Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation and all other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.
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been omitted. The more substantial illustrations, without captions, have
been briefly described.
Italics are represented thus _italic_, and bold thus =bold=.
The Story Tellers’
Magazine
Volume 1 =July= Number 2
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King Arthur Series Begins
The Storytellers’ Company, New York
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The Storytellers’ Magazine
Richard T. Wyche, Editor
Contents
PAGE
The Storytellers’ Bequest to all Boys and Girls 59
King Arthur’s Tomb, Innsbruck _Frontispiece_
The Story of King Arthur—In Twelve Numbers. First Number:
Merlin and His Prophecies 61
Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata 72
A Rose from Homer’s Grave 77
The Image in Story Telling _Percival Chubb_ 79
Endymion _Frederick A. Child_ 82
The Story of St. Christopher _R. T. Wyche_ 85
The Story of England’s First Poet _George Philip Krapp_ 90
The Uncle Remus’ Stories _Josephine Leach_ 94
Their Evolution and Place in the Curriculum.
The Three Goats _Jessica Childs_ 97
Story Telling in Washington, D. C. _Marietta Stockard_ 99
Story Telling for Camp Fire Girls _Ellen Kate Gross_ 101
The Play Spirit in America _R. T. Wyche_ 103
What The Leagues Are Doing 106
From the Editor’s Study 107
From the Book Shelf 112
Directory of Story Tellers’ Leagues 115
The Business Manager’s Story 119
=Published Monthly= [Except August]
27 West 23d St., New York, N. Y.
BY
THE STORYTELLERS’ COMPANY
R. T. WYCHE, _Pres._ E. C. DE VILLAVERDE, _Secty._
H. D. NEWSON, _Treas._
27 West 23d Street
=Subscr. $1.00 per year= Copyright 1913, by =10 cents the copy=
The Storytellers’ Company
[Illustration: Angel holding sword
“_TONGUES in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing._”]
[Illustration: Angel]
The Storytellers’ Bequest to all Boys and Girls
¶ _To all girls and boys, but only for the time of their childhood,
the flowers of the field, the blossoms of the wood, with the right to
play among them freely, according to the custom of children, warning
them at the same time against thistles and thorns. We give to them the
banks of the brooks and the golden sands beneath the waters thereof,
and the odors of the willows that dip therein and the white clouds that
float over the giant trees, and we leave to the children the long, long
days to be merry in a thousand ways and the night and the moon, and the
train of the milky way to wonder at._
¶ _We give to all boys all idle fields and commons, where ball may be
played, all pleasant waters where one may swim, all snowclad hills
where one may coast, and all streams and ponds where one may fish, or
where, when grim winter comes, they may skate, to have and to hold the
same for the period of their boyhood. And to all boys, all boisterous
inspiring sports of rivalry and the disdain of weakness, and undaunted
confidence in their own strength. We give the powers to make lasting
friendships and of possessing companions, and to them exclusively we
give all merry songs and brave choruses to sing with lusty voices._
¶ _And to all girls the yellow fields and green meadows with the clover
blossoms and butterflies thereof, the woods with their appurtenances,
the squirrels and birds and echoes and strange noises, and all distant
places which may be visited, together with the adventures there to be
found._
¶ _And to all children wheresoever they may be, each his own place at
the fireside at night with all the pictures that may be seen in the
burning wood, to enjoy without hindrance, and without any encumbrance
of care, and to them also we give memory, and to them the volumes
of the poems of Burns and Shakespeare and of other poets and their
imaginary world, with whatever they may need, such as the red roses
by the wall, the bloom of the hawthorn, the sweet strains of music,
and the stars of the sky, to enjoy freely and fully without tithe or
diminution until the happiness of old age crown them with snow._
By Williston Fish (_Adapted_)
[Illustration: King Arthur’s Tomb, Innsbruck
“_That Arthur who with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro’ the lists of Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of Kings._”
—Tennyson.]
The Storytellers’
Magazine
VOLUME 1 JULY, 1913 NUMBER 2
“_Heaven lies about us in our infancy_”
“_In tholde dayes of the King Arthur,
Of which the Britons speke great honour
All was this land fulfilled of faery._”
—_The Canterbury Tales._
The Story of King Arthur
(_In Twelve Numbers_)
By Winona C. Martin
After the last story is told (the Passing of Arthur), and the children
standing with Sir Bevidere upon the highest crag of the jutting rock,
see the warrior King pass with the three tall queens in the dusky
barge beyond the limits of the world, they too, wonder gazing on the
splendor of his Passing. Though defeated in the last weird battle
in the west, yet he was victorious in his ideals, for he became the
spiritual King of his race.
“From the great deep to the great deep he goes.” The children hear but
do not quite understand—it is the better for that because something
of the mystery of life and death is awakened in the child. In that it
serves its highest purpose. It helps the child to realize that there
are things in life that eye have not seen nor ear heard, and let it
not be forgotten that while we use these great stories for formal
work, the formal is always the result of the creative.
“The letter killeth; the spirit giveth life.” Thus it is that child
and teacher leave the low plains of the “lesson hearer” and hand in
hand walk the upland pastures of the soul.—ED.
