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[Illustration: David Copperfield at Salem House
(See page 23).]
READING WITH EXPRESSION
EIGHTH READER
BY
JAMES BALDWIN
AUTHOR OF "SCHOOL READING BY GRADES--BALDWIN'S READERS,"
"HARPER'S READERS," ETC.
AND
IDA C. BENDER
SUPERVISOR OF PRIMARY GRADES, BUFFALO, NEW YORK
_EIGHT-BOOK SERIES_
NEW YORK .:. CINCINNATI .:. CHICAGO
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY.
ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL, LONDON.
B. & B. EIGHTH READER.
W. P. 2
TO THE TEACHER
The paramount design of this series of School Readers is to help young
people to acquire the art and the habit of reading well--that is, of
interpreting the printed page in such manner as to give pleasure and
instruction to themselves and to those who listen to them. In his eighth
year at school the pupil is supposed to be able to read, with ease and
with some degree of fluency, anything in the English language that may
come to his hand; but, that he may read always with the understanding
and in a manner pleasing to his hearers and satisfactory to himself, he
must still have daily systematic practice in the rendering of selections
not too difficult for comprehension and yet embracing various styles of
literary workmanship and illustrating the different forms of English
composition. The contents of this volume have been chosen and arranged
to supply--or, where not supplying, to suggest--the materials for this
kind of practice.
Particular attention is called both to the high quality and to the wide
variety of the selections herein presented. They include specimens of
many styles of literary workmanship--the products of the best thought of
modern times. It is believed that their study will not only prove
interesting to pupils, but will inspire them with a desire to read still
more upon the same subjects or from the works of the same authors; for
it is only by loving books and learning to know them that any one can
become a really good reader.
The pupils should be encouraged to seek for and point out the particular
passages in each selection that 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 worthy literary production; and special attention
should be given to the style of writing which characterizes and gives
value to the works of various authors. These points should be the
subjects of daily discussions between teacher and pupils.
The notes under the head of "Expression," which follow many of the
lessons, are intended, not only to aid in securing correctness of
expression, but also to afford suggestions for the appreciative reading
of the selections and an intelligent comparison of their literary
peculiarities. In the study of new, difficult, or unusual words, the
pupils should invariably refer to the dictionary.
CONTENTS
PAGE
Brother and Sister _George Eliot_ 11
My Last Day at Salem House _Charles Dickens_ 22
The Departure from Miss Pinkerton's _W. M. Thackeray_ 27
Two Gems from Browning:
I. Incident of the French Camp _Robert Browning_ 36
II. Dog Tray _Robert Browning_ 41
The Discovery of America _Washington Irving_ 43
The Glove and the Lions _Leigh Hunt_ 48
St. Francis, the Gentle _William Canton_ 51
The Sermon of St. Francis _Henry W. Longfellow_ 54
In the Woods _John Burroughs_ 56
Bees and Flowers _Arabella B. Buckley_ 59
Song of the River _Abram J. Ryan_ 64
Song of the Chattahoochee _Sidney Lanier_ 66
War and Peace:
I. War as the Mother of Valor and Civilization
_Andrew Carnegie_ 68
II. Friendship among Nations _Victor Hugo_ 71
III. Soldier, Rest _Sir Walter Scott_ 74
IV. The Soldier's Dream _Thomas Campbell_ 75
V. How Sleep the Brave? _William Collins_ 76
Early Times in New York _Washington Irving_ 77
A Winter Evening in Old New England _J. G. Whittier_ 82
The Old-fashioned Thanksgiving _Donald G. Mitchell_ 84
A Thanksgiving _Robert Herrick_ 92
First Days at Wakefield _Oliver Goldsmith_ 94
Doubting Castle _John Bunyan_ 100
Shooting with the Longbow _Sir Walter Scott_ 108
A Christmas Hymn _Alfred Domett_ 117
Christmas Eve at Fezziwig's _Charles Dickens_ 120
The Christmas Holly _Eliza Cook_ 124
The New Year's Dinner Party _Charles Lamb_ 125
The Town Pump _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 128
Come up from the Fields, Father _Walt Whitman_ 135
The Address at Gettysburg _Abraham Lincoln_ 139
Ode to the Confederate Dead _Henry Timrod_ 140
The Chariot Race _From Sophocles_ 141
The Coliseum at Midnight _Henry W. Longfellow_ 145
The Deacon's Masterpiece _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 147
Dogs and Cats _Alexandre Dumas_ 154
The Owl Critic _James T. Fields_ 157
Mrs. Caudle's Umbrella Lecture _Douglas William Jerrold_ 161
The Dark Day in Connecticut _J. G. Whittier_ 164
Two Interesting Letters:
I. Columbus to the Lord Treasurer of Spain 167
II. Governor Winslow to a Friend in England 171
Poems of Home and Country:
I. "This is My Own, My Native Land" _Sir Walter Scott_ 174
II. The Green Little Shamrock of Ireland _Andrew Cherry_ 175
III. My Heart's in the Highlands _Robert Burns_ 176
IV. The Fatherland _James R. Lowell_ 177
V. Home _Oliver Goldsmith_ 178
The Age of Coal _Agnes Giberne_ 179
Something about the Moon _Richard A. Proctor_ 183
The Coming of the Birds _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 187
The Return of the Birds _John Burroughs_ 188
The Poet and the Bird:
