2. Fair Play and Trickery 12. Thrift and Waste
3. Selfishness and Unselfishness 13. Courage and Cowardice
4. School Spirit and Lack of 14. Persistence
School Spirit
5. Reasons for Success and 15. Ambition
for Failure
6. The Gentleman and the Boor 16. Thoughtfulness
7. Kindness and Brutality 17. Loyalty
8. Care and Carelessness 18. Will Power
9. Promptness and Tardiness 19. Honor
10. Respect and Insolence 20. The Kindly Life
DIRECTIONS FOR WRITING
You have noticed that Mr. Mabie began his essay by telling about
Shakespeare's reading. He then set forward the ideal that Shakespeare's
method of reading represents. You must follow the same plan. Begin
your essay by telling of some one person who represents in some way
the ideal of which you write. That very specific example will lead
your reader into the thought that you wish to emphasize,--that there
is, in connection with your subject, an ideal method of proceeding,
and a method that is less ideal. After you have made this specific
introduction, set forward your own ideas. Do as Mr. Mabie did, and give
many specific examples that will make your thought clear and emphatic.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] From “Books and Culture” by Hamilton Wright Mabie. Copyright by
Dodd, Mead and Co.
[7] Florio's Montaigne. John Florio (1553-1625). A teacher of French
and Italian in Oxford University, who in 1603 translated the essays of
Montaigne, one copy of which, autographed by Shakespeare, is in the
British Museum in London. From him Shakespeare perhaps learned French
and Italian. In all probability many of the passages of wit and wisdom
in plays like _Hamlet_ and _The Tempest_, as well as in other plays,
were suggested by Florio's translation of Montaigne.
[8] Holinshed's _Chronicles_. Ralph Holinshed (?-1580?). Author of
_Chronicles of Englande, Scotlande, and Irelande_, a book published in
1577, from which Shakespeare drew material for many of his historical
plays.
[9] North's Plutarch. Sir Thomas North (1535?-1601?), translated from
the French Plutarch's _Lives_, originally written in Greek in the first
century A.D. From these remarkable biographies Shakespeare learned the
stories that he embodied in such plays as _Antony and Cleopatra_ and
_Coriolanus_.
[10] Dante Alighieri (1265-1321), an Italian poet, author of _The
Divine Comedy_, a work of such surpassing merit that its author is
regarded as one of the five greatest writers of all time.
[11] James Russell Lowell (1819-1891). An American poet and essayist,
noted for his love of books.
[12] Pactolian Stream, a river in Asia Minor in which gold was found.
[13] The Tempest, one of Shakespeare's most poetic comedies, written
about 1611.
[14] Samuel Johnson (1709-1784), the great literary leader of the
eighteenth century, noted for his work as an essayist.
[15] Francesco Petrarch (1304-1374), one of the most noted Italian
poets.
[16] John Keats (1795-1821), an English poet especially noted for the
rich beauty of his style.
[17] Edmund Spenser (1552?-1599), the celebrated author of _The Faërie
Queen_ and of other poems noted for rich imaginative power. His
_Epithalamium_, perhaps his best poem, was written in honor of his
marriage to Elizabeth Boyle.
[18] Cowden Clarke (1787-1877), an English publisher and Shakespearian
scholar, a friend of John Keats.
[19] Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790), a great American philosopher and
patriot whose life story is told in his _Autobiography_.
[20] The Spectator, a daily paper published by Joseph Addison, Sir
Richard Steele and others from March 1, 1711, to December 6, 1712.
[21] Robert Browning (1812-1889). One of the greatest of English poets.
_My Last Duchess_ is one of his many powerful dramatic monologues.