I. Merlin and His Prophecies
Once, in those dim, far off times when history fades away and is lost
in the mists of tradition, there sat upon the throne of Britain a man
named Vortigern. Like many another king of his day—and of later days
for that matter, he had no right whatever to the crown, for he had
gained it by the betrayal of a trust, and, some believed, by a still
darker crime. Constantine, his overlord, who had reigned in Britain
before him, had, at his death, committed to this Vortigern, his chief
minister, the care of his three sons, Constans, the heir, and his
two brothers Pendragon and Uther. Soon after the King’s death little
Constans had mysteriously disappeared. Then the true friends of the two
remaining princes, fearing for their lives, had fled with them across
the sea and found refuge for them at the court of France.
All this, however, was now many years ago; and so long had Vortigern’s
right to rule been unquestioned that he had almost forgotten his crime.
In the early days of his reign he had indeed fought valiantly against
the only enemies that the Britons had at that time greatly to fear.
These were the tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed Saxons who came from beyond
the seas led by Hengest and Horsa. But as the years had passed, he and
his warriors had given themselves up more and more to lives of luxury
and idleness, so that at last they had been obliged to make a shameful
peace with the enemy, and the Saxons were now gradually becoming
masters of the land.
It so happened, therefore, that on the day when our story opens, King
Vortigern had gathered his court about him in his capital city of
London, there to hold a high festival, and in feasting and carousing to
forget the disgrace of their surrender and the ills of the country.
Suddenly, up to the castle gate, through the great portal, along the
wide corridors, and into the very banquet-hall itself, never stopping
to dismount, rode a breathless messenger.
“To arms! Sir King, to arms!” he cried, waiting for no ceremony.
“Pendragon and Uther have this day set sail from the coast of France
with a mighty army, and they have sworn by a great oath to take your
life as you took the life of their brother Constans!”
Then the King remembered, and his face went ashen grey. He turned to
one after another of the men who should have been his mighty warriors,
and, reading in their flabby cheeks and lustreless eyes the story of
their slothful living, knew that his cause was well-nigh lost before
the fighting began.
“Summon my messengers!” he was able to say at last, and when these were
brought before him:
“Ride! into every corner of my kingdom, ride! And call together the
most skillful artificers, craftsmen and mechanics, for I have a great
work for them to do.”
Within a week the messengers on their fleet horses had scoured the
land, so that there stood before the King a hundred of the best workmen
that Britain could produce.
“Now hear my command,” said he. “On the plain that lies furthest west
in my kingdom build me a tower whose walls shall be so firm as to
withstand all assault of catapult and battering-ram; and have it ready
for my retreat within a hundred days, or your lives, to the last man,
shall be forfeited.”
The workmen left the presence of the King with fear in their hearts;
but to such good purpose did they labor that within a few days there
began to be visible upon the plain the jagged outlines of the walls
that were to enclose that mighty tower. Then the weary workmen, for the
first time feeling assured that they could accomplish their task within
the hundred days, lay down for the night and were soon fast asleep.
With the first pale glimmer of dawn, however, they arose ready to
return to their labors with renewed energy. But what a sight met their
eyes! The tower lay in ruins! The walls had fallen during the night!
Then with the strength of terror they fell upon their task once more.
When the second morning came they turned their gaze half in hope and
half in dread toward the scene of their labors, only to have their
worst fears confirmed. Once again there lay before them but a heap of
ruins!
“We must use larger stones,” said one.
“We have no time to talk,” put in a second. “If our lives are to be
spared we must work as we never worked before.”
So all through the long hours of the day they toiled in silence and in
dread until the damage of the night had been repaired, only to find
when morning came that, for the third time, their tower had crumbled to
the ground.
“This is enchantment!” they then cried in despair. “We cannot build
the tower. Let us go and throw ourselves before the King to plead for
mercy!”
But when Vortigern, with his guilty conscience, heard that word
“enchantment,” a greater dread fell upon his heart.
“Lead out these useless artificers,” he thundered, “and summon my wise
men.”
And presently the great doors of the throne-room were thrown open and,
one by one, in solemn procession, trailing their black robes, the
astrologers, the wizards and the magicians of the realm filed in, until
they stood in a silent semi-circle before the King.
At last Vortigern raised his eyes.
“Tell me,” he said gloomily, “tell me, O my Wise Men, as you hold in
your possession all the secrets of this world, and of other worlds
unknown to ordinary mortals, tell me, I adjure you, why my tower of
refuge will not stand.”
He ceased, and a deep silence fell upon the room. Wizard turned to
astrologer, and astrologer to magician, for each knew in his heart that
he could give no answer to the question of the King.
At last the oldest man present stepped forward and bowing low, began to
speak in deep and solemn tones:
“Your Majesty,” said he, “give us we pray you until tomorrow at
high noon. This night shall the wizards work their spells and the
astrologers consult the stars in their courses. Then shall we be able
to tell you why your tower will not stand.”
“Let it be so,” replied the King, “but also let it be well understood
that if at high noon tomorrow you are still unable to answer, your
lives shall pay the penalty, even as the lives of my workmen shall pay
the penalty if they do not raise my tower within the hundred days. Fail
me not, my Wise Men!”
