ELSON GRAMMAR SCHOOL LITERATURE (continued 6)
Reading edition
Read lines which show his faith.
Of what is the poet thinking when he speaks of the "restless sands' incessant fall"?
To what mythological characters does he refer when he speaks of the "threads the fatal sisters spun"?
What mythological characters are meant by "the heathen Nine"?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"Apollonius" "Hermes" "Egypt's Amun" "Surrey hills" "silhouette" "White of Selborne" "clean-winged hearth." "Petruchio'a Kate" "Siena's saint" "cranes of Nilua"
THE SHIP-BUILDERS
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
The sky is ruddy in the east, The earth is gray below, And, spectral in the river-mist, The ship's white timbers show. Then let the sounds of measured stroke And grating saw begin; The broad-axe to the gnarled oak, The mallet to the pin!
Hark!--roars the bellows, blast on blast, The sooty smithy jars, And fire-sparks, rising far and fast, Are fading with the stars. All day for us the smith shall stand Beside that flashing forge; All day for us his heavy hand The groaning anvil scourge.
From far-off hills, the panting team For us is toiling near; For us the raftsmen down the stream Their island barges steer. Rings out for us the axe-man's stroke In forests old and still,-- For us the century-circled oak Falls crashing down his hill.
Up!--up!--in nobler toil than ours No craftsmen bear a part: We make of Nature's giant powers The slaves of human Art. Lay rib to rib and beam to beam, And drive the treenails free; Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam Shall tempt the searching sea!
Where'er the keel of our good ship The sea's rough field shall plough,-- Where'er her tossing spars shall drip With salt-spray caught below-- That ship must heed her master's beck, Her helm obey his hand, And seamen tread her reeling deck As if they trod the land.
Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak Of Northern ice may peel; The sunken rock and coral peak May grate along her keel; And know we well the painted shell We give to wind and wave, Must float, the sailor's citadel, Or-sink, the sailor's grave!
Ho!--strike away the bars and blocks, And set the good ship free! Why lingers on these dusty rocks The young bride of the sea? Look! how she moves adown the grooves, In graceful beauty now! How lowly on the breast she loves Sinks down her virgin prow!
God bless her! wheresoe'er the breeze Her snowy wing shall fan, Aside the frozen Hebrides, Or sultry Hindostan! Where'er, in mart or on the main, With peaceful flag unfurled, She helps to wind the silken chain Of commerce round the world!
Be hers the Prairie's golden grain, The Desert's golden sand, The clustered fruits of sunny Spain, The spice of Morning-land! Her pathway on the open main May blessings follow free, And glad hearts--welcome back again Her white sails from the sea!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
What time of day is indicated in the first and second stanzas?
What tells you this?
How does the smith "scourge" the anvil?
What effect does the poet fancy this has upon the anvil?
Which of these two thoughts do you suppose first occurred to the poet?
What are the "island barges"?
What is a "century-circled oak"? Did you ever see one?
What is Whittier's idea of a shipbuilder's work?
In what way would a "yawning seam" tempt the sea?
What is the "painted shell"?
How is a ship launched?
What other poem have you read which describes the launching of a ship? Who wrote it?
Which poem do you like better? Why?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"gnarled oak" "faithless joint" "coral peak" "the sailor's citadel" "snowy wing" "Desert's golden sand" "spice of Morningland"
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Oliver Wendell Holmes's birth year, 1809, was made memorable on both sides of the Atlantic by the births of Lincoln, Tennyson, Poe, and Gladstone. His father, of colonial descent, was a Congregational minister at Cambridge. On his mother's side--the Wendells or Vondels--he was of Dutch descent.
Holmes was brought up very simply in the old gambrel-roofed house, half parsonage and half farm house. He read the "New England Primer," "Pilgrim's Progress" and such poems as were to be found in the early school books. Later he was a student at Harvard, a member of the class of 1829, which, while not to be compared for literary genius with the Bowdoin class of 1825, was one of Harvard's most famous classes. Not long after his graduation, the class of 1829 began to held annual dinners and Holmes was regularly called upon to furnish an ode for the occasion. It was on the thirtieth anniversary that he wrote and recited "The Boys." In 1889, at the sixtieth anniversary, he wrote the last class poem, "After the Curfew."
It was in the first year after his graduation that his verses went into type and then he says he had his first attack of "lead poisoning." After leaving Harvard he studied law for a while and then turned to medicine and surgery, spending two years in study in Paris. It is a singular coincidence and shows his double work in life, that in 1836 when he published his first volume of poems he also took his degree as doctor of medicine. As a physician he was always deeply interested in the problems of heredity and he wrote several novels in which inherited characteristics play an important part.
It was in September, 1830, that Holmes chanced to read in a newspaper of the proposal of the Navy Department to dismantle the frigate Constitution, which had done such good service in 1812 but which was then lying, old and unseaworthy, in the navy yard at Charleston. He wrote at once with a lead pencil on a scrap of paper the stirring verses "Old Ironsides" and sent them to the Boston Daily Advertiser, from which they were copied in all the papers of the country. The frigate was converted into a school-ship, and Oliver Wendell Holmes became known as a poet.
On every public occasion which could be enlivened or dignified by a special poem, Dr. Holmes was called upon. Such a position is a trying one and one to which only men with a sense of humor are often called. The doctor rarely refused to respond; so that nearly one-half of his verse is of this occasional character. Much of his verse is in lighter vein, but of the serious, surest in their hold upon his readers are "The Last Leaf" and "The Chambered Nautilus." But Holmes, while he had a genuine gift of song, was no persistent singer like Longfellow or Whittier, and so he reached almost the age of fifty without feeling that the reading public had any special interest in him. Then in 1857, when the Atlantic Monthly was established, and Lowell took the editorship only on condition that Holmes would be a contributor, he wrote the "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table." In this role of talker, comfortable, brilliant, and witty, Holmes made friends wherever the Autocrat was read.
Holmes's intellect remained bright and he continued an active worker into extreme old age. In 1890 he published his last volume, "Over the Teacups." As one by one this brilliant company of New England writers left the world, Holmes sang to each a farewell song. When his own time came he was really "The Last Leaf upon the Tree." The end came peacefully as he was talking to his son, October 7, 1894.
THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main-- The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings, In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed-- Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!
Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! Prom thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
What does the word nautilus mean?
What thought must have been in the mind of those who gave the chambered nautilus this name?
Who does Holmes tell us have given expression to this fancy?
Can you think of any bodies of water which might be called "enchanted gulfs"?
Give reasons for your answer.
What are coral reefs? Where are they found?
What kind of beings--were "sea-maids" supposed to be?
What are they more commonly called?
To whom is the poet speaking?
What name do we give to such a speech?
How does the soul build mansions?
In what directions must a dome be extended to make it "more vast"?
What does the poet mean by the "outgrown shell" of the soul?
What is the lesson of the poem?
Which stanza do you like best? Why?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl" "dim dreaming life" "sunless crypt" "caves of thought" "lustrous coil" "cast from her lap forlorn" "low-vaulted past" "irised ceiling" "life's unresting sea"
THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE: OR THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY"
A LOGICAL STORY
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it----ah, but stay, I'll tell you what happened without delay, Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits,-- Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. Georgius Secundus was then alive,-- Snuffy old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible Earthquake-day That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.
Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always somewhere a weakest spot,-- In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,--lurking, still, Find it somewhere you must and will,-- Above or below, or within or without,-- And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.
But the Deacon swore, (as Deacons do, With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,") He would build one shay to beat the taown 'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; It should be so built that it couldn' break daown. --"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, is only jest T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,-- That was for spokes and floor and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees, The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"-- Last of its timber,--they couldn't sell 'em, Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thoroughbrace, bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he "put her through."-- "There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew."
Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren--where were they? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;--it came and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten;-- "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came;-- Running as usual; much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then came fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.
Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large; Take it.--You're welcome.--No extra charge.)
First of November,--the Earthquake-day.-- There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavor of mild decay, But nothing local, as one may say. There couldn't be--for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn't a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whippletree neither less nor more, And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub encore. And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out!
First of November, fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. "Huddup!" said the parson.--Off went they. The parson was working his Sunday's text,-- Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the--Moses--was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.
First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill,-- And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock-- Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground. You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once,-- All at once, and nothing first,-- Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay, Logic is logic. That's all I say.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
How does Holmes account for the fact "that a chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out"?
What kind of chaise did the Deacon decide to build?
On what principle did he expect to do this?
Read the lines in which the Deacon states the result of his experience with chaises.
What do you think of his reasoning?
To what besides the building of a chaise might this principle be applied?
To what does the poet compare the breaking down of the chaise?
Read lines which show the serious side of the poet's nature.
Read the lines by means of which he passes from seriousness to jest.
Do you think Holmes expects his readers to believe this story? Give reason for your answer.
What was his purpose in writing it?
What has the reading of this poem done for you?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"Georgius Secundus" "Lisbon earthquake day" "from the German hive" "Braddock's army"
OLD IRONSIDES
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky: Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon's roar:-- The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more!
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee;-- The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea!
O better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave: Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms, The lightning and the gale!
HELPS TO STUDY.
Historical: Old Ironsides was the name given the frigate Constitution. It was proposed by the Secretary of the Navy to dispose of the ship as it had become unfit for service. Popular sentiment did not approve of this. It was said a ship which was the pride of the nation should continue to be the property of the Navy and be rebuilt for service when needed. Holmes wrote this poem at the time of this discussion.
Notes and Questions.
Of what does the first stanza treat?
The second?
What does the third stanza tell you?
To what does "tattered ensign" refer?
What is "The meteor of the ocean air"?
What is meant by lines 15 and 16?
Where does Holmes say should be the grave of Old Ironsides? Why?
Explain lines 23 and 24.
Which lines do you like best? Why?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"sweep the clouds" "conquered knee" "mighty deep" "vanquished foe" "The god of storms" "threadbare sail" "victor's tread" "shattered hulk"
THE BOYS
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? If there has, take him out, without making a noise. Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite! Old Time is a liar! We're twenty tonight!
We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more? He's tipsy,--young jackanapes!--show him the door! "Gray temples at twenty?"--Yes! white if we please; Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze!
Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake! Look close,--you will see not a sign of a flake! We want some new garlands for those we have shed,-- And these are white roses in place of the red.
We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, Of talking (in public) as if we were old:-- That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge"; It's a neat little fiction,--of course it's all fudge.
That fellow's the "Speaker,"--the one on the right; "Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you tonight? That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; There's the "Reverend" What's his name?--don't make me laugh.
That boy with the grave mathematical look Made believe he had written a wonderful book, And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was true! So they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too!
There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain, That could harness a team with a logical chain; When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire, We called him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire."
And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith,-- Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith; But he shouted a song for the brave and the free,-- Just read on his medal, "My country, ... of thee!"
You hear that boy laughing?--You think he's all fun; But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done; The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!
Yes, we're boys,--always playing with tongue or with pen,-- And I sometimes have asked,--Shall we ever be men? Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay, Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?
Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! The stars of its winter, the dews of its May! And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, Dear Father, take care of thy children, THE BOYS.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Historical: This poem was read by Oliver Wendell Holmes at a reunion of his college class thirty years after their graduation.
Notes and Questions.
Who were "the boys"?
What was the "Almanac's cheat"?
What catalogue do you think Holmes meant?
How could it be interpreted as showing spite against "the boys"?
How did the poet defend "gray temples at twenty"?
What was the significance in early times of the garland or wreath upon the head?
What do you think the garlands which the poet imagines his classmates "have shed" represent?
Of what does Holmes say their new garlands were made?
What might the "new garlands" represent?
What fancy does the poet carry out in the next stanza?
What song did the "nice youngster" write?
What is his full name?
What word is omitted from the line of the song quoted by Holmes?
How do you think Holmes felt toward the laughing "boy"? Why do you think so?
Can you name anything besides, "tongue and pen" with which men may be said to play?
What time of life is meant by the "gold"? By the "gray"?
How much of this poem is fun?
Which stanza do you like best? Why?
What do you know about Oliver Wendell Holmes from this poem?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"Royal Society" "three-decker brain" "excellent pith" "life-lasting toys"
THE LAST LEAF
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
I saw him once before, As he passed by the door, And again The pavement stones resound, As he totters o'er the ground With his cane.
They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the Crier on his round Through the town.
But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets Sad and wan, And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, "They are gone."
The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said,-- Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago,-- That he had a Roman nose And his cheek was like a rose In the snow.
But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh.
I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer!
And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
What was the office of the Crier?
What has done away with the necessity for such service?
At what time was the costume described in the seventh stanza worn?
What great men can you mention who are pictured in this dress?
What makes the description of the old man so vivid?
How does he resemble "the last leaf on the tree"?
Of whom is Holmes thinking when he says "Let them smile"?
What is added to the picture of the last leaf by the words "Is the spring"?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"pruning knife of Time" "mossy marbles"
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL was born at Cambridge in the beautiful house known as Elmwood. He was more fortunate than most Americans, for in this same house he lived and died. The dwelling at Elmwood was like Craigie House, an historic place of Revolutionary memories. The secluded, ample grounds made a fine rural refuge for a youth of poetic fancies. Nor was there only wealth for the nature-lover of outdoors; there were also treasures for the lover of books within. The Lowell library was the accumulation of several generations of scholarly men, and Lowell from early youth was familiar with books which Whittier even in the studious leisure of old age never looked into.
Lowell was twelve years younger than Longfellow and was a sophomore when Longfellow went to Harvard as professor of Romance languages. At Harvard Lowell distinguished himself especially in literary matters. In the last year of his residence he was one of the editors of the college magazine and was also elected class poet. Although he studied law, he was never attracted to the practice of it.
Lowell, like Whittier, could turn from the heat and strife of public affairs to the solace of pure poetry. Inspired by the legend of the Holy Grail, he wrote within forty-eight hours, so we are told, the poem of knightly aspiration and brotherly love, "The Vision of Sir Launfal."
In 1856, upon Longfellow's resignation, Lowell was appointed professor of Romance Languages at Harvard, and, like Longfellow, he remained for twenty years. In 1857 a new magazine to which Holmes had given the name "Atlantic Monthly" was established and Lowell was its first editor.
In 1877 Lowell was appointed minister to Spain, where Irving had been sent more than thirty years before; and in 1880 he was transferred to the court of St. James. Here he distinguished himself by tact, courtesy, and wisdom and won the admiration of the English people.
Returning to America in 1885 Lowell continued to write, and delivered addresses when his strength would permit. He spent his time among his books and lived peacefully at Elmwood, where he died in 1891 at the age of seventy-two.
THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
PRELUDE TO PART FIRST
Over his keys the musing organist. Beginning doubtfully and far away, First lets his fingers wander as they list, And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay:
Then, as the touch of his loved instrument Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent Along the wavering vista of his dream.
Not only around our infancy Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, We Sinais climb and know it not. Over our manhood bend the skies; Against our fallen and traitor lives The great winds utter prophecies; With our faint hearts the mountain strives; Its arms outstretched, the Druid wood Waits with its benedicite; And to our age's drowsy blood Still shouts the inspiring sea. Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us; The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us. We bargain for the graves we lie in; At the Devil's booth are all things sold, Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; For a cap and bells our lives we pay, Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking: 'Tis heaven alone that is given away, 'Tis only God may be had for the asking; No price is set on the lavish summer; June may be had by the poorest comer.
And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays; Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf or a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,-- In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?