I. The Song of the Lark 193
II. To a Skylark _Percy B. Shelley_ 197
Hark, Hark! the Lark _William Shakespeare_ 201
Echoes of the American Revolution:
I. Patrick Henry's Famous Speech 202
II. Marion's Men _W. Gilmore Simms_ 206
III. In Memory of George Washington _Henry Lee_ 209
Three Great American Poems:
I. Thanatopsis _William Cullen Bryant_ 213
II. The Bells _Edgar Allan Poe_ 219
III. Marco Bozzaris _Fitz-Greene Halleck_ 224
The Indian _Edward Everett_ 228
National Retribution _Theodore Parker_ 231
Who are Blessed _The Bible_ 233
Little Gems from the Older Poets:
I. The Noble Nature _Ben Jonson_ 235
II. A Contented Mind _Joshua Sylvester_ 235
III. A Happy Life _Sir Henry Wotton_ 236
IV. Solitude _Alexander Pope_ 237
V. A Wish _Samuel Rogers_ 238
How King Arthur got his Name _Fiona Macleod_ 239
Antony's Oration over Caesar's Dead Body _William Shakespeare_ 244
Selections to be Memorized:
I. The Prayer Perfect _James Whitcomb Riley_ 250
II. Be Just and Fear Not _William Shakespeare_ 250
III. If I can Live _Author Unknown_ 251
IV. The Bugle Song _Alfred Tennyson_ 251
V. The Ninetieth Psalm _Book of Psalms_ 252
VI. Recessional _Rudyard Kipling_ 253
Proper Names 255
List of Authors 257
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Acknowledgment and thanks are proffered to Andrew Carnegie for
permission to reprint in this volume his tract on "War as the Mother of
Civilization and Valor"; to the Bobbs-Merrill Company for their courtesy
in allowing us to use "The Prayer Perfect," from James Whitcomb Riley's
_Rhymes of Childhood_; to David Mackay for the poem by Walt Whitman
entitled "Come up from the Fields, Father"; to Charles Scribner's Sons
for the "Song of the Chattahoochee," from the _Poems of Sidney Lanier_;
and, also, to the same publishers for the selection, "The Old-fashioned
Thanksgiving," from _Bound Together_ by Donald G. Mitchell. The
selections from John Burroughs, Ralph Waldo Emerson, James T. Fields,
Nathaniel Hawthorne, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Henry W. Longfellow, and
John G. Whittier are used by permission of, and special arrangement
with, Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers of the works
of those authors.
EIGHTH READER
BROTHER AND SISTER[1]
I. THE HOME COMING
Tom was to arrive early in the afternoon, and there was another
fluttering heart besides Maggie's when it was late enough for the sound
of the gig wheels to be expected. For if Mrs. Tulliver had a strong
feeling, it was fondness for her boy. At last the sound came--that quick
light bowling of the gig wheels.
"There he is, my sweet lad!" Mrs. Tulliver stood with her arms open;
Maggie jumped first on one leg and then on the other; while Tom
descended from the gig, and said, with masculine reticence as to the
tender emotions, "Hallo! Yap--what! are you there?"
Nevertheless he submitted to be kissed willingly enough, though Maggie
hung on his neck in rather a strangling fashion, while his blue eyes
wandered toward the croft and the lambs and the river, where he promised
himself he would begin to fish the first thing to-morrow morning. He was
one of those lads that grow everywhere in England, and at twelve or
thirteen years of age look as much alike as goslings,--a lad with a
physiognomy in which it seems impossible to discern anything but the
generic character of boyhood.
"Maggie," said Tom, confidentially, taking her into a corner, as soon as
his mother was gone out to examine his box, and the warm parlor had
taken off the chill he had felt from the long drive, "you don't know
what I've got in my pockets," nodding his head up and down as a means of
rousing her sense of mystery.
"No," said Maggie. "How stodgy they look, Tom! Is it marbles or
cobnuts?" Maggie's heart sank a little, because Tom always said it was
"no good" playing with her at those games--she played so badly.
"Marbles! no; I've swopped all my marbles with the little fellows, and
cobnuts are no fun, you silly, only when the nuts are green. But see
here!" He drew something half out of his right-hand pocket.
"What is it?" said Maggie, in a whisper. "I can see nothing but a bit of
yellow."
"Why, it's--a--new--guess, Maggie!"
"Oh, I can't guess, Tom," said Maggie, impatiently.
"Don't be a spitfire, else I won't tell you," said Tom, thrusting his
hand back into his pocket, and looking determined.
"No, Tom," said Maggie, imploringly, laying hold of the arm that was
held stiffly in the pocket. "I'm not cross, Tom; it was only because I
can't bear guessing. Please be good to me."
[Illustration: The Home Coming.]
Tom's arm slowly relaxed, and he said, "Well, then, it's a new fish
line--two new ones--one for you, Maggie, all to yourself. I wouldn't go
halves in the toffee and gingerbread on purpose to save the money; and
Gibson and Spouncer fought with me because I wouldn't. And here's hooks;
see here!--I say, won't we go and fish to-morrow down by the Round Pool?
And you shall catch your own fish, Maggie, and put the worms on, and
everything--won't it be fun?"
Maggie's answer was to throw her arms around Tom's neck and hug him, and
hold her cheek against his without speaking, while he slowly unwound
some of the line, saying, after a pause:--
"Wasn't I a good brother, now, to buy you a line all to yourself? You
know, I needn't have bought it, if I hadn't liked."
"Yes, very, very good--I do love you, Tom."