That night, far down in the deepest dungeons of the castle, the
wizards gathered together about a steaming cauldron, vainly chanted
their incantations and worked their magic spells, while on the highest
battlements, the black-robed astrologers watched the stars from evening
until morning; but when the day-star itself faded from their sight in
the paling blue of dawn, they were no wiser than at the beginning of
their vigil.
“What shall we do?” they cried to one another in consternation when the
two companies of watchers had met to report their failures.
“Hush! Speak low!” whispered the Sage. “We must pretend. It is the only
way to save ourselves. I have a plan.”
And as they gathered about him he continued:
[Illustration: “_He had fought valiantly against the enemies_”]
“You all know the prophecy—that a child who never had mortal parents
shall soon appear among us, and that he shall be able to read more
in the stars than the wisest of our astrologers, that he shall be a
greater magician than the greatest of us, and that through him we shall
lose our power and pass away?”
“Ah! yes, we have heard,” they answered, shaking their white heads
mournfully.
“That child,” continued the Sage, “is living somewhere in Britain at
this very moment, and his name is Merlin. Let us tell the King that his
tower, to make it stand, needs but the blood of this child sprinkled
upon its foundations. So shall we by the same act save our lives and
rid ourselves of one who otherwise will surely work us harm.”
Then the Wise Men bowed their heads and answered:
“You have spoken the words of wisdom.”
So at high noon that day, when they were once more gathered about the
throne, they gave their answer:
“Seek, your Majesty,” said they, “a child named Merlin who never had
mortal parents. Sprinkle his blood upon the foundations of your tower.
Then will it stand until the end of time.”
Thereupon the King summoned his messengers and gave the order:
“Ride! into every town, village and hamlet of my kingdom, ride!
And seek this child until you find him; but know that if he is not
brought to me within ten days, your lives shall be forfeited, and not
yours alone, but also the lives of my Wise Men for giving me useless
knowledge, and the lives of my workmen for doing useless work! Ride!”
Then out from old London Town, north and south and east and west, up
hill and down dale, over mountains and across rivers, rode the King’s
messengers on their strange quest. One day, two days, three, four, five
and six days, seven days, eight days; and when the ninth day came two
of them found themselves far from home, riding through the street of a
tiny hamlet.
“What is the use of seeking further?” said one. “For my part I do not
believe, for all the Wise Men say, that there ever was or ever could be
such a child.”
“I fear you are right,” replied his companion, “we may as well give up
the search and flee for our lives.”
As he spoke the last words, however, the men were obliged to draw rein
lest their horses should trample upon a crowd of children who were
quarreling in the narrow street. One urchin had just given another a
sharp blow across the face, whereupon his victim was proceeding to
vent his rage in words that immediately arrested the attention of the
messengers.
[Illustration: “_Wizard turned to astrologer_”]
“How dare _you_ strike _me_?” he was screaming at the top of his shrill
little voice. “You who came nobody knows from where, and who never had
a father or a mother!”
In an instant one of the men had slipped from his horse. Then, having
seized both boys, he drew them aside that he might question them. Very
soon boys and men found themselves the centre of an interested group
of villagers each one of whom seemed more anxious than his neighbor to
give all the information that he happened to possess on the subject.
“Yes, his name is Merlin,” said one, “and he was cast upon our shores
by the waves of the sea.”
“Not at all!” interrupted another. “He was brought to our village in
the night by evil spirits.”
And so it went, but the anxious messengers soon cut short their
eloquence.
“If your name is Merlin,” said they to the lad, “and you do not know
who your father and mother are, you must come with us. It is the
command of the King.”
“I am quite willing,” replied the boy with unexpected meekness.
“Perhaps he would not be so willing,” whispered one under his breath to
his companion, “if he knew why he is wanted.”
“I hear what you say,” Merlin broke in, “and what is more, I know
what you mean; but just the same, I am willing to go with you to King
Vortigern. In fact I struck the boy knowing what he would say and what
you would do; so you see I am not afraid.”
On the tenth day after the departure of his couriers, the King sat
alone in his audience chamber. Suddenly the great doors were swung
wide, and a boy wearing the simple dress of a tiller of the soil
appeared before him.
“Your Majesty,” said he, “I am Merlin, the child who never had father
or mother. You sent for me because your Wise Men have said that my
blood is needed to make your strong tower stand. They have told you an
untruth because they know nothing about the tower, and also because
they are my enemies. I ask only that you call them together so that I
can prove to you that what I say is so.”
Then, at the astonished King’s command, the great bell of the castle
was tolled, and presently the black-robed astrologers, wizards and
magicians filed once again into the royal presence.
“You may question my Wise Men now,” said the King to Merlin, “and save
yourself if you can.”
“Tell us, then, O Prophets of King Vortigern,” cried the boy, “what
lies under the plain where the King has tried to build his tower.”
Then the Wise Ones drew apart that they might take counsel together,
and presently the Sage stepped before the King and said:
“Your Majesty, we are now ready to give our answer. We who have the
power to look deep into the bowels of the earth know well that beneath
the plain where you have sought to build your tower, should you dig
never so deep, you would find nothing but the good, brown soil of your
Majesty’s kingdom.”
At this Merlin smiled and shook his dark curls.
“You tell us, then,” said the King.
“Let your workmen dig,” replied the boy, “and beneath the plain they
will find a deep pool.”