Now is the high-tide of the year, And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, We are happy now because God wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing; The breeze comes whispering in our ear, That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by; And if the breeze kept the good news back, For other couriers we should not lack; We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,-- And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year, Tells all in his lusty crowing!
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how: Everything is happy now, Everything is upward striving; 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,-- 'Tis the natural way of living: Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; The soul partakes the season's youth, And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. What wonder if Sir Launfal now Remembered the keeping of his vow?
PART FIRST
I.
"My golden spurs now bring to me, And bring to me my richest mail, For tomorrow I go over land and sea In search of the Holy Grail; Shall never a bed for me be spread, Nor shall a pillow be under my head, Till I begin my vow to keep; Here on the rushes will I sleep, And perchance there may come a vision true Ere day create the world anew." Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim, Slumber fell like a cloud on him, And into his soul the vision flew.
II.
The crows flapped over by twos and threes, In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees, The little birds sang as if it were The one day of summer in all the year, And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees; The castle alone in the landscape lay Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray: 'Twas the proudest hall in the North Countree, And never its gates might opened be, Save to lord or lady of high degree; Summer besieged it on every side, But the churlish stone her assaults defied; She could not scale the chilly wall, Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall Stretched left and right, Over the hills and out of sight; Green and broad was every tent, And out of each a murmur went Till the breeze fell off at night.
III.
The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang, And through the dark arch a charger sprang, Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright It seemed the dark castle had gathered all Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall In his siege of three hundred summers long, And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf, Had cast them forth: so, young and strong, And lightsome as a locust-leaf, Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail, To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail.
IV.
It was morning on hill and stream and tree, And morning in the young knight's heart; Only the castle moodily Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free, And gloomed by itself apart; The season brimmed all other things up Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup.
V.
As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate, He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by the same, Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate; And a loathing over Sir Launfal came; The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill, The flesh 'neath his armor did shrink and crawl, And midway its leap his heart stood still Like a frozen waterfall; For this man, so foul and bent of stature, Rasped harshly against his dainty nature, And seemed the one blot on the summer morn,-- So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.
VI.
The leper raised not the gold from the dust: "Better to me the poor man's crust, Better the blessing of the poor, Though I turn me empty from his door; That is no true alms which the hand can hold; He gives nothing but worthless gold Who gives from a sense of duty; But he who gives but a slender mite, And gives to that which is out of sight, That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty Which runs through all and doth all unite,-- The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms, The heart outstretches its eager palms, For a god goes with it and makes it store To the soul that was starving in darkness before."
PRELUDE TO PART SECOND
Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak, From the snow five thousand summers old; On open wold and hilltop bleak It had gathered all the cold, And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek; It carried a shiver everywhere From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare; The little brook heard it and built a roof 'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof; All night by the white stars' frosty gleams He groined his arches and matched his beams; Slender and clear were his crystal spars As the lashes of light that trim the stars; He sculptured every summer delight In his halls and chambers out of sight; Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt, Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees Bending to counterfeit a breeze; Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew But silvery mosses that downward grew; Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf; Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops And hung them thickly with diamond-drops, That crystalled the beams of moon and sun, And made a star of every one: No mortal builder's most rare device Could match this winter-palace of ice; 'Twas as if every image that mirrored lay In his depths serene through the summer day, Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky, Lest the happy model should be lost, Had been mimicked in fairy masonry By the elfin builders of the frost.
Within the hall are song and laughter, The cheeks of Christmas grow red and jolly, And sprouting is every corbel and rafter With lightsome green of ivy and holly; Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide; The broad flame-pennons droop and flap And belly and tug as a flag in the wind; Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, Hunted to death in its galleries blind; And swift little troops of silent sparks, Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear, Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks Like herds of startled deer.
But the wind without was eager and sharp, Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, And rattles and wrings The icy strings, Singing, in dreary monotone, A Christmas carol of its own, Whose burden still, as he might guess, Was "Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!" The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, And he sat in the gateway and saw all night The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold, Through the window-slits of the castle old, Build out its piers of ruddy light Against the drift of the cold.
PART SECOND
I.
There was never a leaf on bush or tree, The bare boughs rattled shudderingly; The river was dumb and could not speak, For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun; A single crow on the tree-top bleak From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun; Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold. As if her veins were sapless and old, And she rose up decrepitly For a last dim look at earth and sea.
II.
Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate, For another heir in his earldom sate; An old, bent man, worn out and frail, He came back from seeking the Holy Grail; Little he recked of his earldom's loss, No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross, But deep in his soul the sign he wore, The badge of the suffering and the poor.
III.
Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air, For it was just at the Christmas time; So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime, And sought for a shelter from cold and snow In the light and warmth of long ago; He sees the snake-like caravan crawl O'er the edge of the desert, black and small, Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one, He can count the camels in the sun, As over the red-hot sands they pass To where, in its slender necklace of grass, The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade, And with its own self like an infant played, And waved its signal of palms.
IV.
"For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms;"-- The happy camels may reach the spring, But Sir Launfal sees naught save the grewsome thing, The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone, That cowers beside him, a thing as lone And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas In the desolate horror of his disease.
V.
And Sir Launfal said, "I behold in thee An image of Him who died on the tree; Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns, Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns, And to thy life were not denied The wounds in the hands and feet and side: Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me; Behold, through him, I give to Thee!"
VI.
Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he Remembered in what a haughtier guise He had flung an alms to leprosie, When he caged his young life up in gilded mail And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. The heart within him was ashes and dust; He parted in twain his single crust, He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink, And gave the leper to eat and drink: 'Twas a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread, 'Twas water out of a wooden bowl,-- Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed, And 'twas red wine he drank with his thirsty soul.
VII.
As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, A light shone round about the place; The leper no longer crouched at his side, But stood before him glorified, Shining and tall and fair and straight As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate,-- Himself the Gate whereby men can Enter the temple of God in Man.
VIII.
His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine, And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine, That mingle their softness and quiet in one With the shaggy unrest they float down upon; And the voice that was calmer than silence said, "Lo, it is I, be not afraid! In many climes, without avail, Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail; Behold, it is here,--this cup which thou Didst fill at the streamlet for Me but now; This crust is My body broken for thee; This water His blood that died on the tree; The Holy Supper is kept, indeed, In whatso we share with another's need: Not what we give, but what we share,-- For the gift without the giver is bare; Who gives himself with his alms feeds three,-- Himself, his hungering neighbor, and Me."
IX.
Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound:-- "The Grail in my castle here is found! Hang my idle armor up on the wall, Let it be the spider's banquet-hall; He must be fenced with stronger mail Who would seek and find the Holy Grail."
X.
The castle gate stands open now, And the wanderer is welcome to the hall As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough; No longer scowl the turrets tall, The Summer's long siege at last is o'er; When the first poor outcast went in at the door, She entered with him in disguise, And mastered the fortress by surprise; There is no spot she loves so well on ground, She lingers and smiles there the whole year round; The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land Has hall and bower at his command; And there's no poor man in the North Countree But is lord of the earldom as much as he.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
Into what two parts does the poem divide?
What purpose does the prelude to each part serve?
What were the conditions under which Sir Launfal set out in search of the Holy Grail?
How did the sight of the leper affect the young knight when he "flashed forth" from his castle?
How did the leper explain his refusal of the alms tossed him?
What picture does the prelude to Part Second give you? Contrast it with that of the prelude to Part First.
Describe Sir Launfal's appearance on his return from his quest.
What had he lost while on his search?
What had he gained?
Describe the second meeting with the leper.
How much of this story was a dream? Explain why you think so.
With what line does Lowell begin the account of Sir Launfal's vision?
What effect did the dream or vision have upon Sir Launfal?
What do you think is the great lesson of this poem?
Of whom is Sir Launfal a type?
What does the cold grim castle represent?