Tom had put the line back in his pocket, and was looking at the hooks
one by one, before he spoke again. "And the fellows fought me, because I
wouldn't give in about the toffee."
"Oh, dear! I wish they wouldn't fight at your school, Tom. Didn't it
hurt you?"
"Hurt me? no," said Tom, putting up the hooks again, taking out a large
pocketknife, and slowly opening the largest blade, which he looked at
meditatively as he rubbed his finger along it. Then he added--"I gave
Spouncer a black eye, I know--that's what he got by wanting to leather
me; I wasn't going to go halves because anybody leathered me."
"Oh, how brave you are, Tom! I think you're like Samson. If there came a
lion roaring at me, I think you'd fight him--wouldn't you, Tom?"
"How can a lion come roaring at you, you silly thing? There's no lions,
only in the shows."
"No; but if we were in the lion countries--I mean in Africa, where it's
very hot--the lions eat people there. I can show it to you in the book
where I read it."
"Well, I should get a gun and shoot him."
"But if you hadn't got a gun--we might have gone out, you know, not
thinking just as we go fishing; and then a great lion might run toward
us roaring, and we couldn't get away from him. What should you do, Tom?"
Tom paused, and at last turned away contemptuously, saying, "But the
lion isn't coming. What's the use of talking?"
"But I like to fancy how it would be," said Maggie, following him. "Just
think what you would do, Tom."
"Oh, don't bother, Maggie! you're such a silly--I shall go and see my
rabbits."
II. THE FALLING OUT
Maggie's heart began to flutter with fear. She dared not tell the sad
truth at once, but she walked after Tom in trembling silence as he went
out, thinking how she could tell him the news so as to soften at once
his sorrow and his anger; for Maggie dreaded Tom's anger of all
things--it was quite a different anger from her own. "Tom," she said
timidly, when they were out of doors, "how much money did you give for
your rabbits?"
"Two half crowns and a sixpence," said Tom.
"I think I've got a great deal more than that in my steel purse
upstairs. I'll ask mother to give it to you."
"What for?" said Tom. "I don't want your money, you silly thing. I've
got a great deal more money than you, because I'm a boy. I always have
half sovereigns and sovereigns for my Christmas boxes, because I shall
be a man, and you only have five-shilling pieces, because you're only a
girl."
"Well, but, Tom--if mother would let me give you two half crowns and a
sixpence out of my purse to put into your pocket and spend, you know;
and buy some more rabbits with it?"
"More rabbits? I don't want any more."
"Oh, but, Tom, they're all dead."
Tom stopped immediately in his walk and turned round toward Maggie. "You
forgot to feed 'em, then, and Harry forgot," he said, his color
heightening for a moment, but soon subsiding. "I'll pitch into
Harry--I'll have him turned away. And I don't love you, Maggie. You
shan't go fishing with me to-morrow. I told you to go and see the
rabbits every day."
He walked on again.
"Yes, but I forgot--and I couldn't help it, indeed, Tom. I'm so very
sorry," said Maggie, while the tears rushed fast.
"You're a naughty girl," said Tom, severely; "and I'm sorry I bought you
the fish line. I don't love you."
"Oh, Tom, it's very cruel," sobbed Maggie. "I'd forgive you, if you
forgot anything--I wouldn't mind what you did--I'd forgive you and love
you."
"Yes, you're a silly--but I never do forget things--I don't."
"Oh, please forgive me, Tom; my heart will break," said Maggie, shaking
with sobs, clinging to Tom's arm, and laying her wet cheek on his
shoulder.
Tom shook her off, and stopped again, saying in a peremptory tone, "Now,
Maggie, you just listen. Aren't I a good brother to you?"
"Ye-ye-es," sobbed Maggie, her chin rising and falling convulsedly.
"Didn't I think about your fish line all this quarter, and mean to buy
it, and saved my money o' purpose, and wouldn't go halves in the toffee,
and Spouncer fought me because I wouldn't?"
"Ye-ye-es--and I--lo-lo-love you so, Tom."
"But you're a naughty girl. Last holidays you licked the paint off my
lozenge box, and the holidays before that you let the boat drag my fish
line down when I'd set you to watch it, and you pushed your head through
my kite, all for nothing."
"But I didn't mean," said Maggie; "I couldn't help it."
"Yes, you could," said Tom, "if you'd minded what you were doing. And
you're a naughty girl, and you shan't go fishing with me to-morrow."
With this terrible conclusion, Tom ran away from Maggie toward the mill.
Maggie stood motionless, except for her sobs, for a minute or two; then
she turned round and ran into the house, and up to her attic, where she
sat on the floor, and laid her head against the worm-eaten shelf, with a
crushing sense of misery. Tom was come home, and she had thought how
happy she should be--and now he was cruel to her. What use was anything,
if Tom didn't love her? Oh, he was very cruel! Hadn't she wanted to give
him the money, and said how very sorry she was? She had never been
naughty to Tom--had never meant to be naughty to him.
"Oh, he is cruel!" Maggie sobbed aloud, finding a wretched pleasure in
the hollow resonance that came through the long empty space of the
attic. She was too miserable to be angry.
III. THE MAKING UP
Maggie soon thought she had been hours in the attic, and it must be tea
time, and they were all having their tea, and not thinking of her. Well,
then, she would stay up there and starve herself--hide herself behind
the tub, and stay there all night; and then they would all be
frightened, and Tom would be sorry. Thus Maggie thought as she crept
behind the tub; but presently she began to cry again at the idea that
they didn't mind her being there.
