourner and the
friend of the stranger.”
This I said, and then the giant answered me out of his pitiless heart:
“Thou art indeed a foolish fellow and a stranger in this land, to think
of bidding me fear the gods. We Cyclops care nothing for Jupiter, nor
for any other of the gods; for we are better men than they. The fear of
them will never cause me to spare either thee or thy company, unless I
choose to do so.”
Then the giant sprang up and caught two of my companions, and dashed
them to the ground so hard that they died before my eyes; and the earth
was wet with their blood. Then he cut them into pieces, and made ready
his evening meal. So he ate, as a lion of the mountains; and we wept and
raised our hands to Jupiter, and knew not what to do. And after the
Cyclops had filled himself, he lay down among his sheep.
Then I considered in my great heart whether I should not draw my sharp
sword, and stab him in the breast. But upon second thought, I held back.
For I knew that we would not be able to roll away with our hands the
heavy stone which the giant had set against the door, and we would then
have perished in the cave. So, all night long, we crouched trembling in
the darkness, and waited the coming of the day.
Now, when the rosy-fingered Dawn shone forth, the Cyclops arose and
kindled the fire. Then he is milked his goodly flock, and beneath each
ewe he set her lamb. When he had done all his work busily, he seized two
others of my men, and made ready his morning meal. And after the meal,
he moved away the great door stone, and drove his fat flocks forth from
the cave; and when the last sheep had gone out, he set the stone in its
place again, as one might set the lid of a quiver. Then, with a loud
whoop, he turned his flocks toward the hills; but I was left shut up in
the cave, and thinking what we should do to avenge ourselves.
And at last this plan seemed to me the best. Not far from the sheepfold
there lay a great club of the Cyclops, a club of olive wood, yet green,
which he had cut to carry with him when it should be fully seasoned. Now
when we looked at this stick, it seemed to us as large as the mast of a
black ship of twenty oars, a wide merchant vessel that sails the vast
sea. I stood by it, and cut off from it a piece some six feet in length,
and set it by my men, and bade them trim it down and make it smooth; and
while they did this, I stood by and sharpened it to a point. Then I took
it and hardened it in the bright fire; and after that, I laid it away
and hid it. And I bade my men cast lots to determine which of them
should help me, when the time came, to lift the sharp and heavy stick
and turn it about in the Cyclops’ eye. And the lots fell upon those whom
I would have chosen, and I appointed myself to be the fifth among them.
II.
In the evening the Cyclops came home, bringing his well-fleeced flocks;
and soon he drove the beasts, each and all, into the cave, and left not
one outside in the high-walled yard. Then he lifted the huge door stone,
and set it in the mouth of the cave; and after that he milked the ewes
and the bleating goats, all in order, and beneath each ewe he placed her
young.
Now when he had done all his work busily, he seized two others of my
men, and made ready his supper. Then I stood before the Cyclops and
spoke to him, holding in my hands a bowl of dark wine: “Cyclops, take
this wine and drink it after thy feast, that thou mayest know what kind
of wine it was that our good ship carried. For, indeed, I was bringing
it to thee as a drink offering, if haply thou wouldst pity us and send
us on our way home; but thy mad rage seems to have no bounds.”
So I spoke, and he took the cup and drank the wine; and so great was his
delight that he asked me for yet a second draught.
“Kindly give me more, and tell me thy name, so that I may give thee a
stranger’s gift and make thee glad.”
Thus he spoke, and again I handed him the dark wine. Three times did I
hand it to him, and three times did he drink it to the dregs. But when
the wine began to confuse his wits, then I spoke to him with soft words:
“O Cyclops, thou didst ask for my renowned name, and now I will tell it
to thee; but do thou grant me a stranger’s gift, as thou hast promised.
My name is No-man; my father and my mother and all my companions call me
No-man.”
Thus I spoke, and he answered me out of his pitiless heart: “I will eat
thee, No-man, after I have eaten all thy fellows: that shall be thy
gift.”
Then he sank down upon the ground with his face upturned; and there he
lay with his great neck bent round; and sleep, that conquers all men,
overcame him. Then I thrust that stake under the burning coals until the
sharpened end of it grew hot; and I spoke words of comfort to my men
lest they should hang back with fear. But when the bar of olive wood
began to glow and was about to catch fire, even then I came nigh and
drew it from the coals, and my men stood around me, and some god filled
our hearts with courage.
The men seized the bar of olive wood and thrust it into the Cyclops’
eye, while I from my place aloft turned it around. As when a man bores a
ship’s beam with a drill while his fellows below spin it with a strap,
which they hold at either end, and the auger runs round continually:
even so did we seize the fiery-pointed brand and whirl it round in his
eye. And the flames singed his eyelids and brows all about, as the ball
of the eye was burned away. And the Cyclops raised a great and terrible
cry that made the rocks around us ring, and we fled away in fear, while
he plucked the brand from his bleeding eye.