Find lines in the prelude to Part First which show the first stirring of Sir Launfal's spiritual nature. What influences prompted this?
Why did Lowell choose a leper to confront Sir Launfal?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"We Sinais climb and know it not" "Behold it is here--the Grail in my castle here is found" "With our faint hearts the mountain strives" "Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune" "For a god goes with it" "Himself the Gate whereby men can Enter the temple of God in Man" "She entered with him in disguise" "He must be fenced with stronger mail"
YUSSOUF
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
A stranger came one night to Yussouf's tent, Saying, "Behold one outcast and in dread, Against whose life the bow of power is bent, Who flies, and hath not where to lay his head; I come to thee for shelter and for food, To Yussouf, called through all our tribes 'The Good.'"
"This tent is mine," said Yussouf, "but no more Than it is God's; come in, and be at peace; Freely shalt thou partake of all my store As I of His who buildeth over these Our tents His glorious roof of night and day, And at whose door none ever yet heard 'Nay.'"
So Yussouf entertained his guest that night, And, waking him ere day, said: "Here is gold; My swiftest horse is saddled for thy flight; Depart before the prying day grow bold." As one lamp lights another, nor grows less, So nobleness enkindleth nobleness.
That inward light the stranger's face made grand, Which shines from all self-conquest; kneeling low, He bowed his forehead upon Yussouf's hand,
Sobbing: "O, Sheik, I cannot leave thee so; I will repay thee; all this thou hast done Unto that Ibrahim who slew thy son!"
"Take thrice the gold," said Yussouf, "for with thee Into the desert, never to return, My one black thought shall ride away from me; First-born, for whom by day and night I yearn, Balanced and just are all of God's decrees; Thou art avenged, my first-born, sleep in peace!"
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
Where do you think the scene of this poem was laid? Give the reason for your answer.
What do you know of the habits of people who live in tents?
What virtues would men living in this way most admire? Why?
How do you think Yussouf had won his title of "The Good"?
To what does the stranger compare himself?
What does the bending of the bow signify?
To what tribes does the stranger refer?
What do you learn of Yussouf's character from the second and third stanzas?
What emotions made the stranger's face "grand"?
What do you suppose Yussouf's "one black thought" had been?
How did he avenge his son?
When does Yussouf show himself most noble?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"prying day" "self-conquest" "nobleness enkindleth nobleness" "for whom by day and night I yearn"
SIDNEY LANIER
Sidney Lanier is a poet of the South who year by year appeals to a larger number of lovers of good literature. He was born in Georgia of Huguenot and Scotch ancestry and when only a small lad showed great talent and love for music. His mother encouraged him in this, and from beginning with clapping bones it was not long before he learned to play on the guitar, banjo, violin, and flute. On the Christmas when he was seven years old he was given a small one-keyed flute, and from that time on the flute became his favorite instrument. When he grew to manhood he became first flutist in the Baltimore orchestra. So passionately fond was he of music that he could scarcely decide between that and poetry as his choice for a profession.
He was graduated from a Georgia college at the age of eighteen, and in the following year, 1861, he enlisted in the Southern army. His younger brother, Clifford, of whom he was very fond, also enlisted, and when opportunities for promotion came to both they declined rather than be separated. They engaged in many battles, but Sidney Lanier found time, even during the war, to continue his study. In 1864 he was taken prisoner, while doing duty as a signal officer, and spent five months in Point Lookout prison. He came home from the hardships of war broken in health, so that from that time on his life was one fierce struggle against disease.
From the time when as a boy he spent hours in his father's library reading the tales of King Arthur, the stories of romantic chivalry were of absorbing interest to him. He understood and loved boys, for he had four of his own, and for these he has written "The Boy's Froissart," "The Boy's King Arthur" and the "Knightly Legends of Wales."
In 1879 he was appointed lecturer on English literature at the Johns Hopkins University, and his prospects were at last brightening when two years later he died. During the last seven years of his life, struggling ever with poverty and pain, he wrote his one volume of poetry. His poems show his great faith--indeed, his poem, "The Marshes of Glynn," is religion set to music.
THE MARSHES OF GLYNN
SIDNEY LANIER
O braided dusks of the oak and woven shades of the vine, While the riotous noonday sun of the June day long did shine Ye held me fast in your heart and I held you fast in mine; But now when the noon is no more, and riot is rest, And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of the West, And the slant yellow beam down the wood aisle doth seem Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream,-- Aye, now, when my soul all day hath drunken the soul of the oak, And my heart is at ease from men, and the wearisome sound of the stroke Of the scythe of time and the trowel of trade is low, And belief overmasters doubt, and I know that I know, And my spirit is grown to a lordly great compass within, That the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn Will work me no fear like the fear they have wrought me of yore When length was fatigue, and when breadth was but bitterness sore, And when terror and shrinking and dreary unnamable pain Drew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain,-- Oh, now, unafraid, I am fain to face The vast, sweet visage of space. To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I am drawn, Where the gray beach glimmering runs, as a belt of the dawn, For a mete and a mark To the forest dark:-- So: Affable live oak, leaning low,-- Thus--with your favor--soft, with a reverent hand, (Not lightly touching your person, lord of the land!) Bending your beauty aside, with a step I stand On the firm-packed sand, Free By a world of marsh, that borders a world of sea. Sinuous southward and sinuous northward the shimmering band Of the sand beach fastens the fringe of the marsh to the folds of the land. Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into sight, Softly the sand beach wavers away to a dim gray looping of light. And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods stands high? The world lies east: how ample the marsh and the sea and the sky! A league and a league of marsh grass, waist-high, broad in the blade, Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or a shade, Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain, To the terminal blue of the main. Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea? Somehow my soul seems suddenly free From the weighing of fate and the sad discussion of sin, By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn. Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea! Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun, Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain. As the marsh hen secretly builds on the watery sod, Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God! I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh hen flies In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and the skies: By so many roots as the marsh grass sends in the sod I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God: Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn. And the sea lends large, as the marsh: lo, out of his plenty the sea Pours fast: full soon the time of the flood tide must be: Look how the grace of the sea doth go About and about through the intricate channels that flow Here and there, Everywhere, Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low-lying lanes, And the marsh is meshed with a million veins, That like as with rosy and silvery essences flow In the rose-and-silver evening glow. Farewell, my lord Sun! The creeks overflow: a thousand rivulets run 'Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of the marsh grass stir; Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whir; Passeth, and all is still; and the currents cease to run; And the sea and the marsh are one. How still the plains of the waters be! The tide is in his ecstasy; The tide is at its highest height: And it is night. And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters of sleep Roll in on the souls of men, But who will reveal to our waking ken The forms that swim and the shapes that creep Under the waters of sleep? And I would I could know what swimmeth below when the tide comes in On the length and the breadth of the marvelous marshes of Glynn.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
What can you tell of the coastal plain in Georgia?
What effect on the poet had the "dusks of the oak" at noon?
At sunset what appealed more strongly to him?
How does the poet account for his lack of fear of the marshes now?
In the marsh region what is "lord of the land"?
What characteristics of the marshes does the poet point out?
What comparisons are found in lines fifty to fifty-five?
To what does the poet compare the extent of the marshes of Glynn?
In this region when does the flood tide come? What tells you?
Which picture in the poem do you like best?
Explain: "Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whir."
What is the meaning of the last nine lines?
Do you like this poem? Why? What can you tell of the author?
Point out parts that you like best.
Find examples of alliteration.
Why does the poet repeat "I am drawn"?
Select lines that are especially beautiful.
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"glimmering" "Vanishing" "swerving" "Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream" "Bending your beauty aside" "intricate channels" "uttermost creeks"
"Glynn"--a county in Georgia which borders on the Atlantic.
"live oak"--a species of oak found along the coasts of the southern states.
"catholic man"--a broad-minded man.
"braided dusks"--shadows of branches crossing one another.
"woven shades"--shadows interlacing.
