Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, D Alexander, Juliet
Sutherland, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdp.net
THE CHILDREN'S
LONGFELLOW
TOLD IN PROSE BY
DORIS HAYMAN
_ILLUSTRATED_
GRAHAM & MATLACK
NEW YORK.
* * * * *
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 1
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP 3
HIAWATHA 12
KING ROBERT OF SICILY 26
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 37
THE GOLDEN LEGEND 42
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 56
LADY WENTWORTH 67
ELIZABETH 73
THE MONK AND THE ASS 82
EVANGELINE 93
THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO 111
* * * * *
LONGFELLOW'S POEMS IN PROSE
The home of the American poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, during the
greater part of his life was in the picturesque town of Cambridge,
Massachusetts, and there many of his best known poems were written.
The forge of the Village Blacksmith really stood there beneath the
shelter of a "spreading chestnut tree," in Cambridge, and when, as the
town grew larger, the smithy was removed and the tree cut down, all the
school children in Cambridge subscribed together to buy the wood of the
famous tree and had a chair made from it which they gave to the poet.
Longfellow was deeply interested in all Indian lore, and in the poem of
Hiawatha he has embodied many of the old legends of the North American
Indians. Hiawatha, who was known among the different tribes under
various names, was supposed to be a person of miraculous birth, sent
among them by the Great Spirit to clear their rivers and forests and to
teach them the arts of peace.
In the Golden Legend we find quite a different form of story. This is a
legend written down by one of the old German Minnesinger and called,
"Der arme Heinrich" (Unhappy Henry). The American poet has faithfully
followed the outlines of the story, but has added a good deal to it,
including the appearance of Lucifer with his train of evil spirits, and
his attempts to lead Prince Henry astray.
Five of the remaining stories are taken from the "Tales of a Wayside
Inn"--a series of poems whose plan was evidently suggested by the
Canterbury Tales.
DORIS HAYMAN.
* * * * *
_The
Building
Of the Ship_
It was in bygone days, long before the use of steam was even thought
about; trains were unknown, and when people wished to get from one part
of the country to another they were obliged to make the journey on
horseback or in coaches, and distances, which nowadays we can cover in a
few hours, used to take our ancestors several days. It was the same
thing in regard to journeys by sea. To cross the Atlantic, for instance,
by an old-fashioned sailing vessel was a far more venturesome
undertaking than it is to step aboard one of the great ocean liners and
be conveyed swiftly and safely to one's destination. A sailing ship ran
far greater risks of being wrecked by storms, and, if the winds were
unfavorable, she would toss about for weeks, perhaps even for months,
instead of being able to make straight for her port. And yet there was a
charm about a sailing ship which no steamer with all its complicated
machinery can replace, and in the good old days we hear of men who have
weathered storms as violent and sailed on voyages quite as perilous as
any which have been undertaken since.
Well, it happened in the times of which we are speaking, that a wealthy
merchant in the New Country came to a great ship-builder, who was known
to all by the name of the Master, and bade him build a strong and goodly
ship.
"It must be beautiful to behold," said the merchant, "and yet strong
enough to wrestle with wind and storm."
The Master was delighted to receive this commission, for his heart was
in his work and he felt that here was a chance to build a ship worthy of
his reputation, so he answered joyfully: "Before long we will launch as
goodly and strong a vessel as ever weathered a wintry gale."
At these words the merchant departed content, because he knew that
whatever the Master promised he would surely fulfill.
The Master made no delay but set to work at once on a little model of
the ship, making it perfect in every part, so that when the great ship
came to be built he would have every detail already clear before him. As
he labored, his mind was busy recalling all the famous ships which had
been built before this one. A picture of one of the most renowned, the
_Great Harry_, was hanging on the wall before him. It was a strange
sight, with its cumbersome form, its bow and stern raised high and its
eight round towers like those of some old castle. The Master smiled as
he looked on it and murmured to himself: "Our ship shall be of another
form to this." And when the model was finished, it was indeed of a very
different build. She was a beautiful little vessel built for freight and
yet for speed; broad in the beam so as to resist storm, but tapering off
at the bow and stern so that the force of the waves might drive her on
instead of checking her course. When the model was quite finished, the
Master carried it down to the ship-yard and looked round searchingly to
see that all the necessary preparations had been made. Gigantic heaps of
timber lay piled in the ship-yard; there were beams of chestnut, elm,
and oak, and, scattered among them, cedar wood brought from regions far
away. Every country, every soil must send its tribute and help to build
the wooden walls of each ship that is launched.
The sun was rising when the Master came down to the ship-yard; with him
was a young man, who stood leaning against an anchor and who listened
eagerly to every word which fell from the Master's lips. These two were
alone and the old man's speech flowed on, interrupted by nothing but the
waves which broke in long ripples on the pebbly shore. This young man
had for a long time been a pupil and worker of the master; though his
years were fewer, his brain was as quick, his hands as dexterous as
those of the elder man, and to him was now entrusted the important task
of building and launching the ship on the lines that the Master had
planned.
[Illustration]
"We will build the ship thus," said the old man. "Lay the blocks of wood
on the slip, following my plans closely, and be sure to choose the
timber with the greatest care; the framework is to be of cedar and pine
and every inch of wood must be sound. When the ship is finished she
shall be named _Union_, and the day she is launched my daughter shall
become your bride."