WHO OWNS THE MOUNTAINS?[22]
By HENRY VAN DYKE
_(1852--). One of the most popular American essayists. After many
years of service as a Presbyterian minister he became Professor
of English Literature in Princeton University. During the early
part of the World War he was U. S. Minister to the Netherlands
and Luxembourg, where his services were notably patriotic. His
poems, essays and short stories have won wide and well-deserved
popularity. Among them are_ The Poetry of Tennyson; The Other Wise
Man; The First Christmas Tree; Fisherman's Luck; The Blue Flower;
Out of Doors in the Holy Land; The Unknown Quantity; Collected
Poems. _Dr. Van Dyke was at one time President of the National
Institute of Arts and Letters._
=Something of the spirit of sunset and of the quietness of the woods
and mountains has crept into Dr. Van Dyke's essay. We sit with him
and look off at the ridges and hollows of forest. We find our own
thoughts about the beauty of earth expressed as we can not express
them. We are lifted in meditation as Dr. Van Dyke was lifted when
he looked off at the great hills.=
=Power to reveal inner meanings in the world of outdoors and of man,
and to ennoble the soul, is one of the reasons why the essay has
such a high place in the affections of those who love literature.=
=_Who Owns the Mountains?_ shows both the felicity of Dr. Van Dyke's
style and the nobility of his thought.=
It was the little lad that asked the question; and the answer also, as
you will see, was mainly his.
We had been keeping Sunday afternoon together in our favorite
fashion, following out that pleasant text which tells us to “behold
the fowls of the air.” There is no injunction of Holy Writ less
burdensome in acceptance, or more profitable in obedience, than this
easy out-of-doors commandment. For several hours we walked in the
way of this precept, through the untangled woods that lie behind
the Forest Hills Lodge,[23] where a pair of pigeon-hawks had their
nest; and around the brambly shores of the small pond, where Maryland
yellow-throats and song-sparrows were settled; and under the lofty
hemlocks of the fragment of forest across the road, where rare warblers
flitted silently among the tree-tops. The light beneath the evergreens
was growing dim as we came out from their shadow into the widespread
glow of the sunset, on the edge of a grassy hill, overlooking the long
valley of the Gale River, and uplooking to the Franconia Mountains.
It was the benediction hour. The placid air of the day shed a new
tranquillity over the consoling landscape. The heart of the earth
seemed to taste a repose more perfect than that of common days. A
hermit-thrush, far up the vale, sang his vesper hymn; while the
swallows, seeking their evening meal, circled above the riverfields
without an effort, twittering softly, now and then, as if they must
give thanks. Slight and indefinable touches in the scene, perhaps
the mere absence of the tiny human figures passing along the road or
laboring in the distant meadows, perhaps the blue curls of smoke rising
lazily from the farm-house chimneys, or the family groups sitting under
the maple-trees before the door, diffused a sabbath atmosphere over the
world.
Then said the lad, lying on the grass beside me, “Father, who owns the
mountains?”
I happened to have heard, the day before, of two or three lumber
companies that had bought some of the woodland slopes; so I told him
their names, adding that there were probably a good many different
owners, whose claims taken all together would cover the whole Franconia
range of hills.
“Well,” answered the lad, after a moment of silence, “I don't see what
difference that makes. Everybody can look at them.”
They lay stretched out before us in the level sunlight, the sharp peaks
outlined against the sky, the vast ridges of forest sinking smoothly
towards the valleys, the deep hollows gathering purple shadows
in their bosoms, and the little foothills standing out in rounded
promontories of brighter green from the darker mass behind them.
Far to the east, the long comb of Twin Mountain extended itself back
into the untrodden wilderness. Mount Garfield lifted a clear-cut
pyramid through the translucent air. The huge bulk of Lafayette
ascended majestically in front of us, crowned with a rosy diadem of
rocks. Eagle Cliff and Bald Mountain stretched their line of scalloped
peaks across the entrance to the Notch. Beyond that shadowy vale, the
swelling summits of Cannon Mountain rolled away to meet the tumbling
waves of Kinsman, dominated by one loftier crested billow that seemed
almost ready to curl and break out of green silence into snowy foam.
Far down the sleeping Landaff valley the undulating dome of Moosilauke
trembled in the distant blue.
They were all ours, from crested cliff to wooded base. The solemn
groves of firs and spruces, the plumed sierras of lofty pines, the
stately pillared forests of birch and beech, the wild ravines, the
tremulous thickets of silvery poplar, the bare peaks with their wide
outlooks, and the cool vales resounding with the ceaseless song of
little rivers,--we knew and loved them all; they ministered peace and
joy to us; they were all ours, though we held no title deeds and our
ownership had never been recorded.
What is property, after all? The law says there are two kinds, real and
personal. But it seems to me that the only real property is that which
is truly personal, that which we take into our inner life and make our
own forever by understanding and admiration and sympathy and love. This
is the only kind of possession that is worth anything.