And when the workmen had dug, they found, just as Merlin had
prophesied—a deep, dark pool beneath the plain.
Then cried the King:
“My Wise Men have been put to shame by this mere lad. His life shall be
spared; but they, for their deceit, shall be driven in disgrace from my
kingdom.”
But Merlin interposed, saying:
“Not yet, Sir King, I pray you. Let us have another test that you may
feel perfectly sure. Ask your Wise Men what lies under the pool that
lay under the plain where you sought to build your tower.”
Again the Wise Ones talked together; and again because they knew not
what else to say, they gave the same answer:
“Sir King, you will find good, brown earth beneath the pool that lay
beneath the plain where Your Majesty sought to build his tower.”
“No, Sir King,” said Merlin. “Beneath the pool you will find two great
stones. Let your workmen drain the pool and see.”
And when the pool was drained, there lay two immense boulders, just as
Merlin had said.
“Truly this is a marvelous child,” exclaimed Vortigern. “Away with
my false prophets! From this time forth I will have no Wise Man but
Merlin!”
“Stay, Your Majesty,” said Merlin. “Let there be one more test, then
no question can ever arise in your mind. Ask your Wise Men what lies
beneath the stones that lay beneath the pool that lay beneath the plain
where you sought to build your tower.”
But this time the Wise Ones were wise enough to hold their peace.
“Very well,” said Merlin, “then I will tell you. Beneath the stones you
will find two great dragons, one red, the other white. During the day
these monsters sleep, but at night they awaken and fight; and it was
because of their terrible underground battles that your tower could not
be made to stand. The night following the raising of the stones they
will fight for the last time; for the red dragon will kill the white
one, and after that, O Mighty King, you may build your tower in peace.”
Then the Wise Ones trembled, and silently they followed the King and
Merlin across the plain to watch the fatal raising of the stones.
When at last the mighty boulders had yielded to the combined strength
of all the workmen, there, before the eyes of the crowds that had
gathered, lay the two dragons—fast asleep.
“Now send the people away,” said Merlin to the King, “but you and I
must stay here and watch, for at midnight the dragons will fight their
last battle.”
And when the crowds had dispersed, and the Wise Men slunk away one by
one, Vortigern and the boy Merlin sat alone together on the brink of
the pool as the evening shadows fell.
The air grew chill. Presently the moon arose, shedding its weird light
upon the strange scene; and still the dragons slept on. Toward midnight
Merlin leaned forward, and, lightly touching the King’s arm, whispered:
“See! They are about to awaken. Make no noise!”
Then slowly, and still drowsily, the great white dragon stirred and
opened his hideous eyes, while along his whole scaly body there ran a
shudder. This seemed to arouse the red monster from his dreams, for
before King Vortigern could draw breath, the two terrible creatures
had risen on their bat-like wings far above his head, and, with fire
streaming from their nostrils, were gnashing upon each other with their
fangs, and striking at each other with their ugly claws.
For an hour or more the awful battle continued, sometimes far above
their heads, and sometimes perilously near them on the earth; and
it seemed to the King that neither would ever be able to gain an
advantage—so well were they matched. After a while, however, the white
beast began to show signs of weakening; and at last with a mighty
crash, he fell to the ground—dead. Then the red dragon spread his
wings, and with a strange hissing sound vanished into the shadows of
the night, never to be seen again by mortal eyes.
“Tell me,” said the King when he could find sufficient voice to speak.
“Tell me, O wonderful boy that you are, what do these strange things
mean?”
“I will tell you, O mighty King, without fear or favor,” replied
Merlin, “although I know full well that what I have to say will not
be at all to your liking. You may build your tower now, for there is
nothing to hinder you; and you may shut yourself up within its strong
walls. Nevertheless, Pendragon and Uther, the sons of King Constantine
whose trust you betrayed, and the brothers of the young heir Constans
whom you so cruelly murdered, have to-day landed on your shores with a
mighty army. Forty days and forty nights shall the siege continue, and
at the end of that time your tower shall be destroyed with every living
soul within its walls.
“Then shall reign in Britain first Pendragon and afterwards Uther; and
all the days of their lives they shall war against the Saxon whom you,
Sir King, have brought to this land. The White Dragon stands for the
Saxon, and the Red Dragon for the Briton. Long and deadly shall be the
strife between them, but in the fulness of time there shall be born to
Uther a son whose name shall be called ARTHUR. He shall be the greatest
king that these Islands are destined ever to know. He and his wonderful
knights shall make war on the Saxon and drive him from the land. So
shall the mischief of your reign be repaired—for a season.”
Then the King, still clinging to the shadow of his former hope,
hastened the building of his tower, and shut himself within its mighty
walls. Nevertheless, within forty days after the beginning of the
siege, having been driven back time and again, Pendragon and Uther,
counselled by Merlin, threw burning brands over the ramparts, so that
the tower took fire and burned with a mighty conflagration until all
within had perished.
Thus was Merlin’s prophecy concerning Vortigern fulfilled; and as for
his other prophecies—that is another story.
(_Number Two—“How Arthur Won His Kingdom”—will appear in the next
issue_)
GLOSSARY FOR BEGINNERS
1. _Adjure_, to charge or entreat solemnly. 2. _Artificer_, one who
works or constructs with skill. 3. _Astrologer_, one who reads the
supposed destinies of men in the stars. 4. _Battering-ram_, a long
beam, usually with a heavy head, used in making breaches in walls.