[Illustration]
Joy filled the youth's heart, and, turning his head, he caught sight of
the maiden standing before her father's door. Young and fair was the
Master's daughter, with golden hair and sparkling eyes, and, as he
gazed at her, he felt that no task could be too difficult for him to
accomplish, since he had the promise of a reward so fair as this. Love
is a splendid master; no task seems too difficult when love fills the
heart and guides the hand, and he who is urged by love far outstrips all
others.
And thus it was with this youth; love of his bride and love of his work
made him strong and skillful, and, so impatient was he to see the
completion of the ship, that he summoned his workmen and set about his
noble task without an instant's delay. Soon the sound of axes and
mallets plied by sturdy arms was heard on all sides of the ship-yard.
Before the shadows of evening fell, the oaken keel of a noble ship was
lying ready stretched along the blocks. The work was well begun and all
seemed to promise fair for a happy ending.
When the long hot day was over, the young man and his promised bride sat
before the door of the Master's house while the old man rested within
the sheltered porch and recounted tales of wrecks which had taken place
at the time of the great September gales, and of pirates who had made
the Spanish seas a place of danger for harmless merchant ships; then he
spoke of ships which had sailed for distant shores but had never
returned, and of the chances and changes of a sailor's life. The Master
himself had sailed to many far-off lands and he told his attentive
listeners of their wondrous charm; of their palms and shining sands, the
coral reefs and the dark-skinned natives who dwelt there in savage
freedom. And, as he related these tales of the dark and cruel sea,
which, like death, unites man to his fellows and yet holds them far
asunder, the maiden held her breath and clung to her lover, dreading the
days when perchance they too might be divided by the pitiless ocean. The
three sat for a while in thoughtful silence as the darkness deepened
around them, broken only from time to time by the fitful gleam of the
old man's pipe.
Work was resumed afresh the next morning, and the vessel grew day by day
till at length a skeleton ship rose to view. Weeks passed on and the
ship made rapid progress till the whole hulk stood ready. Then a great
cauldron was heated, and the bubbling tar within was used to smear over
the planks and thus sheathe the ship.
The rudder of oak banded with copper, which was to control the whole
vessel, lay ready on the sand, and near it the anchor, whose mighty grip
was to hold the great ship secure against raging storms. The figure-head
was in the shape of a maiden clad in white robes which seemed to be
fluttering in the wind; a great artist had carved it in wood and had
taken the Master's daughter as his model. In after days many a signal
light was flashed on to her, and her graceful form became well known to
those who watched as the ship sped by through the dark and rainy nights.
In the forests near the snow-covered mountains and plains, majestic pine
trees were hewn down and dragged by oxen along the winding road to the
shore. Here they were stripped of their branches and bark and used for
the tall and tapering masts of the noble ship. Only the roar of the wind
and waves would remind them of their native forests which they would
never see again. When the masts were swung into place, they were made
fast with shrouds and stays; and finally a flag of red, white, and blue
was unfurled at the masthead and displayed its stars and stripes to an
admiring throng.
At length there came the day of the double bridal--that of the gray old
sea to the ship, and the wedding of the young master and his bride. The
_Union_ was decked out with gay flags and streamers, and the bridal
party came on board. The service was read and the Master, with tears in
his eyes, shook the brown hand of his son and kissed his daughter's fair
cheek. The worthy pastor spoke kindly words of warning and cheer to the
young couple and bade them Godspeed on their journey through life.
Then the Master waved his hand, and, at this signal, there was heard all
around the noise of hammers knocking away the vessel's supports.
Suddenly the ship moved, a thrill seemed to run all through her frame,
and with a sudden leap she bounded into the ocean. Loud shouts and
cheers uprose from the crowds assembled on the beach, and the staunch
ship _Union_ sailed gayly forth on her first voyage.
HIAWATHA
Long, long ago, in days that are now forgotten, the West-Wind wooed a
lovely Indian maiden, but soon, cruelly and faithlessly, he deserted her
and she died of grief, leaving her baby son, Hiawatha, to the care of
his grandmother, old Nokomis.
Deep in the forest was Hiawatha's home, and Nature herself was his
schoolmistress. He learned all about the birds, how they built their
nests in summer, and where they hid themselves in winter, the names and
habits of all the wild beasts which roamed through the woods, and, best
of all, he learned their language and all their secrets.
Skilled in the craft of Indian hunters, and all the lore the wise men of
his tribe could teach him, Hiawatha grew from childhood into manhood,
and by much questioning learned from old Nokomis the story of his
mother's cruel desertion. Full of wrath, he determined to be revenged on
his father, Mudjekeewis, and in spite of his grandmother's warnings, the
youth set out on his long journey. Wearing his magic moccasins (or
deerskin shoes), with which he measured a mile every stride, Hiawatha
journeyed westward, ever westward, until at length he reached the
kingdom of Mudjekeewis, ruler of all the winds of heaven, who joyfully
welcomed the handsome youth. But anger rose in the heart of Hiawatha,
and, rending asunder a huge rock with his magic mittens, he flung the
fragments full at Mudjekeewis. For three days a terrible fight raged
between the two warriors, till at last Mudjekeewis cried: "Hold, my son,
it is impossible to kill me for I am immortal; I did but fight with you
to test your valor. Go back now to your people; live with them, work
with them, and free the land from all monsters and giants. And when
Death at last lays his icy hand upon you, you shall share my kingdom and
be ruler of the Northwest-Wind." Then all anger departed from Hiawatha
and he went on his homeward way; only once did he turn aside, to buy
arrow-heads from the ancient arrow-maker in the land of a neighboring
Indian tribe. But do you not think that arrow-heads could equally well
have been bought in his own village? It was to see the arrow-maker's
dark-eyed daughter, Minnehaha, that Hiawatha halted in the land of the
Dacotahs, and when he reached home he told Nokomis of the meeting with
his father and the great fight, but not a word did he say of arrows or
of the maiden.
