[image not availableShip in the Time of Homer.
Ship in the Time of Homer.
Ship in the Time of Homer.
But when we had not gone so far but that a man’s shout could be heard, I called to the Cyclops and taunted him:
“Cyclops, you will not eat us by main might in your hollow cave! Your evil deeds, O cruel monster, were sure to find you out; for you shamelessly ate the guests that were within your gates, and now Jupiter and the other gods have requited you as you deserved.”
Thus I spoke, and so great became his anger that he broke off the peak of a great hill and threw it at us, and it fell in front of the dark-prowed ship. And the sea rose in waves from the fall of the rock, and drove the ship quickly back to the shore. Then I caught up a long pole in my hands, and thrust the ship from off the land; and with a motion of the head, I bade them dash in with their oars, so that we might escape from our evil plight. So they bent to their oars and rowed on.
Such is the story which Ulysses told of his adventure with the giant Cyclops. Many and strange were the other adventures through which he passed before he reached his distant home; and all are related in that wonderful poem, the “Odyssey.” This poem has been often translated into the English language. Some of the translations are in the form of poetry, and of these the best are the versions byGeorge Chapman, by Alexander Pope, and by our American poet William Cullen Bryant. The best prose translation is that by Butcher and Lang—and this I have followed quite closely in the story which you have just read.
I come from haunts of coot and hern:I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down the valley;By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.
I come from haunts of coot and hern:I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down the valley;By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.
I come from haunts of coot and hern:I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down the valley;
By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.
[image not availableAlfred Tennyson.
Alfred Tennyson.
Alfred Tennyson.
Till last by Philip’s farm I flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.I chatter over stony waysIn little sharps and trebles.I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles;With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow-weed and mallow;I chatter, chatter, as I flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,And here and there a foamy flake,Upon me as I travel,With many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel,And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers;I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers;
Till last by Philip’s farm I flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.I chatter over stony waysIn little sharps and trebles.I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles;With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow-weed and mallow;I chatter, chatter, as I flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,And here and there a foamy flake,Upon me as I travel,With many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel,And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers;I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers;
Till last by Philip’s farm I flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.
I chatter over stony waysIn little sharps and trebles.I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles;
With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow-weed and mallow;
I chatter, chatter, as I flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.
I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,
And here and there a foamy flake,Upon me as I travel,With many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers;I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers;
[image not available
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows;I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars,I loiter round my cresses;And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.—Alfred Tennyson.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows;I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars,I loiter round my cresses;And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.—Alfred Tennyson.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows;
I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars,I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.—Alfred Tennyson.
PART I.On either side the river lieLong fields of barley and of rye,That clothe the wold and meet the sky:And through the fields the road runs byTo many-towered Camelot;And up and down the people go,Gazing where the lilies blowRound an island there below,The island of Shalott.Willows whiten, aspens quiver,Little breezes dusk and shiverThrough the wave that runs foreverBy the island in the riverFlowing down to Camelot;Four gray walls, and four gray towers,Overlook a space of flowers,And the silent isle imbowersThe Lady of Shalott.By the margin, willow-veiled,Slide the heavy barges, trailedBy slow horses; and unhailedThe shallop flitteth silken-sailed,Skimming down to Camelot:But who hath seen her wave her hand?Or at the casement seen her stand?Or is she known in all the land,The Lady of Shalott?Only reapers, reaping earlyIn among the bearded barley,Hear a song that echoes cheerlyFrom the river winding clearly,Down to towered Camelot:And by the moon the reaper weary,Piling sheaves in uplands airy,Listening, whispers, “ ’Tis the fairyLady of Shalott.”