Tom had been too much interested in going the round of the premises, to
think of Maggie and the effect his anger had produced on her. He meant
to punish her, and that business having been performed, he occupied
himself with other matters, like a practical person. But when he had
been called in to tea, his father said, "Why, where's the little wench?"
and Mrs. Tulliver, almost at the same moment, said, "Where's your little
sister?"--both of them having supposed that Maggie and Tom had been
together all the afternoon.
"I don't know," said Tom. He didn't want to "tell" of Maggie, though he
was angry with her; for Tom Tulliver was a lad of honor.
"What! hasn't she been playing with you all this while?" said the
father. "She'd been thinking of nothing but your coming home."
"I haven't seen her this two hours," says Tom, commencing on the plum
cake.
"Goodness heart! She's got drowned!" exclaimed Mrs. Tulliver, rising
from her seat and running to the window. "How could you let her do so?"
she added, as became a fearful woman, accusing she didn't know whom of
she didn't know what.
"Nay, nay, she's none drowned," said Mr. Tulliver. "You've been naughty
to her, I doubt, Tom?"
"I'm sure I haven't, father," said Tom, indignantly. "I think she's in
the house."
"Perhaps up in that attic," said Mrs. Tulliver, "a-singing and talking
to herself, and forgetting all about mealtimes."
"You go and fetch her down, Tom," said Mr. Tulliver, rather sharply, his
perspicacity or his fatherly fondness for Maggie making him suspect that
the lad had been hard upon "the little un," else she would never have
left his side. "And be good to her, do you hear? Else I'll let you know
better."
Tom never disobeyed his father, for Mr. Tulliver was a peremptory man;
but he went out rather sullenly, carrying his piece of plum cake, and
not intending to reprieve Maggie's punishment, which was no more than
she deserved. Tom was only thirteen, and had no decided views in grammar
and arithmetic, regarding them for the most part as open questions, but
he was particularly clear and positive on one point--namely, that he
would punish everybody who deserved it; why, he wouldn't have minded
being punished himself, if he deserved it; but, then, he never did
deserve it.
It was Tom's step, then, that Maggie heard on the stairs, when her need
of love had triumphed over her pride, and she was going down with her
swollen eyes and disheveled hair to beg for pity. At least her father
would stroke her head and say, "Never mind, my wench."
But she knew Tom's step, and her heart began to beat violently with the
sudden shock of hope. He only stood still at the top of the stairs and
said, "Maggie, you're to come down." But she rushed to him and clung
round his neck, sobbing, "O Tom, please forgive me--I can't bear it--I
will always be good--always remember things--do love me--please, dear
Tom!"
Maggie and Tom were still very much like young animals, and so she could
rub her cheek against his, and kiss his ear in a random, sobbing way;
and there were tender fibers in the lad that had been used to answer to
Maggie's fondling; so that he behaved with a weakness quite inconsistent
with his resolution to punish her as much as she deserved; he actually
began to kiss her in return, and say:--
"Don't cry, then, Magsie--here, eat a bit o' cake." Maggie's sobs began
to subside, and she put out her mouth for the cake and bit a piece; and
then Tom bit a piece, just for company, and they ate together and rubbed
each other's cheeks and brows and noses together, while they ate, with a
humiliating resemblance to two friendly ponies.
"Come along, Magsie, and have tea," said Tom at last, when there was no
more cake except what was downstairs.
So ended the sorrows of this day.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 1: From "The Mill on the Floss," by George Eliot.]
MY LAST DAY AT SALEM HOUSE[2]
I pass over all that happened at school, until the anniversary of my
birthday came round in March. The great remembrance by which that time
is marked in my mind seems to have swallowed up all lesser
recollections, and to exist alone.
It is even difficult for me to believe there was a gap of full two
months between my return to Salem House and the arrival of that
birthday. I can only understand that the fact was so, because I know it
must have been so; otherwise I should feel convinced there was no
interval, and that the one occasion trod upon the other's heels.
How well I recollect the kind of day it was! I smell the fog that hung
about the place; I see the hoar-frost ghostly, through it; I feel my
rimy hair fall clammy on my cheek; I look along the dim perspective of
the schoolroom, with a spluttering candle here and there to light up the
foggy morning, and the breath of the boys wreathing and smoking in the
raw cold as they blow upon their fingers, and tap their feet upon the
floor.
It was after breakfast, and we had been summoned in from the playground,
when Mr. Sharp entered and said, "David Copperfield is to go into the
parlor."
I expected a hamper from home, and brightened at the order. Some of the
boys about me put in their claim not to be forgotten in the distribution
of the good things, as I got out of my seat with great alacrity.
"Don't hurry, David," said Mr. Sharp. "There's time enough, my boy,
don't hurry."
I might have been surprised by the feeling tone in which he spoke, if I
had given it a thought; but I gave it none until afterward. I hurried
away to the parlor; and there I found Mr. Creakle, sitting at his
breakfast with the cane and newspaper before him, and Mrs. Creakle with
an opened letter in her hand. But no hamper.
"David Copperfield," said Mrs. Creakle, leading me to a sofa, and
sitting down beside me, "I want to speak to you very particularly. I
have something to tell you, my child."
Mr. Creakle, at whom of course I looked, shook his head without looking
at me, and stopped up a sigh with a very large piece of buttered toast.
"You are too young to know how the world changes every day," said Mrs.