Then, maddened with pain, he cast the bar from him, and called with a
loud voice to the Cyclopes, his neighbors, who dwelt near him in the
caves along the cliffs. And they heard his cry, and flocked together
from every side, and standing outside, at the door of the cave, asked
him what was the matter:
“What troubles thee, Polyphemus, that thou criest thus in the night, and
wilt not let us sleep?”
The strong Cyclops whom they thus called Polyphemus, answered them from
the cave: “My friends, No-man is killing me by guile, and not by force!”
And they spoke winged words to him: “If no man is mistreating thee in
thy lonely cave, then it must be some sickness, sent by Jupiter, that is
giving thee pain. Pray to thy father, great Neptune, and perhaps he will
cure thee.”
And when they had said this they went away; and my heart within me
laughed to see how my name and cunning counsel had deceived them. But
the Cyclops, groaning with pain, groped with his hands, and lifted the
stone from the door of the cave. Then he sat in the doorway, with arms
outstretched, to lay hold of any one that might try to go out with the
sheep; for he thought that I would be thus foolish. But I began to think
of all kinds of plans by which we might escape; and this was the plan
which seemed to me the best:
The rams of the flock were thick-fleeced, beautiful, and large; and
their wool was dark as the violet. These I quietly lashed together with
the strong withes which the Cyclops had laid in heaps to sleep upon. I
tied them together in threes: the middle one of the three was to carry a
man; but the sheep on either side went only as a shield to keep him from
discovery. Thus, every three sheep carried their man. As for me, I laid
hold of a young ram, the best and strongest of all the flock; and I
clung beneath him, face upward, grasping the wondrous fleece.
As soon as the early Dawn shone forth, the rams of the flock hastened
out to the pasture, but the ewes bleated about the pens and waited to be
milked. As the rams passed through the doorway, their master, sore
stricken with pain, felt along their backs, and guessed not in his folly
that my men were bound beneath their wooly breasts. Last of all, came
the young ram cumbered with his heavy fleece, and the weight of me and
my cunning. The strong Cyclops laid his hands on him and spoke to him:
“Dear ram,” he said, “pray tell me why you are the last of all to go
forth from the cave. You are not wont to lag behind. Hitherto you have
always been the first to pluck the tender blossoms of the pasture, and
you have been the first to go back to the fold at evening. But now you
are the very last. Can it be that you are sorrowing for your master’s
eye which a wicked man blinded when he had overcome me with wine?
“Ah, if you could feel as I--if you could speak and tell me where he is
hiding to shun my wrath--then I would smite him, and my heart would be
lightened of the sorrows that he has brought upon me.”
Then he sent the ram from him; and when we had gone a little way from
the cave I loosed myself from under the ram, and then set my fellows
free. Swiftly we drove the flock before us, and often is turned to look
about, till at last we came to the ship.
Our companions greeted us with glad hearts,--us who had fled from death;
and they were about to bemoan the others with tears when I forbade. I
told them to make haste and take on board the well-fleeced sheep, and
then sail away from that unfriendly shore. So they did as they were
bidden, and when all was ready, they sat upon the benches, each man in
his place, and smote the gray sea water with their oars.
[Illustration: Ship in the Time of Homer.]
But when we had not gone so far but that a man’s shout could be heard, I
called to the Cyclops and taunted him:
“Cyclops, you will not eat us by main might in your hollow cave! Your
evil deeds, O cruel monster, were sure to find you out; for you
shamelessly ate the guests that were within your gates, and now Jupiter
and the other gods have requited you as you deserved.”
Thus I spoke, and so great became his anger that he broke off the peak
of a great hill and threw it at us, and it fell in front of the
dark-prowed ship. And the sea rose in waves from the fall of the rock,
and drove the ship quickly back to the shore. Then I caught up a long
pole in my hands, and thrust the ship from off the land; and with a
motion of the head, I bade them dash in with their oars, so that we
might escape from our evil plight. So they bent to their oars and rowed
on.
* * * * *
Such is the story which Ulysses told of his adventure with the giant
Cyclops. Many and strange were the other adventures through which he
passed before he reached his distant home; and all are related in that
wonderful poem, the “Odyssey.” This poem has been often translated into
the English language. Some of the translations are in the form of
poetry, and of these the best are the versions by George Chapman, by
Alexander Pope, and by our American poet William Cullen Bryant. The best
prose translation is that by Butcher and Lang--and this I have followed
quite closely in the story which you have just read.
THE BROOK.
I come from haunts of coot and hern:
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down the valley;
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
[Illustration: Alfred Tennyson.]
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;
[Illustration]
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.
--_Alfred Tennyson._
THE LADY OF SHALOTT.
PART I.
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky:
And through the fields the road runs by
To many-towered Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs forever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot;
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow-veiled,
Slide the heavy barges, trailed
By slow horses; and unhailed
The shallop flitteth silken-sailed,
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to towered Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, “‘Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott.”