Hiawatha had two beloved friends, the sweet-voiced singer, Chibiabos,
and Kwasind, strongest of all men. Even the birds could not sing so
sweetly or the brooks murmur so gently as Chibiabos, and all the hearts
of men were softened by the pathos of his music. But dear as he was to
Hiawatha, no less dear was Kwasind. Idle and dreamy was Kwasind so that
even his mother taunted him. "Lazy Kwasind," said she one winter's day,
"you never help me in my work. The fishing nets are hanging at the door,
dripping, freezing with the water--go and wring them out for me!" Slowly
Kwasind rose from his seat, and going to the doorway did as she bade
him, but, to his mother's dismay, the nets broke beneath his powerful
fingers as if they were wisps of straw! Sometimes Kwasind used his vast
strength to good purpose; for instance, when Hiawatha built himself a
swift canoe, Kwasind dived into the water and cleared the whole
river-bed of sunken logs and sandbars in order to insure a safe passage
for his friend.
[Illustration]
Shortly after this Hiawatha set out in his canoe to catch the sturgeon
Nahma, king of fishes. The monster fish lay on the white sand at the
bottom of the river, and Hiawatha, line in hand, sat in his canoe,
shouting: "Take my bait, O Nahma; come up and let us see which is the
stronger!" At length Nahma grew weary of this clamor, and said to the
pike: "Take the bait of this rude fellow and break his line." The pike
tugged at the line till the birch canoe stood almost endwise, but
Hiawatha only pulled the harder, and when the fish rose to the surface
he cried with scorn: "You are but the pike; you are not the king of
fishes," and the pike sank down ashamed to the bottom of the river. Then
Nahma bade the sun-fish break Hiawatha's tackle, but again Hiawatha
pulled the great fish to the surface of the water and again cast him
down, crying: "You are not the fish I wanted; you are not the king of
fishes!" Then Nahma grew angry, and, opening his huge jaws, swallowed
both canoe and Hiawatha. Finding himself in utter darkness, Hiawatha
groped about till he felt the monster's heart which he smote so fiercely
that he killed him. Anxious to escape from his dark prison, Hiawatha
waited till the giant sturgeon drifted on to the shore, then called for
aid to his friends the sea-gulls, who worked with their claws and beaks
till they made a wide rift in Nahma's side and set Hiawatha free.
[Illustration]
Proud of her grandson's bravery, old Nokomis now set him a difficult
task. "In a land lying westward, a land of fever and pestilence, lives
the mighty magician, Pearl-Feather, who slew my father. Take your canoe
and smear its sides with the oil I have made from the body of Nahma, so
that you may pass swiftly through the black pitch-water and avenge my
father's murder." Thus spoke old Nokomis, and Hiawatha did as she bade
him, smeared the sides of his boat with oil and passed swiftly through
the black water, which was guarded by fiery serpents. All these Hiawatha
slew, and then journeyed on unmolested till he reached the desolate
realm he sought. Here he shot an arrow at Pearl-Feather's lodge as a
challenge, and the magician, tall of stature, dark and terrible to
behold, came forth to meet him. All day long raged the greatest fight
that ever the sun had looked on, but no weapon could penetrate
Pearl-Feather's magic shirt of wampum, and at sunset, wounded and weary,
with three useless arrows in his hand, Hiawatha paused a while to rest
beneath the shade of a pine tree.
As he stood there, despairing of victory, a wood-pecker sang from the
branches above him: "Aim your arrows at the roots of his long hair;
there alone he can be wounded." Well it was for Hiawatha that he
understood the bird's language! Stringing the first of his arrows to his
bow he let fly at Pearl-Feather, who was stooping to pick up a heavy
stone. The arrow struck him full on the crown, and the second and third
arrows, swiftly following, penetrated deep into the wound, so that the
mighty magician fell lifeless at Hiawatha's feet. Then Hiawatha stripped
the magic shirt of wampum off his dead foe and took from his wigwam (or
tent) all his wealth of furs, belts, and silver-tipped arrows. And our
hero sailed homeward in triumph and shared his spoils equally among his
people.