Creakle, "and how the people in it pass away. But we all have to learn
it, David; some of us when we are young, some of us when we are old,
some of us at all times of our lives."
I looked at her earnestly.
"When you came away from home at the end of the vacation," said Mrs.
Creakle, after a pause, "were they all well?" After another pause, "Was
your mamma well?"
I trembled without distinctly knowing why, and still looked at her
earnestly, making no attempt to answer.
"Because," said she, "I grieve to tell you that I hear this morning your
mamma is very ill."
A mist rose between Mrs. Creakle and me, and her figure seemed to move
in it for an instant. Then I felt the burning tears run down my face,
and it was steady again.
"She is very dangerously ill," she added.
I knew all now.
"She is dead." There was no need to tell me so. I had already broken out
into a desolate cry, and felt an orphan in the wide world.
She was very kind to me. She kept me there all day, and left me alone
sometimes; and I cried and wore myself to sleep, and awoke and cried
again. When I could cry no more, I began to think; and then the
oppression on my breast was heaviest, and my grief a dull pain that
there was no ease for.
And yet my thoughts were idle; not intent on the calamity that weighed
upon my heart, but idly loitering near it. I thought of our house shut
up and hushed. I thought of the little baby, who, Mrs. Creakle said, had
been pining away for some time, and who, they believed, would die too. I
thought of my father's grave in the churchyard, by our house, and of my
mother lying there beneath the tree I knew so well.
I stood upon a chair when I was left alone, and looked into the glass to
see how red my eyes were, and how sorrowful my face. I considered, after
some hours were gone, if my tears were really hard to flow now, as they
seemed to be, what, in connection with my loss, it would affect me most
to think of when I drew near home--for I was going home to the funeral.
I am sensible of having felt that a dignity attached to me among the
rest of the boys, and that I was important in my affliction.
If ever child were stricken with sincere grief, I was. But I remembered
that this importance was a kind of satisfaction to me, when I walked in
the playground that afternoon while the boys were in school. When I saw
them glancing at me out of the windows, as they went up to their
classes, I felt distinguished, and looked more melancholy, and walked
slower. When school was over, and they came out and spoke to me, I felt
it rather good in myself not to be proud to any of them, and to take
exactly the same notice of them all, as before.
I was to go home next night; not by the mail, but by the heavy night
coach, which was called the Farmer, and was principally used by country
people traveling short intermediate distances upon the road. We had no
story telling that evening, and Traddles insisted on lending me his
pillow. I don't know what good he thought it would do me, for I had one
of my own; but it was all he had to lend, poor fellow, except a sheet of
letter paper full of skeletons; and that he gave me at parting, as a
soother of my sorrows and a contribution to my peace of mind.
I left Salem House upon the morrow afternoon. I little thought then that
I left it, never to return. We traveled very slowly all night, and did
not get into Yarmouth before nine or ten o'clock in the morning. I
looked out for Mr. Barkis, but he was not there; and instead of him a
fat, short-winded, merry-looking little old man in black, with rusty
little bunches of ribbons at the knees of his breeches, black stockings,
and a broad-brimmed hat, came puffing up to the coach window, and said,
"Master Copperfield?"
"Yes, sir."
"Will you come with me, young sir, if you please," he said, opening the
door, "and I shall have the pleasure of taking you home!"
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 2: From "David Copperfield," by Charles Dickens.]
EXPRESSION: The two stories which you have just read were written
by two of the greatest masters of fiction in English literature.
Talk with your teacher about George Eliot and Charles Dickens, and
learn all that you can about their works. Which of these two
stories do you prefer? Why?
Reread the conversation on pages 14 and 15. Imagine yourself to be
Tom or Maggie, and speak just as he or she did. Read the
conversation on pages 16 and 17 in the same way. Reread other
portions that you like particularly well.
In what respect does the second story differ most strongly from the
first? Select the most striking passage and read it with expression
sad feeling.
THE DEPARTURE FROM MISS PINKERTON'S[3]
I
One sunshiny morning in June, there drove up to the great iron gate of
Miss Pinkerton's Academy for young ladies, on Chiswick Mall, a large
family coach, with two fat horses in blazing harness, driven by a fat
coachman in a three-cornered hat and wig, at the rate of four miles an
hour.
A black servant, who reposed on the box beside the fat coachman,
uncurled his bandy legs as soon as the equipage drew up opposite Miss
Pinkerton's shining brass plate; and as he pulled the bell, at least a
score of young heads were seen peering out of the narrow windows of the
stately old brick house. Nay, the acute observer might have recognized
the little red nose of good-natured Miss Jemima Pinkerton herself,
rising over some geranium pots in the window of that lady's own drawing
room.
"It is Mrs. Sedley's coach, sister," said Miss Jemima. "Sambo, the black
servant, has just rung the bell; and the coachman has a new red
waistcoat."
"Have you completed all the necessary preparations incident to Miss
Sedley's departure?" asked Miss Pinkerton, that majestic lady, the
friend of the famous literary man, Dr. Johnson, the author of the great
"Dixonary" of the English language, called commonly the great
Lexicographer.
"The girls were up at four this morning, packing her trunks, sister,"
answered Miss Jemima. "We have made her a bowpot."
"Say a bouquet, sister Jemima; 'tis more genteel."
"Well, a booky as big almost as a haystack. I have put up two bottles of
the gillyflower water for Mrs. Sedley, and the receipt for making it is
in Amelia's box."