PART I.On either side the river lieLong fields of barley and of rye,That clothe the wold and meet the sky:And through the fields the road runs byTo many-towered Camelot;And up and down the people go,Gazing where the lilies blowRound an island there below,The island of Shalott.Willows whiten, aspens quiver,Little breezes dusk and shiverThrough the wave that runs foreverBy the island in the riverFlowing down to Camelot;Four gray walls, and four gray towers,Overlook a space of flowers,And the silent isle imbowersThe Lady of Shalott.By the margin, willow-veiled,Slide the heavy barges, trailedBy slow horses; and unhailedThe shallop flitteth silken-sailed,Skimming down to Camelot:But who hath seen her wave her hand?Or at the casement seen her stand?Or is she known in all the land,The Lady of Shalott?Only reapers, reaping earlyIn among the bearded barley,Hear a song that echoes cheerlyFrom the river winding clearly,Down to towered Camelot:And by the moon the reaper weary,Piling sheaves in uplands airy,Listening, whispers, “ ’Tis the fairyLady of Shalott.”
PART I.On either side the river lieLong fields of barley and of rye,That clothe the wold and meet the sky:And through the fields the road runs byTo many-towered Camelot;And up and down the people go,Gazing where the lilies blowRound an island there below,The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,Little breezes dusk and shiverThrough the wave that runs foreverBy the island in the riverFlowing down to Camelot;Four gray walls, and four gray towers,Overlook a space of flowers,And the silent isle imbowersThe Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow-veiled,Slide the heavy barges, trailedBy slow horses; and unhailedThe shallop flitteth silken-sailed,Skimming down to Camelot:But who hath seen her wave her hand?Or at the casement seen her stand?Or is she known in all the land,The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping earlyIn among the bearded barley,Hear a song that echoes cheerlyFrom the river winding clearly,Down to towered Camelot:And by the moon the reaper weary,Piling sheaves in uplands airy,Listening, whispers, “ ’Tis the fairyLady of Shalott.”
PART II.There she weaves by night and dayA magic web with colors gay.She has heard a whisper say,A curse is on her if she stayTo look down to Camelot.She knows not what the curse may be,And so she weaveth steadily,And little other care hath she,The Lady of Shalott.And moving through a mirror clear,That hangs before her all the year,Shadows of the world appear.There she sees the highway nearWinding down to Camelot:There the river eddy whirls,And there the surly village churls,And the red cloaks of market girlsPass onward from Shalott.Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,An abbot on an ambling pad,Sometimes a curly shepherd ladOr long-haired page in crimson clad,Goes by to towered Camelot;And sometimes through the mirror blue,The knights come riding two and two:—She hath no loyal knight and true,The Lady of Shalott.But in her web she still delightsTo weave the mirrored magic sights,For often through the silent nightsA funeral, with plumes and lights,And music, went to Camelot;Or, when the moon was overhead,Came two young lovers lately wed.“I am half-sick of shadows,” saidThe Lady of Shalott.
PART II.There she weaves by night and dayA magic web with colors gay.She has heard a whisper say,A curse is on her if she stayTo look down to Camelot.She knows not what the curse may be,And so she weaveth steadily,And little other care hath she,The Lady of Shalott.And moving through a mirror clear,That hangs before her all the year,Shadows of the world appear.There she sees the highway nearWinding down to Camelot:There the river eddy whirls,And there the surly village churls,And the red cloaks of market girlsPass onward from Shalott.Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,An abbot on an ambling pad,Sometimes a curly shepherd ladOr long-haired page in crimson clad,Goes by to towered Camelot;And sometimes through the mirror blue,The knights come riding two and two:—She hath no loyal knight and true,The Lady of Shalott.But in her web she still delightsTo weave the mirrored magic sights,For often through the silent nightsA funeral, with plumes and lights,And music, went to Camelot;Or, when the moon was overhead,Came two young lovers lately wed.“I am half-sick of shadows,” saidThe Lady of Shalott.