Now there came a time in the life of Hiawatha when he wished to wed, and
his thoughts turned to Minnehaha, whom they called Laughing Water,
loveliest maiden in all the land of the Dacotahs. He spoke to Nokomis of
this, telling her that his wedding with the fair Dacotah should heal all
strife between the two tribes. So eloquently did he speak of the
maiden's beauty and skillfulness in household matters, that he overruled
Nokomis' many objections to his choice of a stranger, and set out in all
haste to seek his bride. After a long journey he reached the home of the
arrow-maker, whom he found seated in the doorway of his wigwam making
arrow-heads, with his daughter at his side, busily engaged in plaiting
mats of rushes. Hearing a rustling in the woods they looked up and saw
Hiawatha standing before them, carrying on his shoulders a deer he had
just slain. This offer he laid at the feet of Laughing Water, and the
old man and the maiden both bade the young hunter welcome; then
Minnehaha prepared a meal and set it before the two men. When they had
finished eating, Hiawatha spoke of his childhood, his friends, and of
the happiness and plenty in his land. "After many years of strife," said
he, "there is now peace between your tribe and mine. In order to make
the peace more lasting and our hearts more united, give me this maiden
for my wife." And the ancient arrow-maker answered gravely: "Yes, if
Minnehaha wishes; let your heart speak, Minnehaha!" Then the maiden rose
up and took the seat beside Hiawatha, saying softly: "I will follow you,
my husband." Thus was Hiawatha's wooing, and hand in hand the young
couple went away together, leaving the old arrow-maker in his
loneliness.
When Hiawatha and his fair bride reached their home, old Nokomis
prepared a sumptuous wedding-feast to which many guests were bidden.
Among them was a handsome but idle and mischievous youth named
Pau-Puk-Keewis, who was renowned for his skill in all sports and
pastimes. To please the company he rose from his seat and danced his
merry dances to the music of flutes and drums. Then the sweet singer,
Chibiabos, sang a melodious love-song, and when this was finished, Iagoo
the Boaster, jealous of the praise and applause bestowed on the
musician, told one of his most marvelous stories, and well pleased the
wedding-guests took their departure.
As the days went on, old Nokomis found that her grumblings about the
uselessness of a wife from a far-off land had not been justified, for
Minnehaha was as skilled with her fingers as she was beautiful, and
Hiawatha loved her more and more dearly.
[Illustration]
Once, when all the maize was planted, Hiawatha bade his wife go alone at
night, clothed only in her dark tresses, and draw a magic circle round
the cornfield, so that no blight or insect might injure the harvest.
This Minnehaha did, but the King of Ravens and his band of followers,
who were perched on the tree-tops overlooking the cornfield, laughed
with glee to think that Hiawatha had forgotten what mischief they could
do. So early on the morrow all the black thieves, crows and blackbirds,
jays and ravens, flew down on the field, and with claws and beak began
to dig up the buried grain. But the wary Hiawatha had over-heard the
birds' mocking laughter and, rising before daybreak, had scattered
snares over the fields. Thus it happened that the birds found their
claws all entangled in the snares, and Hiawatha, coming out from the
hiding-place where he had been watching them, killed them without
mercy; only one was spared, the King of Ravens himself, whom Hiawatha
pinioned with a strong rope and fastened to the ridge-pole of his wigwam
as a warning to all other thieves.
[Illustration]
Now it chanced one day that the mischievous Pau-Puk-Keewis wandered
through the village and reaching the farthest wigwam, which was that of
Hiawatha, found it deserted. The raven perched on the ridge-pole,
flapped his wings, and screamed at the intruder; but Pau-Puk-Keewis
twisted the poor bird's neck and left the lifeless body dangling from
the roof; then he entered the lodge and threw all the household things
into the wildest disorder as an insult to the careful Nokomis and the
beautiful Minnehaha. Satisfied with the mischief he had done,
Pau-Puk-Keewis climbed a rocky headland overlooking the lake and amused
himself by killing the sea-gulls as they fluttered round him.
When Hiawatha returned, fierce anger rose in his heart. "I will slay
this mischief-maker," said he, "even if I have to search the world for
him." Together with other hunters he set out in hot pursuit, but cunning
Pau-Puk-Keewis outstripped them all and ran, swift as an antelope, till
he came to a stream in the midst of a forest where the beavers had built
a dam. "Change me into a beaver," he entreated them, "and make me larger
than yourselves, so that I may be your ruler and king." "Yes," said one
of the beavers, "let yourself down into the water, and we will make you
into a beaver ten times larger than any of ourselves." This they did,
but not long had Pau-Puk-Keewis sat in state among the beavers when they
heard a trampling and a crashing above the water, and the watchman
cried: "Here is Hiawatha with his hunters!" All the other beavers made
their escape through the doorway of their lodge into deeper water, but
so large had Pau-Puk-Keewis become that he could not pass through the
opening. Then Hiawatha, peering through the water, recognized
Pau-Puk-Keewis, in spite of his disguise, and slew him. Six tall hunters
bore the dead body of the beaver homeward, but the spirit of
Pau-Puk-Keewis was still alive within it, and escaping, took its human
form again and vanished into the forest.
[Illustration]
Only the wary Hiawatha saw the figure as it disappeared and followed in
hot pursuit. Hard pressed, Pau-Puk-Keewis reached the edge of the lake
and besought a brant (or wild goose) to change him into one of
themselves, and to make him ten times larger than the others.