"And I trust, Miss Jemima, you have made a copy of Miss Sedley's
account. That is it, is it? Very good! Ninety-three pounds, four
shillings. Be kind enough to address it to John Sedley, Esquire, and to
seal this billet which I have written to his lady."
II
In Miss Jemima's eyes an autograph letter of her sister, Miss Pinkerton,
was an object of as deep veneration as would have been a letter from a
sovereign. Only when her pupils quitted the establishment, or when they
were about to be married, and once when poor Miss Birch died of the
scarlet fever, was Miss Pinkerton known to write personally to the
parents of her pupils.
In the present instance Miss Pinkerton's "billet" was to the following
effect:--
_The Mall, Chiswick, June 15._
MADAM:
After her six years' residence at the Mall, I have the honor and
happiness of presenting Miss Amelia Sedley to her parents, as a
young lady not unworthy to occupy a fitting position in their
polished and refined circle. Those virtues which characterize the
young English gentlewomen; those accomplishments which become her
birth and station, will not be found wanting in the amiable Miss
Sedley, whose industry and obedience have endeared her to her
instructors, and whose delightful sweetness of temper has charmed
her aged and her youthful companions.
In music, dancing, in orthography, in every variety of embroidery
and needle-work she will be found to have realized her friends'
fondest wishes. In geography there is still much to be desired; and
a careful and undeviating use of the back-board, for four hours
daily during the next three years, is recommended as necessary to
the acquirement of that dignified deportment and carriage so
requisite for every young lady of fashion.
In the principles of religion and morality, Miss Sedley will be
found worthy of an establishment which has been honored by the
presence of The Great Lexicographer and the patronage of the
admirable Mrs. Chapone. In leaving them all, Miss Amelia carries
with her the hearts of her companions and the affectionate regards
of her mistress, who has the honor to subscribe herself,
Madam your most obliged humble servant,
BARBARA PINKERTON.
P.S.--Miss Sharp accompanies Miss Sedley. It is particularly
requested that Miss Sharp's stay in Russell Square may not exceed
ten days. The family of distinction with whom she is engaged as
governess desire to avail themselves of her services as soon as
possible.
This letter completed, Miss Pinkerton proceeded to write her own name
and Miss Sedley's in the flyleaf of a Johnson's Dictionary, the
interesting work which she invariably presented to her scholars on their
departure from the Mall. On the cover was inserted a copy of "Lines
addressed to a Young Lady on quitting Miss Pinkerton's School, at the
Mall; by the late revered Dr. Samuel Johnson." In fact, the
Lexicographer's name was always on the lips of this majestic woman, and
a visit he had paid to her was the cause of her reputation and her
fortune.
Being commanded by her elder sister to get "The Dixonary" from the
cupboard, Miss Jemima had extracted two copies of the book from the
receptacle in question. When Miss Pinkerton had finished the inscription
in the first, Jemima, with rather a dubious and timid air, handed her
the second.
"For whom is this, Miss Jemima?" said Miss Pinkerton with awful
coldness.
"For Becky Sharp," answered Jemima, trembling very much, and blushing
over her withered face and neck, as she turned her back on her sister.
"For Becky Sharp. She's going, too."
"MISS JEMIMA!" exclaimed Miss Pinkerton, in the largest capitals. "Are
you in your senses? Replace the Dixonary in the closet, and never
venture to take such a liberty in future."
With an unusual display of courage, Miss Jemima mildly protested: "Well,
sister, it's only two and nine-pence, and poor Becky will be miserable
if she doesn't get one."
"Send Miss Sedley instantly to me," was Miss Pinkerton's only answer.
And, venturing not to say another word, poor Jemima trotted off,
exceedingly flurried and nervous, while the two pupils, Miss Sedley and
Miss Sharp, were making final preparations for their departure for Miss
Sedley's home.
III
Well, then. The flowers, and the presents, and the trunks, and the
bonnet boxes of Miss Sedley having been arranged by Mr. Sambo in the
carriage, together with a very small and weather-beaten old cowskin
trunk with Miss Sharp's card neatly nailed upon it, which was delivered
by Sambo with a grin, and packed by the coachman with a corresponding
sneer, the hour for parting came; and the grief of that moment was
considerably lessened by the admirable discourse which Miss Pinkerton
addressed to her pupil.
Not that the parting speech caused Amelia to philosophize, or that it
armed her in any way with a calmness, the result of argument; but it was
intolerably dull, and having the fear of her schoolmistress greatly
before her eyes, Miss Sedley did not venture, in her presence, to give
way to any ablutions of private grief. A seed cake and a bottle of wine
were produced in the drawing room, as on the solemn occasions of the
visits of parents; and these refreshments being partaken of, Miss Sedley
was at liberty to depart.
"You'll go in and say good-by to Miss Pinkerton, Becky!" said Miss
Jemima to that young lady, of whom nobody took any notice, and who was
coming downstairs with her own bandbox.
"I suppose I must," said Miss Sharp calmly, and much to the wonder of
Miss Jemima; and the latter having knocked at the door, and receiving
permission to come in, Miss Sharp advanced in a very unconcerned manner,
and said in French, and with a perfect accent, "_Mademoiselle, je viens
vous faire mes adieux_."[4]
Miss Pinkerton did not understand French, as we know; she only directed
those who did. Biting her lips and throwing up her venerable and
Roman-nosed head, she said, "Miss Sharp, I wish you a good morning."