5. _Boulder_, a stone or rock. 6. _Catapult_, a military engine used
for throwing spears. 7. _Cauldron_, a large kettle or boiler. 8.
_Hamlet_, a small village. 9. _Incantations_, the saying or singing of
magical words for enchantment. 10. _Over-lord_, a king or chief who
held authority over other lords. 11. _Quest_, a search. 12. _Realm_,
a kingdom. 13. _Sage_, a wise man. 14. _Vigil_, a night watch. 15.
_Wizard_, one having the power of magic; a male witch.
[Illustration: _Beethoven_
Reproduced by permission Braun et Cie.]
Beethoven’s
Moonlight
Sonata[A]
_And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away._
—_Longfellow._
It happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter’s evening I called upon
Beethoven, for I wanted him to take a walk and afterward sup with me.
In passing through some dark, narrow street he paused suddenly. “Hush!”
he said—“What sound is that? It is from my Sonata in F!” he said
eagerly. “Hark! how well it is played!”
It was a little, mean dwelling, and we paused outside and listened. The
player went on; but in the midst of the _finale_ there was a sudden
break, then the voice of sobbing. “I cannot play any more. It is so
beautiful, it is utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh, what
would I not give to go to the concert at Cologne!”
“Ah, my sister,” said her companion, “why create regrets when there is
no remedy? We can scarcely pay our rent.”
[A] The text of the Beethoven Moonlight Sonata is reprinted from the
Aldine Fourth Reader, through the courtesy of the publishers, Newson &
Co., New York.
“You are right; and yet I wish for once in my life to hear some really
good music. But it is of no use.”
Beethoven looked at me. “Let us go in,” he said.
“Go in!” I exclaimed. “What can we go in for?”
“I will play for her,” he said, in an excited tone. “Here is
feeling—genius—understanding. I will play to her, and she will
understand it.” And, before I could prevent him, his hand was upon the
door.
A pale young man was sitting by the table, making shoes; and near him,
leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned harpsichord, sat a young
girl, with a profusion of light hair falling about her face. Both were
cleanly but very poorly dressed, and both started and turned toward us
as we entered.
“Pardon me,” said Beethoven, “but I heard music, and was tempted to
enter. I am a musician.”
The girl blushed and the young man looked grave—somewhat annoyed.
“I—I also overheard something of what you said,” continued my friend.
“You wish to hear—that is, you would like—that is—shall I play for you?”
There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so comic
and pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken in
a moment, and all smiled involuntarily.
“Thank you!” said the shoemaker, “but our harpsichord is so wretched,
and we have no music.”
“No music!” echoed my friend. “How, then, does the Fraulein—”
He paused and colored up, for the girl looked full at him, and he saw
that she was blind.
“I—I entreat your pardon!” he stammered. “But I had not perceived
before. Then you play by ear?”
“Entirely.”
“And where do you hear the music, since you frequent no concerts?”
“I used to hear a lady practising near us. During the summer evenings
her windows were generally open, and I walked to and fro outside to
listen to her.”
She seemed shy; so Beethoven said no more, but seated himself quietly
before the piano, and began to play. He had no sooner struck the first
chord than I knew what would follow—how grand he would be that night.
And I was not mistaken. Never, during all the years I knew him, did I
hear him play as he then played to that blind girl and her brother. He
was inspired; and from the instant when his fingers began to wander
along the keys the very tone of the instrument began to grow sweeter
and more equal.
The brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture. The former
laid aside his work; the latter, with her head bent slightly forward,
and her hands pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the
end of the harpsichord, as if fearful lest even the beating of her
heart would break the flow of those magical, sweet sounds. It was as if
we were all bound in a strange dream, and only feared to wake.
Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sank, flickered, and
went out. Beethoven paused, and I threw open the shutters, admitting a
flood of brilliant moonshine. The room was almost as light as before,
and the illumination fell strongest upon the piano and player. But the
chain of his ideas seemed to have been broken by the accident. His head
dropped upon his breast; his hands rested upon his knees; he seemed
absorbed in meditation. It was thus for some time.
At length the young shoemaker rose, and approached him eagerly, yet
reverently. “Wonderful man!” he said, in a low tone, “who and what are
you?”
The composer smiled, as only he could smile, benevolently, indulgently,
kingly. “Listen!” he said, and he played the opening bars of the Sonata
in F.
[Music Score: Six bars of the Sonata]
[Illustration: _The Moonlight Sonata_]
A cry of delight and recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming,
“Then you are Beethoven!” they covered his hand with tears and kisses.
He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties.
“Play to us once more—only once more!”
He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. The moon shone
brightly in through the window and lit up his glorious, rugged, and
massive figure. “I will improvise a sonata to the moonlight!” he said,
looking up thoughtfully to the sky and stars. Then his hands dropped on
the keys, and he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely movement,
which crept gently over the instrument like the calm flow of moonlight
over the dark earth.
This was followed by a wild, elfin passage in triple time—a sort
of grotesque interlude, like the dance of sprites upon the sward.