Straightway they changed him into an enormous brant, and, with a whirr
of wings, the whole flock rose in the air and flew northward. "Take good
heed and look not downward, lest some great mishap befall you," cried
the other birds to Pau-Puk-Keewis, and he heeded their words. But on the
morrow, as they continued their flight, Pau-Puk-Keewis heard a great
shouting in the village beneath and knew the voices of Hiawatha and
Iagoo. Forgetful of his warning, he looked downward, and the wind caught
his plumage and sent him whirling towards the earth. In vain he
struggled to regain his balance--he fell heavily to the ground and lay
dead with broken pinions. But his spirit was still alive, and, taking
its human form, again fled from Hiawatha. This time Hiawatha pursued his
cunning foe so closely that he could almost touch him, but
Pau-Puk-Keewis changed himself into a serpent and glided into a tree.
While Hiawatha was groping in the hollow trunk, the mischief-maker once
more took his human shape and sped away until he came to the sandstone
rocks overlooking the Big Lake; and the Old Man of the Mountain opened
his rocky doorway and gave Pau-Puk-Keewis shelter. Hiawatha stood
without and battered against the caverns shouting, "Open! I am
Hiawatha!" But the Old Man of the Mountain neither opened nor made
answer. Then Hiawatha raised his hands to heaven and called the thunder
and lightning to his aid. Stronger than any mortal power, the tempest
smote the rocks till they fell to fragments, and there beneath the crags
lay Pau-Puk-Keewis dead in his own human form.
This was Hiawatha's last victory--grief and loss were now to be his
portion. The death of his two friends, Chibiabos and Kwasind, weighed on
his mind, and, hardest of all, a long and dreary winter, bringing the
specters of famine and fever in its train, came upon the land and robbed
Hiawatha of his dearest treasure, his beautiful young wife.
Clad in her richest garments, Minnehaha was laid to rest deep beneath
the snow, and, as Hiawatha watched the fire which was kindled at night
on her grave, his heart grew less heavy, for he felt that their parting
was not for long. The time was soon to come when he too could depart to
the Islands of the Blessed, where the spirit of his wife awaited him.
KING ROBERT
OF SICILY
There was once a proud and selfish monarch, named King Robert, who ruled
over the kingdom of Sicily. One of his brothers was the mighty Pope
Urbane, and the other the rich Emperor Valmond, and King Robert spent as
lavishly and held even a more magnificent court than either of them. But
the Sicilian monarch was not beloved by his subjects, for he treated
them all with disdain, and in fact only looked on them as mere slaves,
whose duty it was to carry out all his orders, no matter at what
inconvenience to themselves.
One evening King Robert sat in state in the royal chapel and listened
idly to the priests chanting the service. Clad in his magnificent robes
he looked every inch a king, but his handsome face was marred by its
look of conceit and weariness. He soon grew tired of listening to the
service and let his thoughts wander, but suddenly his ear was caught by
some Latin words which were repeated over and over again, and, turning
to a learned clerk who stood near him, he asked: "What mean these
words?"
The learned man at once made reply: "He hath put down the mighty from
their seat, and has exalted them of low degree."
"'Tis well," said King Robert scornfully, "that such treason is only
uttered by priests and in the Latin tongue. My subjects, whether priests
or common people, know full well that there is no power which can hurl
me from my throne." Saying these words he yawned and leaned back in his
throne, and soon, lulled by the monotonous chanting, he fell fast
asleep.
When he awoke it was late at night. All the lights in the church had
been extinguished, except a few flickering candles, which were burning
before the shrine of some saint. The King started up from his seat and
gazed with anger and amazement round the empty church. He groped his way
towards the great door, but it was locked; then he shouted for
assistance, uttered angry threats, and hammered against the door, but
all in vain. At length the sexton, who lived hard by, was roused by the
tumult, and, fearful lest thieves or some drunken revelers had made
their way into the church, he came to the door, lantern in hand, and
cried in a quavering voice: "Who is there?"
"Open the door; 'tis I, the King!" shouted King Robert, almost choking
with rage.
"This is some drunken rogue," muttered the sexton, as, with trembling
fingers, he fumbled for the key. Pushing open the door, he stood timidly
aside, and suddenly the disheveled figure of a man without cloak or hat
rushed wildly past him. He neither turned nor spoke, but passed swiftly
out into the darkness of the night, and the bewildered sexton soon lost
sight of him.
Despoiled of his kingly garments, breathless and splashed with mire,
King Robert rushed on till he came to the palace gates. He strode
through the courtyard, thrusting aside the men-servants and pages who
tried to bar his path, and hurried up the broad marble staircase.
Rapidly he passed through the royal apartments, his face white with
anger rendered still more ghastly by the glare of the torches; he heeded
no one, nor stopped in his headlong course till he reached the great
banqueting-hall.
[Illustration]
Here a grand feast was in progress, and the hall blazed with the light
of thousands of wax candles. And to Robert's utter amazement, on the
throne sat another king wearing his robes and crown, and, to all outward
appearance, King Robert himself. None present, not even Robert himself,
recognized that the supposed king was an angel in disguise. Wearied of
the King's evil ways he had come down to earth to punish the monarch of
Sicily and humble his pride, and this was the way he had chosen to carry
out his purpose.
For a while the throneless King gazed with mingled anger and
astonishment at the angel, who met his glance with a look of compassion,
and then said: "Who art thou, and why comest thou hither?" to which the
King haughtily replied: "I am the King, and come to claim my throne from
the impostor who usurps it."