"riotous noonday sun"--beating down hard.
"ye held me fast in your heart"--attracted and delighted me.
"I held you fast in mine"--loved, enjoyed.
"riot is rest"--the heat of the day is past, all is quiet.
"a-wait"--waiting.
"ponderous gate"--vast western horizon at sunset.
"wood aisle"--path of sun's rays in the woods at sunset.
"drunken the soul of the oak"--absorbed its strength.
"scythe of time"--symbol of death.
"trowel of trade"--symbol of industry.
"belief overmasters doubt"--inner confidence, faith takes the place of uncertainty.
"I know that I know"--become self-confident thro' a Power greater than self.
"My spirit grows to a lordly great compass within"--My soul becomes its own confident guide, relying on a Power greater than self.
"When length was fatigue"--tiresome to look at--he was unable to understand it.
"breadth was but bitterness sore"--so vast as to be disappointing and beyond his ability to know and control.
"drew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain"--The vastness of the marshes filled him with fear and awe.
"sweet visage of space"--He came to love the view of the marshes.
"belt of the dawn"--the line where the gray beach and the woods come together is like the horizon at daybreak.
"For a mete and a mark"--a line to measure and distinguish the limits of the marsh.
"affable live oak"--friendly, kindly.
"lord of the land"--the oak tree.
"sinuous southward"--irregular line connecting wood and marsh.
"fastens the fringe of the marsh to the folds of the land"--the line which marks the coming together of the marsh and the land--"the shimmering band."
"gray looping of light"--the light reflected or thrown back from the woods in the dim distance.
"terminal blue of the main"--the sea coast, the coast line.
"weighing of fate"--serious thoughts of the future.
"publish yourselves"--to show or to expose.
"offer yourselves"--the sea overruns the marsh.
"Tolerant plains"--generous, broad, liberal.
"mightily won God out of Knowledge"--won thro' kindness and love, and broad-mindedness.
"good out of infinite pain"--was helped by suffering to become noble and true.
"build me a nest on the greatness of God"--to establish himself on the principles of the great Power.
"lay me a-hold on the greatness of God"--to lay hold of this Heavenly beauty and goodness and greatness.
"liberal marshes"--great, broad. Thro' these he learned the beauty of greatness and of broad-mindedness in man, and from that to the greatness of God was but a natural step.
"sea lends large"--sends its waters out in tides over the marsh country twice a day.
"grace of the sea"--the generous waters of the sea.
"rosy and silvery essences"--relates to the color of the water in the channel, as determined by the setting sun's rays.
"passeth a hurrying sound of wings"--a sound of wings hurrying past.
"is in his ecstasy"--the tide has reached its highest point--it is the moment of accomplishment; the task is finished.
"Vast of the Lord"--The influence of God upon men is compared to that of the tides of the sea upon the marshes.
"waking ken"--Who can tell us the meaning of our dreams?
PART III
ORATIONS AND PATRIOTIC SELECTIONS
"Stirred up with high hopes of living to be brave men and worthy patriots, dear to God and famous to all ages."
--JOHN MILTON.
REGULUS BEFORE THE ROMAN SENATE
EPES SARGENT
It ill becomes me, Senators of Rome, me, Regulus, after having so often stood in this venerable assembly, clothed with the supreme dignity of the republic, to stand before you to-day, a captive,--the captive of Carthage. Though outwardly free, yet the heaviest of chains, the pledge of a Roman Consul, makes me the bondsman of the Carthaginians. They have my promise to return to them in the event of the failure of this their embassy.
But, Conscript Fathers, Senators, there is but one course to be pursued. Abandon all thought of peace! Reject the overtures of Carthage! Reject them wholly and unconditionally! What? What? Give back to her a thousand able-bodied men, and receive in return this one, attenuated, war-worn, fever-wasted frame,--this weed, whitened in a dungeon's darkness, pale and sapless, which no kindness of the sun, no softness of the summer breeze, can ever restore to life and vigor? It must not, shall not be! Oh, were Regulus what he was once, before captivity had unstrung his sinews and enervated his limbs, he might pause; he might think he were worth a thousand of the foe; he might say, "Make the exchange, Rome shall not lose by it!" But now, alas, 'tis gone,--that impetuosity of strength which could once make him a leader indeed, to penetrate a phalanx, or guide a pursuit. His very armor would be a burden now! His battlecry would be drowned in the din of onset! His sword would fall harmless upon his opponents shield!
But if he cannot live, he can at least die, for his country. Do not deny him this supreme consolation. Consider! Every indignity, every torture which Carthage shall heap on his dying hours, will be better than a trumpet's call to your armies. They will remember only Regulus, their fellow-soldier and their leader. They will forget his defeats. They will regard only his services to the Republic. Tunis, Sicily, Sardinia, every well-fought field, won by his blood and theirs, will flash on their remembrance and kindle their avenging wrath!
And so shall Regulus, though dead, fight as he never fought before against the foe.
Conscript Fathers, there is another theme,--my family. Forgive the thought. To you and to Rome, I commit them. I leave no legacy but my name, no testament but my example.
And you, ambassadors of Carthage, now in this august presence, I have spoken, not as you expected. I am your captive. Lead me back to whatever fate may await me. Doubt not that you shall find that to Roman hearts country is dearer than life, and integrity more precious than freedom.
Epes Sargent, 1812-1880, was an American author and journalist. For a number of years he was editor of the "Boston Evening Transcript."
Historical: Regulus was a celebrated Roman general. As consul he led the Roman forces against the Carthaginians and defeated them in a number of engagements, but finally was himself defeated and taken prisoner by the Carthaginians. After five years of captivity he was sent to Rome to negotiate for peace and an exchange of prisoners. Though he had been promised his liberty, if the Romans should accept the treaty, yet when he appeared before the Roman senate, he denounced the terms most emphatically. Accordingly he returned to Carthage, where he suffered a cruel death.
THE RETURN OF REGULUS
ELIJAH KELLOGG
The beams of the rising sun had gilded the lofty domes of Carthage, and given, with its rich and mellow light, a tinge of beauty even to the frowning ramparts of the outer harbor. Sheltered by the verdant shores, a hundred triremes were riding proudly at their anchors, their brazen beaks glittering in the sun, their streamers dancing in the morning breeze, while many a shattered plank and timber gave evidence of desperate conflict with the fleets of Rome.
No murmur of business or of revelry arose from the city. The artisan had forsaken his shop, the judge his tribunal, the priest the sanctuary, and even the stern stoic had come forth from his retirement to mingle with the crowd that, anxious and agitated, were rushing toward the senate-house, startled by the report that Regulus had returned to Carthage.
Onward, still onward, trampling each other under foot, they rushed, furious with anger, and eager for revenge. Fathers were there, whose sons were groaning in fetters; maidens, whose lovers, weak and wounded, were dying in the dungeons of Rome, and gray-haired men and matrons, whom the Roman sword had left childless.
But when the stern features of Regulus were seen, and his colossal form towering above the ambassadors who had returned with him from Rome; when the news passed from lip to lip that the dreaded warrior, so far from advising the Roman senate to consent to an exchange of prisoners, had urged them to pursue, with exterminating vengeance, Carthage and Carthaginians,--the multitude swayed to and fro like a forest beneath a tempest, and the rage and hate of that tumultuous throng vented itself in groans, and curses, and yells of vengeance.
But calm, cold, and immovable as the marble walls around him, stood the Roman; and he stretched out his hand over that frenzied crowd, with gesture as proudly commanding as though he still stood at the head of the gleaming cohorts of Rome. The tumult ceased; the curse, half muttered, died upon the lip; and so intense was the silence, that the clanking of the brazen manacles upon the wrists of the captive fell sharp and full upon every ear in that vast assembly, as he thus addressed them:--
"Ye doubtless thought--for ye judge of Roman virtue by your own--that I would break my plighted oath, rather than, returning, brook your vengeance. I might give reasons for this, in Punic comprehension, most foolish act of mine. I might speak of those eternal principles which make death for one's country a pleasure, not a pain. But, by great Jupiter! methinks I should debase myself to talk of such high things to you; to you, expert in womanly inventions; to you, well-skilled to drive a treacherous trade with simple Africans for ivory and gold!