Then came a swift _agitato finale_—a breathless, hurrying, trembling
movement, descriptive of flight and uncertainty, and vague, impulsive,
terror, which carried us away on its rustling wings, and left us all in
emotion and wonder.
“Farewell to you!” said Beethoven, pushing back his chair and turning
toward the door—“farewell to you!”
“You will come again?” asked they, in one breath.
[Illustration: Woman surrounded by fairies]
He paused, and looked compassionately, almost tenderly, at the face of
the blind girl. “Yes, yes,” he said hurriedly; “I will come again, and
give the Fraulein some lessons. Farewell! I will soon come again!” They
followed us in silence more eloquent than words, and stood at their
door till we were out of sight and hearing.
“Let us make haste back,” said Beethoven, “that I may write out that
sonata while I can yet remember it.”
We did so, and he sat over it till long past day-dawn. And this was
the origin of that Moonlight Sonata with which we are all so fondly
acquainted.
[Illustration: Man reading]
A Rose from Homer’s Grave
The nightingale’s love for the rose pervades all the songs of the East;
in those silent starlit nights the winged songster invariably brings a
serenade to his scented flower.
Not far from Smyrna, under the stately plantain trees where the
merchant drives his laden camels, which tread heavily on hallowed
ground, and carry their long necks proudly, I saw a blooming hedge of
roses. Wild doves fluttered from branch to branch of the tall trees,
and where the sunbeams caught their wings they shone like mother of
pearl. There was one flower on the rose hedge more beautiful than all
the rest, and to this one the nightingale poured out all the yearning
of its love. But the rose was silent, not a single dewdrop lay like a
tear of compassion upon its petals, while it bent its head towards a
heap of stones.
“Here rests the greatest singer the world has ever known!” said the
rose. “I will scent his grave and strew my petals over it when the
storms tear them off. The singer of the Iliad returned to earth here,
this earth whence I sprang!—I, a rose from Homer’s grave, am too
sacred to bloom for a mere nightingale!”
And the nightingale sang till from very grief his heart broke.
The camel driver came with his laden camels, and his black slaves;
his little boy found the dead bird, and buried the little songster in
Homer’s grave. The rose trembled in the wind. Night came; the rose
folded her petals tightly and dreamt that it was a beautiful sunny
day, and that a crowd of strange Frankish men came on a pilgrimage to
Homer’s grave.
Among the strangers was a singer from the North, from the home of mists
and northern lights. He broke off the rose and pressed it in a book,
and so carried it away with him to another part of the world, to his
distant Fatherland. And the rose withered away from grief lying tightly
pressed in the narrow book, till he opened it in his home and said
“Here is a rose from Homer’s grave!”
Now this is what the flower dreamt, and it woke up shivering in the
wind; a dewdrop fell from its petals upon the singer’s grave. The sun
rose and the day was very hot, the rose bloomed in greater beauty than
ever in the warmth of Asia.
Footsteps were heard and the strange Franks whom the rose saw in its
dream came up. Among the strangers was a poet from the North, he broke
off the rose and pressed a kiss upon its dewy freshness, and carried it
with him to the home of mists and northern lights. The relics of the
rose rest now like a mummy between the leaves of his Iliad, and as in
its dream it hears him say when he opens the book,
“Here is a rose from Homer’s grave!”
THE SECRET WOULDST THOU KNOW
TO TOUCH THE HEART OR FIRE THE BLOOD AT WILL?
LET THINE OWN EYES O’ERFLOW;
LET THY LIPS QUIVER WITH THE PASSIONATE THRILL;
SEIZE THE GREAT THOUGHT, ERE YET ITS POWER BE PAST,
AND BIND, IN WORDS, THE FLEET EMOTIONS FAST.
SO SHALT THOU FRAME A LAY
THAT HAPLY MAY ENDURE FROM AGE TO AGE,
AND THEY WHO READ SHALL SAY:
“WHAT WITCHERY HANGS UPON THIS POET’S PAGE!
WHAT ART IS HIS THE WRITTEN SPELLS TO FIND
THAT SWAY FROM MOOD TO MOOD THE WILLING MIND!”
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
The Image in Story Telling
By Percival Chubb
Undoubtedly the element of fundamental importance in story telling, as
in all forms of art, is structure; “the bones,” as a Japanese phrase
has it; the bones of the limbs, properly joined together to form the
well-knit skeleton of the living body of a work of art. “Let there be
form!” is the first fiat of the artist. That form is literally the
“embodiment” of the soul of intention which animates the creative
process of the artist’s mind. Such is the meaning of Spencer’s, “the
soul is form, and doth the body make.”
It is not, however, about form or the joinery of the story-teller’s
craft that I would speak; but of what comes next in importance,—the
clothing of the skeleton in a beautiful texture of bodily substance.
That substance must be of imagination all compact. The language of
which it is made must employ the image, must evoke imagery. Language,
it has been said, is fossil poetry; and that is because in the first
place the essential of poetry is the image; and, secondly, because
language seizes upon the graphic qualities of things. So saving
a quality is imagination, that the use of appropriate and vivid
imagery will sometimes atone in a story teller for lack of structural
soundness. This is true, for instance, of some Irish story tellers and
stories. The joinery is often poor; for the architecture of form is not
the Celt’s strong point. The skillful management of development and
climax is frequently wanting in his work. He does not know just when
to stop; he loves to talk on, and embroider, and gossip. And yet the
winning charm of the genuine Celtic story is irresistible. It holds
us by the charm of style; and the power of its style lies to a large
extent in felicity of imagery, and what we must call by the larger
phrase, imaginative power.