At these audacious words the guests sprang up in anger and drew their
swords to slay the man who dared speak thus to the King, but the angel
answered calmly: "Thou art not the King, but henceforth thou shalt be
the king's jester and wear cap and bells and motley. As counselor thou
shalt lead an ape, and thou shalt obey my servants and wait on my
hench-men."
No sooner said than done. Deaf to King Robert's cries, prayers, and
entreaties, the men-at-arms thrust him from the hall. A group of
tittering pages ran before him and threw wide open the great
folding-doors. And now the King's heart was filled with alarm, for he
heard shouts of rude laughter and mocking cries of "Long live the King!"
and he realized that no one in the kingdom either knew or cared who he
really was.
Thrust from out his palace, the outcast King was led to some small shed
adjoining the stables. A door was opened, an armful of straw thrown down
within, and here he was bidden to sleep. When he awoke the next morning
he thought to himself it must all have been a dream, but, as he turned
his head, his couch of straw rustled beneath him, and he heard the
horses neighing in the stable hard by. Beside his bed lay cap and bells
and the parti-colored dress of a court-jester and in one corner of the
bare cell sat a shivering, chattering ape. Then King Robert realized
that it was not a dream but a dreadful reality, and that the most
wretched beggar in the kingdom would have scorned to change places with
the poor jester--the butt and laughing-stock of every underling at
court.
Days lengthened into months, and, under the angel's wise government, a
time of prosperity returned to Sicily and the land produced rich
harvests of corn and wine. The people no longer groaned under the burden
of taxation, and the King's ministers rejoiced greatly at the welcome
change which had come over their young master.
Meanwhile the real King Robert yielded sullenly to his fate. Mocked at
by all, his only friend the ape, his food the scraps left by others, his
heart was still haughty, his pride unsubdued. And when sometimes the
angel meeting him would ask, half in jest, half in earnest, "Art thou
the King?" he would draw himself up and fling back the haughty answer:
"I am, I am the King!"
[Illustration]
Almost three years had passed away when there came ambassadors from
Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, to the King of Sicily, saying that their
brother, Pope Urbane, had summoned them both by letter to the city of
Rome to celebrate Easter week with him there.
The angel received his guests with great joy and gave them rich presents
of velvet cloaks lined with ermine, rings, and rare jewels. Then he made
his preparations and set out with his retinue over the sea to the land
of Italy. Crowds of people came out to watch the progress of the royal
procession. The horses had gold and silver trappings, jeweled bridles,
the knights wore velvet cloaks and waving plumes, and their silver
spurs glittered in the sun. Then came the angel-monarch in rich attire
surrounded by his counselors and the flower of his knights. The
men-at-arms and servants brought up the rear of the procession, and
among them, on a shambling piebald steed, his ape perched behind him and
his cloak of foxtails flapping in the wind, rode the jester-king--a
strange sight which caused unbounded merriment in all the country towns
through which the procession passed.
Arrived in Rome, the Emperor and his supposed brother were received with
great pomp in the great square before St. Peter's. Little did the Pope
dream, as he bestowed his blessing and prayers on his younger brother,
that he was entertaining an angel unawares.
Suddenly a wild, unkempt figure rushed from among the crowd and into the
royal assembly. Forcing his way to the place where the Pope was seated
he cried loudly, "I am your brother Robert, King of Sicily. This man who
stands before you in my semblance is an impostor disguised as the King.
Do you not know me? Is there no voice within you that says I speak
truly, and that I am indeed your brother?"
The Pope made no reply, but gazed with troubled look at the angel's
unruffled face. Then the Emperor Valmond laughed and said:
"Brother, methinks you have strange taste to keep a madman for your
court-jester!"
It seemed quite evident to the bystanders that what the Emperor said was
very true, and once more, baffled and disgraced, the poor jester was
roughly thrust back among the wondering crowd.
[Illustration]
The week was spent in prayer and stately rejoicing till at length Easter
Sunday dawned upon the world. The presence of the angel filled the city
with gladness and the hearts of men with piety. Even the wretched jester
felt the influence of some gracious power, and, kneeling on the floor of
his cell, he humbly bowed his head in prayer. He felt new strength
rising within him, and new resolves, strangely meek ones for so proud a
King, were made by him on that glorious Easter morn.
The next day the three royal brothers bade each other farewell. Emperor
Valmond made his way northward to his kingdom by the Danube, while the
angel journeyed southward through the towns of Italy. Once more the
people marveled at the magnificence of his train, and once more the
jester became the laughing-stock of all the watching crowds, but he rode
on unheeding. His mad anger was stilled and he began at last to realize
that he had indeed deserved his dreadful punishment.
When the town of Salerno was reached the journey was continued by sea,
and soon the royal retinue was safe within the walls of Palermo. Seated
on his throne in the great hall, the angel listened dreamily to the
convent bells, which sounded to him like voices from another world.
Presently he roused himself from his meditations, and, with a gesture of
his hand, bade the rest of the court retire, and beckoned the jester to
draw near him. When the two were left alone, the angel said: "Art thou
the King?"