A gallery of great paintings adorns the house of the Honorable Midas
Bond,[24] and every year adds a new treasure to his collection. He
knows how much they cost him, and he keeps the run of the quotations
at the auction sales, congratulating himself as the price of the
works of his well-chosen artists rises in the scale, and the value of
his art treasures is enhanced. But why should he call them his? He
is only their custodian. He keeps them well varnished, and framed in
gilt. But he never passes through those gilded frames into the world
of beauty that lies behind the painted canvas. He knows nothing of
those lovely places from which the artist's soul and hand have drawn
their inspiration. They are closed and barred to him. He has bought
the pictures, but he cannot buy the key. The poor art student who
wanders through his gallery, lingering with awe and love before the
masterpieces, owns them far more truly than Midas does.
Pomposus Silverman[25] purchased a rich library a few years ago. The
books were rare and costly. That was the reason why Pomposus bought
them. He was proud to feel that he was the possessor of literary
treasures which were not to be found in the houses of his wealthiest
acquaintances. But the threadbare Bücherfreund,[26] who was engaged at
a slender salary to catalogue the library and take care of it, became
the real proprietor. Pomposus paid for the books, but Bücherfreund
enjoyed them.
I do not mean to say that the possession of much money is always a
barrier to real wealth of mind and heart. Nor would I maintain that
all the poor of this world are rich in faith and heirs of the kingdom.
But some of them are. And if some of the rich of this world (through
the grace of Him with whom all things are possible) are also modest in
their tastes, and gentle in their hearts, and open in their minds, and
ready to be pleased with unbought pleasures, they simply share in the
best things which are provided for all.
I speak not now of the strife that men wage over the definition and the
laws of property. Doubtless there is much here that needs to be set
right. There are men and women in the world who are shut out from the
right to earn a living, so poor that they must perish for want of daily
bread, so full of misery that there is no room for the tiniest seed
of joy in their lives. This is the lingering shame of civilization.
Some day, perhaps, we shall find the way to banish it. Some day, every
man shall have his title to a share in the world's great work and the
world's large joy.
But meantime it is certain that, where there are a hundred poor bodies
who suffer from physical privation, there are a thousand poor souls who
suffer from spiritual poverty. To relieve this greater suffering there
needs no change of laws, only a change of heart.
What does it profit a man to be the landed proprietor of countless
acres unless he can reap the harvest of delight that blooms from every
rood of God's earth for the seeing eye and the loving spirit? And who
can reap that harvest so closely that there shall not be abundant
gleaning left for all mankind? The most that a wide principality can
yield to its legal owner is a living. But the real owner can gather
from a field of goldenrod, shining in the August sunlight, an unearned
increment of delight.
We measure success by accumulation. The measure is false. The true
measure is appreciation. He who loves most has most.
How foolishly we train ourselves for the work of life! We give our most
arduous and eager efforts to the cultivation of those faculties which
will serve us in the competitions of the forum and the market-place.
But if we were wise, we should care infinitely more for the unfolding
of those inward, secret, spiritual powers by which alone we can
become the owners of anything that is worth having. Surely God is the
great proprietor. Yet all His works He has given away. He holds no
title-deeds. The one thing that is His, is the perfect understanding,
the perfect joy, the perfect love, of all things that He has made. To
a share in this high ownership He welcomes all who are poor in spirit.
This is the earth which the meek inherit. This is the patrimony of the
saints in light.
“Come, laddie,” I said to my comrade, “let us go home. You and I are
very rich. We own the mountains. But we can never sell them, and we
don't want to.”
SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS
1. In what does real ownership consist?
2. Why is it wrong to “measure success by accumulation”?
3. What is “spiritual poverty”?
4. How may you truly own a book?
5. How may you truly own a beautiful scene?
6. How may you become a really rich person?
7. How may you truly own a beautiful picture?
8. How does Dr. Van Dyke introduce his principal thought?
9. What is the spirit of the essay?
10. Make a list of the most beautiful sentences.
SUBJECTS FOR WRITTEN IMITATION
1. The Fountain of Youth 11. Spendthrifts
2. The Place of Happiness 12. Hidden Treasures
3. A Wise Person 13. Angels in Reality
4. Successful People 14. Real Strength
5. A Truly Useful Life 15. My Own City
6. A Wide Traveler 16. A Master of Men
7. Comfort 17. Having One's Way
8. The Best Medicine 18. A Wise Reader
9. An Explorer in Daily Life 19. Heroism at Home
10. Investing for the Future 20. Sunshine All the Time
DIRECTIONS FOR WRITING
Show, in your essay, that all people have at their command some
wealth, or some wonderful power, that they little suspect. Show
how they may make use of the opportunity that lies before them.