This view was again borne in upon the writer in reading recently a
passage from one of the letters of the great French painter, Millet.
Indeed, it is for the sake of using Millet’s delightful illustration
to enforce once more the truth of a not unfamiliar principle that this
brief article is written.
Millet’s illustration is taken from Theocritus. It is worth noting,
in passing, what a wonderful instinct for greatness Millet had. He
nurtured himself upon the great masters; took to them naturally from
the first. This was true of the literature as well as the art which
he came across. The peasant lad felt the distinction and power of
the poetry of Virgil even while he learned to construe the difficult
lines there on the farm in Normandy, with the aid of the priest who
instructed him. Later on he took as naturally to Theocritus as to
Virgil. He was always a pupil of the great spirits.
In the letter I quote from, he begins by expressing his enthusiasm for
the Sicilian poet. He seizes upon the copy of the Idylls sent to him,
and does not leave it till he has “devoured the contents.” But he adds,
“It is when I take it word for word that I am most delighted.” He finds
things in the original which are lacking in the translation; and he
gives this one striking example:
“In the first idyl, on the vase upon which all kinds of things are
sculptured, among others is a vine, full of ripe grapes, which a
little fellow guards, sitting on a wall. But on both sides are two
foxes; one surveys the rows, devouring the ripe grapes. Does not
‘surveys the rows’ show you the layout of a grape-vine? Does it not
make it real? And can’t you see the fox trotting up and down, going
from one row to another? It is a picture, an image! You are there. But
in the translation this living image is so attenuated that it would
hardly strike you. ‘Two foxes; one gets into the vineyard and devours
the grapes.’ O translator, it is not enough to understand Greek: you
must also know a vineyard to be struck by the accuracy of your poet’s
image, that it may spur you to the exertion of rendering it well! And
so on with everything. But I come back to that: _I can’t see the fox
trotting—in the translator’s vineyard_.
Could there be a more convincing plea for the enlivening image
than that? The image, in other words, is the condition of sight,
visualization, realization. The story teller, on looking over a written
draft of the story he is going to tell, can ask no more important
question than this: “Where can I substitute for any weak abstract word
one that arouses an image?” It is not enough to think in images one’s
self, to have an image, one must be able to convey it by the use of an
image-evoking word.
Another very good instance which I have frequently cited to students in
talking about story telling is the expression employed in Shakespeare’s
“Hamlet” when it is said,
“The cock that is the trumpet to the morn
Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding _throat_
Awake the god of day.” ...
Consider how the effect would have been weakened if, instead of the
concrete, image-evoking word “throat,” Shakespeare had used the word
which most of us would have employed, namely, the word “voice.”
That word merely suggests a sound; “throat” flashes the visible
image of that “bird of dawning.” We _see_. Not only do we hear that
“shrill-sounding” trumpeter, but we see that straining throat. We are
there with the bird.
Many other examples might be cited, but these must suffice to bring
home once more, with fresh emphasis perchance the truth that, after
structural form, after securing sequence, coherence, climax, unity,
the most important factor in story telling is the apt and adequate
employment of the image. Imagery is the magic of the story-teller’s
art.
[Illustration: Full moon through clouds]
Endymion
By Frederick A. Child[B]
Endymion is the name of a man who fell in love with the Moon, the
beautiful, bright shining Moon whom the waves obey, and which sends her
light silver down upon the earth to ripple across the tranquil waters
and to shine upon the towers of sleeping cities, to creep peacefully
into the bed-chambers of its inhabitants and kiss the tangled, golden
ringlets of dreaming children. Now Endymion’s friends thought he was
very foolish to fall in love with any one so far beyond his reach.
Especially was this true of the Earth, who was, in fact, in love with
Endymion. And altho Earth put forth her gayest and sweetest smelling
flowers to attract Endymion, Endymion would not even take the trouble
to look upon poor Earth, but always kept his eyes directed toward the
shining Moon.
[B] Retold from Lyly’s “Endymion.”
At last poor Earth could stand it no longer, so she went to an old
enchantress named Dipsas and asked her whether she could weave a charm
that would bring Endymion’s thoughts back to Earth. Dipsas said that
such was not her power, but she could bewitch Endymion so that a long
sleep would fall upon him and therefore he couldn’t love the Moon any
more. So one night when Endymion was out gazing longingly upon the Moon
and sighing and calling for her to look down upon him and at least
smile upon him, the enchantress Dipsas stole up behind him and waving a
fan of hemlock above his head, put him in a sound sleep.
[Illustration: _The Spirit of the Moon_]
And there upon the bank he slept for twenty years, and finally even the
Moon began to miss him and inquired where he was, and when she found
that Endymion had been thrown into a long sleep she became interested
in his welfare and perhaps sighed a little for his love, but try as she
would she could find no one who could break the spell. Finally she sent
Eumenides, a close friend of Endymion, to seek over the world for a
remedy.