King Robert crossed his hands upon his breast, and, bending his head,
answered meekly: "Thou knowest best. My sins are very heavy; let me go
at once and do penance in a cloister. There I will school my spirit to
humility, and walk barefooted across the stones till my guilty soul is
shriven."
The angel smiled, and his radiant face seemed to illumine the hall with
a holy light. Then loud and clear through the open window the monks were
heard chanting in the chapel hard by: "He has put down the mighty from
their seat, and has exalted them of low degree."
And through the chant rose a second melody, a single melodious voice,
and the King seemed to hear the words: "I am an angel, and thou art the
King."
King Robert, who was standing near the throne, at length ventured to
lift his eyes, and, behold! he was alone in the hall! Looking round in
wonderment, his eye was caught by his attire; instead of the sorry garb
of the jester he was clothed in royal robes of ermine and cloth of gold.
Kneeling at the foot of the throne, King Robert gave heartfelt thanks to
the Divine Power which had taught him the error of his ways, and, when
his courtiers came to seek their royal master, they found him still
kneeling, absorbed in silent prayer.
THE
VILLAGE
BLACKSMITH
Have you ever peeped into a forge and seen a blacksmith at work? It is
quite exciting, I assure you, to see the flames being fanned by the
bellows, and myriads of sparks flying upwards and outwards on all sides,
while the blacksmith hammers the red-hot metal on the anvil and shapes
it into horseshoes and other useful things made of iron.
But there is one particular blacksmith whose acquaintance I want you to
make. He lives in a little village and his forge stands beneath the
shade of an immense chestnut tree with wide out-spreading branches. The
smith is a mighty man, and well he needs to be, for his work requires
great strength. His hands are large and sinewy and his muscles like
iron; his face is bronzed by the sun and his black hair is long and
curls crisply. He does not make a great deal of money in spite of all
his hard work, but he earns quite sufficient for his own modest wants
and to provide his only daughter with all the necessaries of life, and
even a pretty gown to wear in church on Sundays. His one modest boast is
that he is able to look every one honestly in the face, for he is not in
debt for a single farthing.
[Illustration]
The village blacksmith works hard from morning till night; at any time
in the day you pass by the forge you can hear the bellows being blown by
one of his boys, while he himself swings his heavy sledge-hammer,
keeping such regular time with his strokes that it calls to mind the
tolling of the village bell--a custom which the old sexton never omits
as the day draws to its close. On their way home from school, all the
village children love to peep in at the open door of the smithy to see
the flaming forge and hear the roar of the bellows. They have a fine
game at pretending to catch the sparks, which fly about as the chaff
does when the corn is being threshed in the barns at harvest time.
But on Sunday the blacksmith puts aside all his labor and goes with the
other villagers to church, where he takes his usual seat among his boys.
He listens attentively to the praying and preaching, and above all to
the singing, for his daughter is in the village choir and the sound of
her sweet voice brings joy into his heart. His thoughts go back to the
time when his young wife sang in tones as clear and pure as these, but
God thought fit to call her from him years ago to sing in the heavenly
choir. As he thinks of her lonely grave in the churchyard close by tears
rise in the blacksmith's eyes, but he wipes them away with his hard
rough hand and resolves to be grateful for the many blessings still left
to him.
When the service is over and the congregation leaves the church, after
greeting his friends, the blacksmith turns aside and, standing by his
wife's grave, reads once more the simple inscription on the stone which
he has put up to her memory. But you may be sure that the blacksmith's
pretty daughter knows where he is to be found, and, taking him gently by
the arm, leads him homeward, beguiling the way with cheerful words.
[Illustration]
This is how the busy blacksmith spends his life--toiling, rejoicing,
sorrowing. Every morning he begins some fresh task and he works so hard
that by evening he has finished it. He has attempted something and he
has completed something--surely he has well earned his night's rest.
We may all learn a useful lesson from the life of the village
blacksmith. Let us try to live as honestly, as uprightly, and as
laboriously as he, so that one day we may deserve to hear the words,
"Well done, My good and faithful servants!" Let us try so to live that
each action of our lives shall be a good and shapely thing, a help and a
benefit to others, like the horseshoes made by the honest blacksmith are
to our four-footed friends.
GOLDEN LEGEND
The land of Germany has always been famous for its store of wonderful
songs and legends. Its poets of olden days, who were known as the
Minnesinger, used to wander round the country singing or reciting these
tales and everywhere they went they were sure of a warm welcome. The
"Golden Legend" is one of these old stories, and runs as follows:
Lucifer, who was once one of the good angels, had been cast out of
Heaven for the sin of pride. He gathered all the spirits of evil around
him and made himself their leader. His one desire now was to do harm to
all mankind and, by putting wicked thoughts into men's minds, make them
themselves do evil so that he might grieve the good angels and thus take
revenge for the punishment which had been inflicted on him.
Among other wicked deeds he sought to tear down the spire of Strasburg
Cathedral, but was defeated by the good spirits, who kept unceasing
watch and ward over the holy place. Baffled in this attempt, Lucifer
betook himself to a castle on the Rhine, the dwelling of young Prince
Henry of Hoheneck. Prince though he was, his lot was a most unhappy one,
for he was suffering from a deadly disease which the most famous
physicians had been unable to cure. Ill and restless, Prince Henry was
sitting alone at midnight in a tower of his castle, when suddenly there
came a flash of lightning, and Lucifer, disguised as a doctor, stood
before him.