In order to do this, lead into your thought as naturally as Dr. Van
Dyke leads into his. You will write more wisely and more sincerely
if you set your thoughts in motion from some real experience,--from
some time when you were genuinely impressed and uplifted in
spirit.
FOOTNOTES:
[22] From “Fisherman's Luck,” by Henry Van Dyke. Copyright, 1905, by
Charles Scribner's Sons.
[23] The scene mentioned in the essay is in the White Mountain region
in New Hampshire, one of the most beautiful regions in the United
States.
[24] Midas Bond. Greek legend tells of Midas, king of Phrygia, who had
the power of turning into gold everything that he touched. “Bond” is of
course, a modern synonym for wealth.
[25] Pomposus Silverman. Another combination of a classical and a
modern expression,--a haughty lord of silver.
[26] Bücherfreund. Lover of books.
THE LEGENDARY STORY
RUNNING WOLF
By ALGERNON BLACKWOOD
_(1869--). An English author and journalist. He is a graduate of
the University of Edinburgh. For a time he was on the staff of
the_ New York Sun, _and of the_ New York Times. _He is the author
of_ The Lost Valley; Paris Garden; A Prisoner in Fairyland; The
Starlight Express. _He writes with strongly suggestive power._
=The legend and its origin and development, are well illustrated in
the story of _Running Wolf_. Some hundred years before the story
begins, so the author says, certain tragic events had occurred in
the Canadian backwoods. From those events had grown beliefs held by
all who lived within the region. The author very cleverly makes his
story a continuation of the legend.=
=_Running Wolf_ deals not only with the beliefs of a primitive
people but also with the supernatural. It suggests an unhappy,
wandering spirit unable to escape from the chains of earth. In its
treatment of the supernatural the story is surpassingly powerful.
It gains every effect through the power of suggestion. At no time
does the story, in so many words, say that the supernatural is
present. Instead, it places the reader in a position where it is
natural to infer something beyond the ordinary. In other words, the
story does what life does: it presents facts and leaves people to
draw their own conclusions.=
=Over the entire story hangs an atmosphere entirely in keeping with
the events narrated. The reader feels drawn into the solemn silence
of the vast forest; he knows the loneliness of little-visited
lakes, and the black terror that surrounds a wilderness camp-fire
at night.=
=The story is rich with foreshadowing, sentence after sentence
pointing toward the climax and emphasizing the single effect that
is produced.=
=Because of its hauntingly suggestive power _Running Wolf_ is a
remarkable story of the supernatural.=
=“Loneliness in a backwoods camp brings charm, pleasure, and a
happy sense of calm until, and unless, it comes too near. Once it
has crept within short distance, however, it may easily cross the
narrow line between comfort and discomfort.”=
The man who enjoys an adventure outside the general experience of the
race, and imparts it to others, must not be surprised if he is taken
for either a liar or a fool, as Malcolm Hyde, hotel clerk on a holiday,
discovered in due course. Nor is “enjoy” the right word to use in
describing his emotions; the word he chose was probably “survive.”
When he first set eyes on Medicine Lake he was struck by its still,
sparkling beauty, lying there in the vast Canadian backwoods; next, by
its extreme loneliness; and, lastly--a good deal later, this--by its
combination of beauty, loneliness, and singular atmosphere, due to the
fact that it was the scene of his adventure.
“It 's fairly stiff with big fish,” said Morton of the Montreal
Sporting Club. “Spend your holiday there--up Mattawa way, some fifteen
miles west of Stony Creek. You'll have it all to yourself except for
an old Indian who's got a shack there. Camp on the east side--if
you'll take a tip from me.” He then talked for half an hour about the
wonderful sport; yet he was not otherwise very communicative, and did
not suffer questions gladly, Hyde noticed. Nor had he stayed there very
long himself. If it was such a paradise as Morton, its discoverer and
the most experienced rod in the province, claimed, why had he himself
spent only three days there?