In his travels about the earth to find a remedy Eumenides met with an
old man sitting beside a fountain, and he told the old man what he
sought.
“Oh,” said the old man, “you need travel no farther, for he who can
clearly see the bottom of this fountain has found remedy for anything.”
And so Eumenides looked and saw the bottom of the fountain clearly
and read as follows: “When the bright, round Moon shall come and kiss
Endymion, he shall rise from his sleep.”
Eumenides hastened back and told the Moon what he had read at the
bottom of the fountain.
Now the Moon was much surprised when she heard of the remedy for
Endymion’s long sleep, but finally she consented to kiss him,
and—wonder upon wonders!—the sleeper of twenty years awoke. And so
delighted was Endymion for the awakening that he immediately lost
all traces of his twenty years’ sleep and stood before them a young
man again. And so delighted was the Moon with this young man who had
undergone so much because of his love for her that she said he might
continue to worship her forever and ever.
And the writer of this story meant to represent by the Moon the Queen
of England, Queen Elizabeth, whom all Englishmen loved and honored
and some day when you study English history you will see what brave
deeds these Englishmen performed for their Queen, the shining Moon, so
bright, and beautiful, but so beyond their reach.
“GIVE ME LEAVE TO ENJOY MYSELF; THAT PLACE THAT DOES CONTAIN MY BOOKS,
THE BEST COMPANIONS, IS TO ME A GLORIOUS COURT, WHERE HOURLY I CONVERSE
WITH THE OLD SAGES AND PHILOSOPHERS; AND, SOMETIMES, FOR VARIETY, I
CONFER WITH KINGS AND EMPERORS, AND WEIGH THEIR COUNSELS; CALLING THEIR
VICTORIES, IF UNJUSTLY GOT, INTO A STRICT ACCOUNT, AND, IN MY FANCY,
DEFACE THEIR ILL-PLACED STATUES.”—_Beaumont and Fletcher._
[Illustration: _St. Christopher, Memling_
_Royal Museum, Dresden_
Reproduced by permission Braun et Cie.]
The Story of Saint Christopher
As told by R. T. Wyche
_The meaning and value of the story of Saint Christopher_
The story of Saint Christopher is a story of the misunderstood boy.
Many a child is misunderstood by parent and teacher, and, like St.
Francis of Assisi, is driven from home and yet makes a great success
in life.
The story is an epitome of a man’s life. Christopher in his boyhood
had strength—he worshiped strength—he could not find normal means of
recreation, so he did evil. His hero, the German Emperor, represents
the interest of the child from eight to twelve years, with splendid
physical health, with moral and religious nature undeveloped.
Christopher followed the normal impulse in serving the German Emperor.
The adolescent boy in high-school period, is represented, in a way, by
the second hero that Christopher served, a devil, a mischief-maker,
but as the boy grows out of that he catches a glimpse of the moral
hero just as Christopher did when he heard of the man of Galilee.—ED.
Once on a time, a long time ago, beyond the seas, there lived a boy
named Christopher. As he grew up he was unusually strong and giant
like. He drove the cattle to field and lived in the mountains and on
the plains. Being alone much of his time he had little opportunity for
play or sport with other children, and when he came home his parents
did not play with him or entertain him, and so he sought recreation
where he could find it in other places. He was full of energy and his
parents frequently scolded him, which drove him off to himself in bad
moods. On one occasion he tied the cows’ tails together, just to hear
them bellow. On another occasion he set fire to a forest, all in sport,
because he had no one to join him in better things. His stepmother
scolded him and punished him so that he would frequently go away alone
or join bad companions in mischief. Finally, one day, quarreling with a
man, he killed him because of his greater strength.
Fearing to return home, he wandered in strange lands, sometimes working
for his living, and sometimes living on what was given him. Wherever
he went people admired his broad shoulders and manly form, for he was
giantlike in size.
One day he heard of the Emperor of Germany, who was king and the
mightiest man in all the world. As Christopher admired and worshiped
strength, he wanted to see and to serve the Emperor. At last after long
journeys he came and stood before the German Emperor and offered his
services. The Emperor was at that time waging wars for his kingdom,
and when he saw Christopher, giantlike and strong, he admired him
and readily accepted his services, taking him along as a bodyguard.
Christopher was delighted and threw his whole strength into the service
of the Emperor and did many wonderful deeds.
So strong was Christopher that frequently he would bear on his
shoulders great logs, place them across gullies and ravines and build
a bridge for the army to pass over. The Emperor frequently talked with
him and encouraged him, all of which immensely pleased Christopher, for
he thought, “I have at last found him who is most worthy of worship and
service.”
But on one occasion as the Emperor was riding near a forest,
Christopher noticed that the Emperor made the sign of the cross and
turned aside from the dark forest and went in another direction.
Christopher said to the Emperor: “Why did you turn back from the
forest?” The Emperor said: “The devil lives in that forest and I fear
him.” “What,” said Christopher, “afraid? I thought that you were afraid
of nothing!” But the Emperor said: “This demon of darkness is very
strong and I fear him.” Then Christopher said: “If you are afraid I
wish to leave your service and join myself to the devil, because I do
not want to serve any but the strongest.” Whereupon the Emperor paid
Christopher his wages and reluctantly parted with him.