"All hail, Prince Henry!" said the stranger.
"Who are you," asked the Prince, "and what may be your purpose in coming
hither?"
"I am a traveling physician," replied the cunning spirit, "and I can
cure all diseases."
"But not mine," said Prince Henry, mournfully. "I have consulted almost
every famous doctor, but the case is quite beyond their science. Even
the learned doctors of Salerno have sent me back word that they know of
no cure for a malady like this save one, which from its very nature is
impossible."
"What is this mysterious remedy?"
"Read, and you shall see," answered the Prince, handing Lucifer a scroll
on which were these words:
"Not to be cured, yet not incurable!
The only remedy that remains
Is the blood that flows from a maiden's veins,
Who of her own free will shall die,
And give her life as the price of yours!"
"A strange remedy, indeed," said the false physician, "and one which you
will never be able to try. However, I have with me here a wonderful
draught which cures all pain--will you not taste it?"
Prince Henry hesitated, but finally drank from the crystal flask which
Lucifer gave him. The evil spirit disappeared with mocking laughter and
Prince Henry fell to the ground in a swoon. The magic draught which the
false doctor had given him was nothing but an enchantment destined to
work still more harm on the victim. The next morning the unfortunate
Prince was found by his attendants stretched on the floor of the tower
chamber and seemingly lifeless. When he began to recover, further
troubles were in store for him. He was summoned to appear in church
before a council of priests, who pronounced him to be a leper and an
outcast, and decreed that henceforth he was to be looked upon as one
dead. The burial service was read over him and then Prince Henry,
clothed in a cloak of hodden gray, and carrying a beggar's wallet, was
thrust from the door of the church into perpetual banishment.
A lonely exile, Prince Henry wandered through the land till he came to
a farm in the Odenwald, where dwelt the worthy peasant Gottlieb, with
his wife, Dame Ursula, and his daughter, Elsie, a beautiful maiden of
fifteen summers. These good people took compassion on their Prince and
begged him to dwell with them and share all they had. Glad to find a
resting-place among kindly folk, the Prince stayed for some months at
the farm, but each day he seemed to become a little weaker. The disease
from which he was suffering had made such rapid progress that he felt
his death rapidly drawing near. In these days of weakness and despair
the Prince tried to console himself by reading the old legends, and
watching Elsie as she flitted about the garden, gathering flowers to lay
at the shrine of her favorite saint. He would read aloud to her, and she
would give him some of her flowers and try in her gentle way to make her
dear Prince forget his heavy troubles.
Gradually Elsie grew to love the Prince with such devotion that it
seemed to her that no task could be too difficult, no sacrifice too
great for her to make, if only she could save his life. And then the
thought suddenly came to her that she would make the greatest sacrifice
of all and give her life, so that the cure of which the learned doctors
of Salerno had written might be carried out.
Filled with this resolve, she told her father and mother, who wept
bitterly and sought by every means in their power to dissuade her, but
all in vain. Then Elsie sought the Prince and begged him to allow her to
do this for him. His life, she said, was valuable to his country and his
people, for he would be restored to health and rule over them again,
whereas she was but a poor peasant girl and her place could easily be
filled.
Prince Henry struggled for some time against the temptation to accept
the sacrifice of this young life, and finally determined to go to the
village church and ask the advice of the priest in the matter. But the
Prince delayed his coming, and the priest had to leave the church at
sunset and go forth to visit the sick and needy. Lucifer, who was
watching his opportunity, slipped into the church, disguised this time
as a priest, and took his seat in the confessional. When the Prince at
length appeared and besought the priest to tell him whether he might
justly allow the maiden to give her life for his, instead of showing him
how wicked such an action would be and that it would be far better in
God's eyes that he should bear his sufferings uncomplainingly, the evil
spirit persuaded the wavering youth that the deed was right and
necessary and had the Church's full approval.
[Illustration]
Heedless of the voice of his good angel, which whispered to his
conscience that he was doing wrong, the Prince returned to the farm
and announced that he was prepared to accept the divine gift of life
from Elsie's hands. One request only did the maiden make, that, on their
pilgrimage to Salerno, neither by word nor deed should Prince Henry
attempt to dissuade her from her purpose. Elsie had no fear of death
and, when she had taken a last farewell of her grief-stricken parents,
the Prince set out with her on their long journey.
Easter Sunday found them in Strasburg, where the Prince tarried with
Elsie in order that they might witness the Miracle Play, which was acted
within the cathedral. After that, the next stage of their journey
brought them to Hirschau, where Prince Henry sought a night's shelter at
the monastery, after having placed Elsie under the charge of the Abbess
Irmingard in the nunnery a short distance away.
Lucifer, ever watchful lest the Prince should escape from his evil
influence, was here too. Disguised as a monk, he mingled with the
brethren at the convent and stirred up strife among them, so that the
Abbot grew very wrathful and inflicted severe penances on all the
offenders.
After vespers had been sung, the monks retired, but one lingered, for he
was blind and walked slowly, led by a little chorister. As he drew near,
Prince Henry started back in amazement.
"Do my eyes deceive me in this dim light," he exclaimed, "or can this be
Count Hugo of the Rhine, my most deadly foe?"