As she spoke, she waved one hand, both by way of adieu and to give Miss
Sharp an opportunity of shaking one of the fingers of the hand, which
was left out for that purpose. Miss Sharp only folded her own hands with
a very frigid smile and bow, and quite declined to accept the proffered
honor; on which Miss Pinkerton tossed up her turban more indignantly
than ever. In fact, it was a little battle between the young lady and
the old one, and the latter was worsted.
"Come away, Becky," said Miss Jemima, pulling the young woman away in
great alarm; and the drawing room door closed upon her forever.
[Illustration: The Parting.]
Then came the struggle and parting below. Words refuse to tell it. All
the servants were there in the hall--all the dear friends--all the young
ladies--even the dancing master, who had just arrived; and there was
such a scuffling and hugging, and kissing, and crying, with the
hysterical _yoops_ of Miss Schwartz, the parlor boarder, as no pen can
depict, and as the tender heart would feign pass over.
The embracing was finished; they parted--that is, Miss Sedley parted
from her friends. Miss Sharp had demurely entered the carriage some
minutes before. Nobody cried for leaving _her_.
Sambo of the bandy legs slammed the carriage door on his young weeping
mistress. He sprang up behind the carriage.
"Stop!" cried Miss Jemima, rushing to the gate with a parcel.
"It's some sandwiches, my dear," she called to Amelia. "You may be
hungry, you know; and, Becky--Becky Sharp--here's a book for you, that
my sister--that is, I--Johnson's Dixonary, you know. You mustn't leave
us without that. Good-by! Drive on, coachman!--God bless you! Good-by."
Then the kind creature retreated into the garden, overcome with emotion.
But lo! and just as the coach drove off, Miss Sharp suddenly put her
pale face out of the window, and flung the book back into the
garden--flung it far and fast--watching it fall at the feet of
astonished Miss Jemima; then sank back in the carriage, exclaiming, "So
much for the 'Dixonary'; and thank God I'm out of Chiswick!"
The shock of such an act almost caused Jemima to faint with terror.
"Well, I never--" she began. "What an audacious--" she gasped. Emotion
prevented her from completing either sentence.
The carriage rolled away; the great gates were closed; the bell rang for
the dancing lesson. The world is before the two young ladies; and so,
farewell to Chiswick Mall!
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 3: From "Vanity Fair," by William Makepeace Thackeray.]
[Footnote 4: "Madam, I have come to tell you good-by."]
EXPRESSION: By many able critics, Thackeray is regarded as a
greater novelist than either Dickens or George Eliot. Compare this
extract from one of his best works with the two selections which
precede it. Which of the three stories is the most interesting to
you? Which sounds the best when read aloud? Which is the most
humorous? Which is the most pathetic?
Reread the three selections very carefully. Now tell what you
observe about the style of each. In what respects is the style of
the third story different from that of either of the others? Reread
Miss Pinkerton's letter. What peculiarities do you observe in it?
Select and reread the most humorous passage in this last story.
TWO GEMS FROM BROWNING
I. INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP
In the small kingdom of Bavaria, on the south bank of the Danube River,
there is a famous old city called Ratisbon. It is not a very large city,
but its history can be traced far back to the time when the Romans had a
military camp there which they used as an outpost against the German
barbarians. At one time it ranked among the most flourishing towns of
Germany.
It is now of little commercial importance--a quaint and quiet old place,
with a fine cathedral and many notable buildings which testify to its
former greatness.
During the earlier years of the nineteenth century, Napoleon Bonaparte,
emperor of the French, was engaged in bitter warfare with Austria and
indeed with nearly the whole of Europe. In April, 1809, the Austrian
army, under Grand Duke Charles, was intrenched in Ratisbon and the
neighboring towns. There it was attacked by the French army commanded by
Napoleon himself and led by the brave Marshal Lannes, Duke of
Montebello.
The battle raged, first on this side of the city, then on that, and for
several days no one could tell which of the combatants would be
victorious. At length Napoleon decided to end the matter by storming the
city and, if possible, driving the archduke from his stronghold. He,
therefore, sent Marshal Lannes forward to direct the battle, while he
watched the conflict and gave commands from a distance. For a long time
the issue seemed doubtful, and not even Napoleon could guess what the
result would be. Late in the day, however, French valor prevailed, the
Austrians were routed, and Marshal Lannes forced his way into the city.
It was at this time that the incident described so touchingly in the
following poem by Robert Browning is supposed to have taken place. We do
not know, nor does any one know, whether the story has any foundation in
fact. It illustrates, however, the spirit of bravery and self-sacrifice
that prevailed among the soldiers of Napoleon; and such an incident
might, indeed, have happened not only at Ratisbon, but at almost any
place where the emperor's presence urged his troops to victory. For,
such was Napoleon's magic influence and such was the love which he
inspired among all his followers, that thousands of young men were ready
cheerfully to give their lives for the promotion of his selfish
ambition.
The poem, which is now regarded as one of the classics of our language,
was first published in 1843, in a small volume entitled "Dramatic
Lyrics." The same volume contained the well-known rime of "The Pied
Piper of Hamelin." Robert Browning was at that time a young man of
thirty, and most of the poems which afterwards made him famous were
still unwritten.
BROWNING'S POEM
You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:
A mile or so away,
On a little mound, Napoleon
Stood on our storming day:
With neck outthrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.
Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans
That soar, to earth may fall,
Let once my army leader Lannes
Waver at yonder wall,"--
Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full galloping; nor bridle drew
Until he reached the mound.
Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect
By just his horse's mane, a boy:
You hardly could suspect--
(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through)
You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.
[Illustration: "We've got you Ratisbon!"]
"Well," cried he, "Emperor by God's grace
We've got you Ratisbon!
The Marshal's in the market place,
And you'll be there anon
To see your flag bird flap his vans
Where I, to heart's desire,
Perched him!" The chiefs eye flashed; his plans
Soared up again like fire.
The chief's eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother eagle's eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes;
"You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride
Touched to the quick, he said:
"I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,
Smiling, the boy fell dead.
EXPRESSION: This is a difficult selection to read properly and with
spirit and feeling. Study each stanza until you understand it
thoroughly. Practice reading the following passages, giving the
proper emphasis and inflections.
_You know, we French stormed Ratisbon.
With neck outthrust you fancy how.
"We've got you Ratisbon!"
"You're wounded!" "Nay, I'm killed, Sire!"_
WORD STUDY: _Napoleon_, _Ratisbon_, _Bavaria_, _Lannes_; _anon_,
_vans_, _sheathes_, _eaglet_, _Sire_.
Explain: "_To see your flag bird flap his vans._" "_His plans
soared up again like fire._"
[Illustration]
II. DOG TRAY[5]
A beggar child
Sat on a quay's edge: like a bird
Sang to herself at careless play,
And fell into the stream. "Dismay!
Help, you standers-by!" None stirred.
Bystanders reason, think of wives
And children ere they risk their lives.
Over the balustrade has bounced
A mere instinctive dog, and pounced
Plumb on the prize. "How well he dives!"
"Up he comes with the child, see, tight
In mouth, alive, too, clutched from quite
A depth of ten feet--twelve, I bet!
Good dog! What, off again? There's yet
Another child to save? All right!"
"How strange we saw no other fall!
It's instinct in the animal.
Good dog! But he's a long time under:
If he got drowned, I should not wonder--
Strong current, that against the wall!
"Here he comes, holds in mouth this time
--What may the thing be? Well, that's prime!
Now, did you ever? Reason reigns
In man alone, since all Tray's pains
Have fished--the child's doll from the slime!"
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 5: By Robert Browning.]
EXPRESSION: Read the story silently, being sure that you understand
it clearly. Then read each passage aloud, giving special attention
to emphasis and inflections. Answer these questions by reading from
the poem:
Where was the child? What did she do?
What did some one cry out?
Why did not the bystanders help?
What did the dog do?
What did one bystander say?
What did another say when the dog came up?
What did he say when the dog went back?
Read correctly: "_Well, that's prime!_" "_Now, did you ever?_"
"_All right!_" "_If he got drowned, I should not wonder._"
In what respects do these two poems differ from your favorite poems
by Longfellow or Tennyson? Do you think there is much music in
them?
THE DISCOVERY OF AMERICA[6]
It was on Friday morning, the 12th of October, that Columbus first
beheld the New World. As the day dawned he saw before him a level
island, several leagues in extent, and covered with trees like a
continual orchard. Though apparently uncultivated, it was populous, for
the inhabitants were seen issuing from all parts of the woods and
running to the shore. They stood gazing at the ships, and appeared, by
their attitudes and gestures, to be lost in astonishment.
Columbus made signal for the ships to cast anchor and the boats to be
manned and armed. He entered his own boat richly attired in scarlet and
holding the royal standard; while Martin Alonzo Pinzon and his brother
put off in company in their boats, each with a banner of the enterprise
emblazoned with a green cross, having on either side the letters F and
Y, the initials of the Castilian monarchs Fernando and Ysabel,
surmounted by crowns.
As he approached the shore, Columbus, who was disposed for all kinds of
agreeable impressions, was delighted with the purity and suavity of the
atmosphere, the crystal transparency of the sea, and the extraordinary
beauty of the vegetation. He beheld also fruits of an unknown kind upon
the trees which overhung the shores. On landing he threw himself on his
knees, kissed the earth, and returned thanks to God with tears of joy.
His example was followed by the rest, whose hearts indeed overflowed
with the same feelings of gratitude. Columbus then rising drew his
sword, displayed the royal standard, and, assembling round him the two
captains and the rest who had landed, he took solemn possession in the
name of the Castilian sovereigns, giving the island the name of San
Salvador. Having complied with the requisite forms and ceremonies, he
called upon all present to take the oath of obedience to him as admiral
and viceroy, representing the persons of the sovereigns.
The feelings of the crew now burst forth in the most extravagant
transports. They had recently considered themselves devoted men hurrying
forward to destruction; they now looked upon themselves as favorites of
fortune and gave themselves up to the most unbounded joy. They thronged
around the admiral with overflowing zeal, some embracing him, others
kissing his hands.
Those who had been most mutinous and turbulent during the voyage were
now most devoted and enthusiastic. Some begged favors of him, as if he
had already wealth and honors in his gift. Many abject spirits, who had
outraged him by their insolence, now crouched at his feet, begging
pardon for all the trouble they had caused him and promising the
blindest obedience for the future.
The natives of the island, when at the dawn of day they had beheld the
ships hovering on their coast, had supposed them monsters which had
issued from the deep during the night. They had crowded to the beach and
watched their movements with awful anxiety. Their veering about
apparently without effort, and the shifting and furling of their sails,
resembling huge wings, filled them with astonishment. When they beheld
their boats approach the shore, and a number of strange beings clad in
glittering steel, or raiment of various colors, landing upon the beach,
they fled in affright to the woods.