"If the bright blood that fills my veins, transmitted free from godlike ancestry, were like that slimy ooze which stagnates in your arteries, I had remained at home, and broke my plighted oath to save my life. I am a Roman citizen; therefore have I returned, that ye might work your will upon this mass of flesh and bones, that I esteem no higher than the rags that cover them.
"Here, in your capital, do I defy you. Have I not conquered your armies, fired your towns, and dragged your generals at my chariot wheels, since first my youthful arms could wield a spear? And do you think to see me crouch and cower before a tamed and shattered senate? The tearing of flesh and rending of sinews is but pastime compared with the mental agony that heaves my frame.
"The moon has scarce yet waned since the proudest of Rome's proud matrons, the mother upon whose breast I slept, and whose fair brow so oft had bent over me before the noise of battle had stirred my blood, or the fierce toil of war nerved my sinews, did, with fondest memory of bygone hours, entreat me to remain. I have seen her, who, when my country called me to the field, did buckle on my harness with trembling hands, while the tears fell thick and fast down the hard corselet scales--I have seen her tear her gray locks and beat her aged breast, as on her knees she begged me not to return to Carthage! and all the assembled senate of Rome, grave and reverend men, proffered the same request. The puny torments which ye have in store to welcome me withal, shall be, to what I have endured, even as the murmur of a summer's brook to the fierce roar of angry surges on a rocky beach.
"Last night, as I lay fettered in my dungeon, I heard a strange, ominous sound; it seemed like the distant march of some vast army, their harness clanging as they marched, when suddenly there stood by me Xanthippus, the Spartan general, by whose aid you conquered me, and, with a voice as low as when the solemn wind moans through the leaflless forest, he thus addressed me:--
"'Roman, I come to bid thee curse, with thy dying breath, this fated city: know that in an evil moment, the Carthaginian generals, furious with rage that I had conquered thee, their conqueror, did basely murder me. And then they thought to stain my brightest honor. But, for this foul deed, the wrath of Jove shall rest upon them here and hereafter.' And then he vanished.
"And now, go bring your sharpest torments. The woes I see impending over this guilty realm shall be enough to sweeten death, though every nerve and artery were a shooting pang. I die! but my death shall prove a proud triumph; and, for every drop of blood ye from my veins do draw, your own shall flow in rivers.
"Woe to thee, Carthage! Woe to the proud city of the waters! I see thy nobles wailing at the feet of Roman senators! thy citizens in terror! thy ships in flames! I hear the victorious shouts of Rome! I see her eagles glittering on thy ramparts. Proud city, thou art doomed! The curse of God is on thee--a clinging, wasting curse. It shall not leave thy gates till hungry flames shall lick the fretted gold from off thy proud palaces, and every brook runs crimson to the sea."
SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS
ELIJAH KELLOGG
It had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus, returning with victorious eagles, had amused the populace with the sports of the amphitheatre to an extent hitherto unknown even in that luxurious city. The shouts of revelry had died away; the roar of the lion had ceased; the last loiterer had retired from the banquet, and the lights in the palace of the victor were extinguished. The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered the dewdrop on the corselet of the Roman sentinel, and tipped the dark waters of Volturnus with wavy, tremulous light. It was a night of holy calm, when the zephyr sways the young spring leaves, and whispers among the hollow reeds its dreamy music. No sound was heard but the last sob of some weary wave, telling its story to the smooth pebbles of the beach, and then all was still as the breast when the spirit has departed.
In the deep recesses of the amphitheatre a band of gladiators were crowded together,--their muscles still knotted with the agony of conflict, the foam upon their lips, and the scowl of battle yet lingering upon their brows,--when Spartacus, rising in the midst of that grim assemblage, thus addressed them:--
"Ye call me chief, and ye do well to call him chief who, for twelve long years, has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast that the broad Empire of Rome could furnish, and yet never has lowered his arm. And if there be one among you who can say that, ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him step forth and say it. If there be three in all your throng dare face me on the bloody sand, let them come on!
"Yet, I was not always thus, a hired butcher, a savage chief of savage men. My father was a reverent man, who feared great Jupiter, and brought to the rural deities his offerings of fruits and flowers. He dwelt among the vineclad rocks and olive groves at the foot of Helicon. My early life ran quiet as the brook by which I sported. I was taught to prune the vine, to tend the flock; and then, at noon, I gathered my sheep beneath the shade, and played upon the shepherd's flute. I had a friend, the son of our neighbor; we led our flocks to the same pasture, and shared together our rustic meal.
"One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle that shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra, and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, withstood a whole army. I did not then know what war meant; but my cheeks burned. I knew not why; and I clasped the knees of that venerable man, till my mother, parting the hair from off my brow, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage wars.
"That very night the Romans landed on our shore, and the clash of steel was heard within our quiet vale. I saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the iron hoof of the warhorse; the bleeding body of my father flung amid the blazing rafters of our dwelling. To-day I killed a man in the arena, and when I broke his helmet clasps, behold! he was my friend! He knew me,--smiled faintly,--gasped,--and died; the same sweet smile that I had marked upon his face when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled some lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph. I told the praetor he was my friend, noble and brave, and I begged his body, that I might burn it upon the funeral-pile, and mourn over him. Ay, on my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged that boon, while all the Roman maids and matrons, and those holy virgins they call vestal, and the rabble, shouted in mockery, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale, and tremble like a very child, before that piece of bleeding clay; but the praetor drew back as if I were pollution, and sternly said, 'Let the carrion rot! There are no noble men but Romans!' And he, deprived of funeral rites, must wander, a hapless ghost, beside the waters of that sluggish river, and look--and look--and look in vain to the bright Elysian Fields where dwell his ancestors and noble kindred. And so must you, and so must I, die like dogs!
"O Rome! Rome! thou hast been a tender nurse to me! Ay, thou hast given to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd-lad, who never knew a harsher sound than a flute-note, muscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught him to drive the sword through rugged brass and plaited mail, and warm it in the marrow of his foe! to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a smooth-cheeked boy upon a laughing girl. And he shall pay thee back till thy yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled!
"Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are! the strength of brass is in your toughened sinews; but to-morrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet odors from his curly locks, shall come, and with his lily fingers pat your brawny shoulders, and bet his sesterces upon your blood! Hark! Hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? 'Tis three days since he tasted meat; but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon your flesh; and ye shall be a dainty meal for him.
"If ye are brutes, then stand here like fat oxen waiting for the butcher's knife; if ye are men, follow me! strike down yon sentinel, and gain the mountain passes, and there do bloody work as did your sires at old Thermopylæ! Is Sparta dead? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins, that you do crouch and cower like base-born slaves beneath your master's lash? O comrades! warriors! Thracians! if we must fight, let us fight for ourselves; if we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors; if we must die, let us die under the open sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle."
Biographical and Historical: This is a supposed speech of Spartacus written by Elijah Kellogg, a New England clergyman. Spartacus was a Thracian by birth, who served in the Roman army. Having deserted, he was taken prisoner, sold as a slave, and trained as a gladiator at Capua. He escaped and gathered about him a large army of slaves and gladiators, with whom he intended to push northward and allow them all to return to their homes. They, however, after attacking many towns, were finally overcome. Spartacus himself died in battle, and six thousand slaves were crucified on the road from Capua to Rome.
Capua was a city of great luxury, containing an amphitheater nearly as large as the Coliseum at Rome. The ancients attached great importance to the rites of burial, and believed that the soul could not reach the Elysian Fields unless the body had been buried.