“Ran short of grub,” was the explanation offered; but to another
friend he had mentioned briefly, “flies,” and to a third, so Hyde
learned later, he gave the excuse that his half-breed “took sick,”
necessitating a quick return to civilization.
Hyde, however, cared little for the explanations; his interest in these
came later. “Stiff with fish” was the phrase he liked. He took the
Canadian Pacific train to Mattawa, laid in his outfit at Stony Creek,
and set off thence for the fifteen-mile canoe-trip without a care in
the world.
Traveling light, the portages did not trouble him; the water was swift
and easy, the rapids negotiable; everything came his way, as the saying
is. Occasionally he saw big fish making for the deeper pools, and was
sorely tempted to stop; but he resisted. He pushed on between the
immense world of forests that stretched for hundreds of miles, known to
deer, bear, moose, and wolf, but strange to any echo of human tread,
a deserted and primeval wilderness. The autumn day was calm, the water
sang and sparkled, the blue sky hung cloudless over all, ablaze with
light. Toward evening he passed an old beaver-dam, rounded a little
point, and had his first sight of Medicine Lake. He lifted his dripping
paddle; the canoe shot with silent glide into calm water. He gave an
exclamation of delight, for the loveliness caught his breath away.
Though primarily a sportsman, he was not insensible to beauty. The
lake formed a crescent, perhaps four miles long, its width between a
mile and half a mile. The slanting gold of sunset flooded it. No wind
stirred its crystal surface. Here it had lain since the red-skin's god
first made it; here it would lie until he dried it up again. Towering
spruce and hemlock trooped to its very edge, majestic cedars leaned
down as if to drink, crimson sumachs shone in fiery patches, and maples
gleamed orange and red beyond belief. The air was like wine, with the
silence of a dream.
It was here the red men formerly “made medicine,” with all the wild
ritual and tribal ceremony of an ancient day. But it was of Morton,
rather than of Indians, that Hyde thought. If this lonely, hidden
paradise was really stiff with big fish, he owed a lot to Morton for
the information. Peace invaded him, but the excitement of the hunter
lay below.
He looked about him with quick, practised eye for a camping-place
before the sun sank below the forests and the half-lights came. The
Indian's shack, lying in full sunshine on the eastern shore, he found
at once; but the trees lay too thick about it for comfort, nor did he
wish to be so close to its inhabitant. Upon the opposite side, however,
an ideal clearing offered. This lay already in shadow, the huge forest
darkening it toward evening; but the open space attracted. He paddled
over quickly and examined it. The ground was hard and dry, he found,
and a little brook ran tinkling down one side of it into the lake. This
outfall, too, would be a good fishing spot. Also it was sheltered. A
few low willows marked the mouth.
An experienced camper soon makes up his mind. It was a perfect site,
and some charred logs, with traces of former fires, proved that he
was not the first to think so. Hyde was delighted. Then, suddenly,
disappointment came to tinge his pleasure. His kit was landed, and
preparations for putting up the tent were begun, when he recalled
a detail that excitement had so far kept in the background of his
mind--Morton's advice. But not Morton's only, for the storekeeper at
Stony Creek had reinforced it. The big fellow with straggling mustache
and stooping shoulders, dressed in shirt and trousers, had handed him
out a final sentence with the bacon, flour, condensed milk, and sugar.
He had repeated Morton's half-forgotten words:
“Put yer tent on the east shore. I should,” he had said at parting.
He remembered Morton, too, apparently. “A shortish fellow, brown as
an Indian and fairly smelling of the woods. Traveling with Jake, the
half-breed.” That assuredly was Morton. “Didn't stay long, now, did
he?” he added in a reflective tone.
“Going Windy Lake way, are yer? Or Ten Mile Water, maybe?” he had first
inquired of Hyde.
“Medicine Lake.”
“Is that so?” the man said, as though he doubted it for some obscure
reason. He pulled at his ragged mustache a moment. “Is that so, now?”
he repeated. And the final words followed him down-stream after a
considerable pause--the advice about the best shore on which to put his
tent.
All this now suddenly flashed back upon Hyde's mind with a tinge of
disappointment and annoyance, for when two experienced men agreed,
their opinion was not to be lightly disregarded. He wished he had asked
the storekeeper for more details. He looked about him, he reflected,
he hesitated. His ideal camping-ground lay certainly on the forbidden
shore. What in the world, he wondered, could be the objection to it?