MERIT BEFORE BIRTH
TRANSLATED FROM SALLUST
You have committed to my conduct, O Romans, the war against Jugurtha. The patricians take offence. They say, "Why, he has no family statues. He can point to no illustrious ancestors." What of that? Will dead ancestors or motionless statues fight battles? Can your general appeal to them in the hour of extremest danger? How wise it would be, surely, to intrust your army to some untried person without a single scar, but with any number of ancestral statues,--who knows not the simplest rudiments of military service, but is very perfect in pedigree! I have known such holiday heroes, raised, because of family, to positions for which they had no fitness. But, then, in the moment of action they were obliged, in their ignorance and trepidation, to intrust every movement, even the most simple, to some subaltern, some despised plebeian.
What they have seen in books, I have seen written on battlefields, with steel and blood. They sneer at my mean origin. Where,--and may the gods bear witness,--where, but in the spirit of man, is nobility lodged? Tell these despicable railers that their haughty lineage cannot make them noble, nor will my humble birth make me base. I profess no indifference to noble descent; but when a descendant is dwarfed in the comparison, it should be a shame, and not a matter to boast of! I can show the standards, the armor, and the spoils which I have in person wrested from the vanquished. I can show the scars of many wounds received in combating the enemies of Rome. These are my statues! These are my honors, to boast of; not inherited by accident, but earned by toil, by abstinence, by valor, amid clouds of dust and seas of blood. Their titles date from similar acts of their ancestors; but these detractors did not even dare to appear on the field as spectators. These are my credentials! These, O Romans, are my titles of nobility! Tell me, are they not as deserving of your confidence and reward as those of which any patrician of them all can boast?
Biographical and Historical: Sallust, the author of this selection, was a famous Roman historian of the first century B. C. Caius Marius was the son of a small farmer and worked his way up from this humble origin to the highest position, that of consul, in spite of the determined opposition of the senate, and the aristocracy. By the vote of the Roman people, he was given command of the army in the campaign against Jugurtha, a prince who had usurped the Numidian throne.
RIENZI'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
Friends! I come not here to talk. You know too well The story of our thralldom. We are slaves! The bright sun rises to his course, and lights A race of slaves! he sets, and his last beam Falls on a slave!--not such as, swept along By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads To crimson glory and undying fame, But base, ignoble slaves--slaves to a horde Of petty tyrants; feudal despots; lords, Rich in some dozen paltry villages, Strong in some hundred spearmen; only great In that strange spell--a name.
Each hour dark fraud, Or open rapine, or protected murder, Cry out against them. But this very day, An honest man, my neighbor--there he stands-- Was struck--struck like a dog, by one who wore The badge of Ursini, because, forsooth, He tossed not high his ready cap in air, Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men, And suffer such dishonor?--Men, and wash not The stain away in blood?
Such shames are common. I have known deeper wrongs. I that speak to you, I had a brother once, a gracious boy, Full of gentleness, of calmest hope, Of sweet and quiet joy: there was the look Of heaven upon his face, which limners give To the beloved disciple. How I loved That gracious boy! Younger by fifteen years, Brother at once and son! He left my side, A summer bloom on his fair cheek, a smile Parting his innocent lips: in one short hour, The pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried For vengeance!
Rouse ye, Romans! rouse ye, slaves! Have ye brave sons? Look in the next fierce brawl To see them die. Have ye fair daughters? Look To see them live, torn from your arms, distained, Dishonored; and, if ye dare call for justice, Be answered by the lash!
Yet this is Rome, That sat on her seven hills, and from her throne Of beauty ruled the world! Yet we are Romans! Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman Was greater than a king! And, once again,-- Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread Of either Brutus!--once again, I swear, The Eternal City shall be free!
Biographical and Historical: Mary Russell Mitford, born in 1787, was an English writer of miscellaneous works. Among her most noted productions is the tragedy "Rienzi," which was presented in London in 1828. It is the story of the Roman patriot, Rienzi, who led a revolution at Rome in 1347. He overthrew the power of the aristocracy and introduced many reforms in the government. After establishing himself in power, however, he is said to have become in turn haughty and arbitrary.
EMMET'S VINDICATION
MY LORDS: What have I to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced on me, according to law? I have nothing to say that can alter your predetermination, nor that it will become me to say with any view to the mitigation of that sentence which you are here to pronounce, and I must abide by. But I have that to say which interests me more than life, and which you have labored to destroy. I have much to say why my reputation should be rescued from the load of false accusation and calumny which has been heaped upon it.
Were I only to suffer death, after being adjudged guilty by your tribunal, I should bow in silence, and meet the fate that awaits me without a murmur; but the sentence of law which delivers my body to the executioner will, through the ministry of that law, labor, in its own vindication, to consign my character to obloquy; for there must be guilt somewhere--whether in the sentence of the court, or in the catastrophe, posterity must determine. The man dies, but his memory lives. That mine may not perish--that it may live in the respect of my countrymen--I seize upon this opportunity to vindicate myself from some of the charges alleged against me.
When my spirit shall be wafted to a more friendly port; when my shade shall have joined the bands of those martyred heroes who have shed their blood, on the scaffold and in the field, in defense of their country and virtue; this is my hope--I wish that my memory and name may animate those who survive me, while I look down with complacency on the destruction of that perfidious government which upholds its domination by blasphemy of the Most High, which displays its powers over man as over the beasts of the forest, which sets man upon his brother, and lifts his hand, in the name of God, against the throat of his fellow who believes or doubts a little more or less than the government standard--a government which is steeled to barbarity by the cries of the orphans and the tears of the widows which its cruelty has made.
I swear by the throne of Heaven, before which I must shortly appear--by the blood of the murdered patriots who have gone before me--that my conduct has been, through all this peril and all my purposes, governed only by the convictions which I have uttered, and no other view than that of the emancipation of my country from the superinhuman oppression under which she has so long and too patiently travailed; and that I confidently and assuredly hope, wild and chimerical as it may appear, that there is still union and strength in Ireland to accomplish this noble enterprise.
My country was my idol. To it I sacrificed every selfish, every endearing sentiment; and for it I now offer up my life! I acted as an Irishman, determined on delivering my country from the yoke of a foreign and unrelenting tyranny, and from the more galling yoke of a domestic faction, its joint partner and perpetrator in the patricide, whose reward is the ignominy of existing with an exterior of splendor and a consciousness of depravity. It was the wish of my heart to extricate my country from this doubly riveted despotism. I wished to place her independence beyond the reach of any power on earth. I wished to exalt her to that proud station in the world which Providence had fitted her to fill.
Let no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with dishonor; let no man attaint my memory by believing that I could have engaged in any cause but that of my country's liberty and independence, or that I could have become the pliant minion of power in the oppression or the miseries of my countrymen. I would not have submitted to a foreign oppressor, for the same reason that I would resist the domestic tyrant; in the dignity of freedom I would have fought upon the threshold of my country, and her enemies should enter only by passing over my lifeless corpse. Am I, who lived but for my country, and who have subjected myself to the vengeance of the jealous and wrathful oppressor, and to the bondage of the grave, only to give my countrymen their rights and my country her independence--am I to be loaded with calumny, and not to be suffered to resent or repel it? No! God forbid!
If the spirits of the illustrious dead participate in the concerns and cares of those who are dear to them in this transitory life, O ever dear and venerated shade of my departed father, look down with scrutiny on the conduct of your suffering son, and see if I have even for a moment deviated from those principles of morality and patriotism which it was your care to instill into my youthful mind, and for an adherence to which I am now to offer up my life!
My Lords, you are all impatient for the sacrifice. The blood which you seek is not congealed by the artificial terrors which surround your victim; it circulates warmly and unruffled through the channels which God created for noble purposes, but which you are bent to destroy, for purposes so grievous that they cry to Heaven!
Be ye patient; I have but a few words more to say. I am going to my silent grave; my lamp of life is nearly extinguished; my race is run; the grave opens to receive me, and I sink into its bosom. I have but one request to ask at my departure from this world--it is the charity of its silence. Let no man write my epitaph; for, as no one who knows my motives dare now vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them and me repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times and other men can do justice to my character. When my country shall take her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written! I have done.
Biographical and Historical: During the latter part of the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth, the spirit of independence was abroad. The American Revolution was followed by the French Revolution, and in 1803 Robert Emmet, an Irish patriot, headed a band to gain independence for Ireland. After an unsuccessful attempt to take the arsenal and castle at Dublin, he fled to the Wicklow mountains, whence he planned to escape to the continent. Contrary to the advice of his friends, he determined to have a last interview with his sweetheart, but the delay proved fatal to him. He was seized and condemned to death. This extract is from the remarkably eloquent speech with which he vainly defended himself.
KING PHILIP TO THE WHITE SETTLER
EDWARD EVERETT
Think of the country for which the Indians fought. Who can blame them? As Philip looked down from his seat on Mount Hope, that glorious eminence, that
"----throne of royal state, which far Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind, Or where the gorgeous East, with richest hand, Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,"--
as he looked down, and beheld the lovely scene which spread beneath, at a summer sunset, the distant hill-tops glittering as with fire, the slanting beams streaming across the waters, the broad plains, the island groups, the majestic forest,--could he be blamed, if his heart burned within him, as he beheld it all passing, by no tardy process, from beneath his control, into the hands of the stranger?
As the river chieftains--the lords of the waterfalls and the mountains--ranged this lovely valley, can it be wondered at, if they beheld with bitterness the forest disappearing beneath the settler's ax--the fishing-place disturbed by his saw-mills? Can we not fancy the feelings with which some strong-minded savage, the chief of the Pocomtuck Indians, who should have ascended the summit of the Sugar-loaf Mountain (rising as it does before us, at this moment, in all its loveliness and grandeur),--in company with a friendly settler,--contemplating the progress already made by the white man, and marking the gigantic strides with which he was advancing into the wilderness, should fold his arms and say, "White man, there is eternal war between me and thee! I quit not the land of my fathers, but with my life. In those woods, where I bent my youthful bow, I will still hunt the deer; over yonder waters I will still glide, unrestrained, in my bark canoe. By those dashing waterfalls I will still lay up my winter's store of food; on these fertile meadows I will still plant my corn.
"Stranger, the land is mine! I understand not these paper rights. I gave not my consent, when, as thou sayest, these broad regions were purchased, for a few baubles, of my fathers. They could sell what was theirs; they could sell no more. How could my fathers sell that which the Great Spirit sent me into the world to live upon? They knew not what they did.
"The stranger came, a timid suppliant,--few and feeble, and asked to lie down on the red man's bear-skin, and warm himself at the red man's fire, and have a little piece of land to raise corn for his women and children; and now he is become strong, and mighty, and bold, and spreads out his parchments over the whole, and says, 'It is mine.'
"Stranger! there is not room for us both. The Great Spirit has not made us to live together. There is poison in the white man's cup; the white man's dog barks at the red man's heels. If I should leave the land of my fathers, whither shall I fly? Shall I go to the south, and dwell among the graves of the Pequots? Shall I wander to the west, the fierce Mohawk,--the man-eater,--is my foe. Shall I fly to the east, the great water is before me. No, stranger; here I have lived, and here will I die; and if here thou abidest, there is eternal war between, me and thee.
"Thou hast taught me thy arts of destruction; for that alone I thank thee. And now take heed to thy steps; the red man is thy foe. When thou goest forth by day, my bullet shall whistle past thee; when thou liest down by night, my knife is at thy throat. The noonday sun shall not discover thy enemy, and the darkness of midnight shall not protect thy rest. Thou shalt plant in terror, and I will reap in blood; thou shalt sow the earth with corn, and I will strew it with ashes; thou shalt go forth with the sickle, and I will follow after with the scalping-knife; thou shalt build, and I will burn,--till the white man or the Indian perish from the land. Go thy way for this time in safety,--but remember, stranger, there is eternal war between me and thee!"
Biographical and Historical: Edward Everett was a celebrated American orator and statesman. His career was varied, but he will be remembered chiefly through his essays and orations. He was in turn clergyman, professor of Greek at Harvard, representative in Congress, governor of Massachusetts, minister to England, president of Harvard, and secretary of state. He died at the close of the Civil War.
This extract is from an address delivered at Bloody Brook, South Deerfield, Mass., September 30, 1835, in commemoration of the death of many colonists in that spot during King Philip's War, September 18, 1675. King Philip, son of Massasoit, was an Indian chief who resented the coming of the white man and, gathering many Indian tribes about him, waged bitter war against the colonists. He himself was killed at Mount Hope, Rhode Island.
THE CAPTURE OF QUEBEC (From "Montcalm and Wolfe.")
FRANCIS PARKMAN
The sun rose, and, from the ramparts of Quebec, the astonished people saw the Plains of Abraham glittering with arms, and the dark-red lines of the English forming in array of battle. Breathless messengers had borne the evil tidings to Montcalm, and far and near his wide-extended camp resounded with the rolling of alarm drums and the din of startled preparation.
He, too, had had his struggles and his sorrows. The civil power had thwarted him; famine, discontent, and disaffection were rife among his soldiers; and no small portion of the Canadian militia had dispersed from sheer starvation. In spite of all, he had trusted to hold out till the winter frosts should drive the invaders from before the town; when, on that disastrous morning, the news of their successful temerity fell like a cannon-shot upon his ear.
Still he assumed a tone of confidence. "They have got to the weak side of us at last," he is reported to have said, "and we must crush them with our numbers." With headlong haste, his troops were pouring over the bridge of the St. Charles, and gathering in heavy masses under the western ramparts of the town. Could numbers give assurance of success, their triumph would have been secure; for five French battalions and the armed colonial peasantry amounted in all to more than seven thousand five hundred men.
Full in sight before them stretched the long, thin lines of the British forces, the half-wild Highlanders, the steady soldiery of England, and the hardy levies of the provinces,--less than five thousand in number, but all inured to battle, and strong in the full assurance of success.
Yet, could the chiefs of that gallant army have pierced the secrets of the future, could they have foreseen that the victory which they burned to achieve would have robbed England of her proudest boast, that the conquest of Canada would pave the way for the independence of America, their swords would have dropped from their hands, and the heroic fire have gone out within their hearts.
It was nine o'clock, and the adverse armies stood motionless, each gazing on the other. The clouds hung low, and, at intervals, warm light showers descended, besprinkling both alike. The coppice and cornfields in front of the British troops were filled with French sharp-shooters, who kept up a distant, spattering fire. Here and there a soldier fell in the ranks, and the gap was filled in silence.
At a little before ten, the British could see that Montcalm was preparing to advance, and, in a few moments, all his troops appeared in rapid motion. They came on in three divisions, shouting after the manner of their nation, and firing heavily as soon as they came within range.
In the British ranks, not a trigger was pulled, not a soldier stirred; and their ominous composure seemed to damp the spirits of the assailants. It was not till the French were within forty yards that the fatal word was given, and the British muskets blazed forth at once in one crashing explosion. Like a ship at full career, arrested with sudden ruin on a sunken rock, the ranks of Montcalm staggered, shivered, and broke before that wasting storm of lead.
The smoke, rolling along the field, for a moment shut out the view; but when the white wreaths were scattered on the wind, a wretched spectacle was disclosed; men and officers tumbled in heaps, battalions resolved into a mob, order and obedience gone; and when the British muskets were leveled for a second volley, the masses of the militia were seen to cower and shrink with uncontrollable panic.