PART II.There she weaves by night and dayA magic web with colors gay.She has heard a whisper say,A curse is on her if she stayTo look down to Camelot.She knows not what the curse may be,And so she weaveth steadily,And little other care hath she,The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear,That hangs before her all the year,Shadows of the world appear.There she sees the highway nearWinding down to Camelot:There the river eddy whirls,And there the surly village churls,And the red cloaks of market girlsPass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,An abbot on an ambling pad,Sometimes a curly shepherd ladOr long-haired page in crimson clad,Goes by to towered Camelot;And sometimes through the mirror blue,The knights come riding two and two:—She hath no loyal knight and true,The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delightsTo weave the mirrored magic sights,For often through the silent nightsA funeral, with plumes and lights,And music, went to Camelot;Or, when the moon was overhead,Came two young lovers lately wed.“I am half-sick of shadows,” saidThe Lady of Shalott.
PART III.A bowshot from her bower eaves,He rode between the barley sheaves,The sun came dazzling through the leaves,And flamed upon the brazen greavesOf bold Sir Lancelot.A red-cross knight forever kneeledTo a lady in his shieldThat sparkled on the yellow field,Beside remote Shalott.The gemmy bridle glittered free,Like to some branch of stars we seeHung in the golden Galaxy.The bridle bells rang merrilyAs he rode down to Camelot:And from his blazoned baldric slungA mighty silver bugle hung,And as he rode his armor rung,Beside remote Shalott.All in the blue unclouded weatherThick-jewelled shone the saddle leather,The helmet and the helmet featherBurned like one burning flame together,As he rode down to Camelot.As often through the purple night,Below the starry clusters bright,Some bearded meteor, trailing light,Moves over still Shalott.His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed;On burnished hooves his war horse trode;From underneath his helmet flowedHis coal-black curls as on he rode,As he rode down to Camelot.From the bank and from the riverHe flashed into the crystal mirror;“Tirra lirra,” by the riverSang Sir Lancelot.She left the web, she left the loom,She made three paces through the room,She saw the water lily bloom,She saw the helmet and the plume,She looked down to Camelot.Out flew the web and floated wide;The mirror cracked from side to side;“The curse is come upon me,” criedThe Lady of Shalott.
PART III.A bowshot from her bower eaves,He rode between the barley sheaves,The sun came dazzling through the leaves,And flamed upon the brazen greavesOf bold Sir Lancelot.A red-cross knight forever kneeledTo a lady in his shieldThat sparkled on the yellow field,Beside remote Shalott.The gemmy bridle glittered free,Like to some branch of stars we seeHung in the golden Galaxy.The bridle bells rang merrilyAs he rode down to Camelot:And from his blazoned baldric slungA mighty silver bugle hung,And as he rode his armor rung,Beside remote Shalott.All in the blue unclouded weatherThick-jewelled shone the saddle leather,The helmet and the helmet featherBurned like one burning flame together,As he rode down to Camelot.As often through the purple night,Below the starry clusters bright,Some bearded meteor, trailing light,Moves over still Shalott.His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed;On burnished hooves his war horse trode;From underneath his helmet flowedHis coal-black curls as on he rode,As he rode down to Camelot.From the bank and from the riverHe flashed into the crystal mirror;“Tirra lirra,” by the riverSang Sir Lancelot.She left the web, she left the loom,She made three paces through the room,She saw the water lily bloom,She saw the helmet and the plume,She looked down to Camelot.Out flew the web and floated wide;The mirror cracked from side to side;“The curse is come upon me,” criedThe Lady of Shalott.
PART III.A bowshot from her bower eaves,He rode between the barley sheaves,The sun came dazzling through the leaves,And flamed upon the brazen greavesOf bold Sir Lancelot.A red-cross knight forever kneeledTo a lady in his shieldThat sparkled on the yellow field,Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glittered free,Like to some branch of stars we seeHung in the golden Galaxy.The bridle bells rang merrilyAs he rode down to Camelot:And from his blazoned baldric slungA mighty silver bugle hung,And as he rode his armor rung,Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weatherThick-jewelled shone the saddle leather,The helmet and the helmet featherBurned like one burning flame together,As he rode down to Camelot.As often through the purple night,Below the starry clusters bright,Some bearded meteor, trailing light,Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed;On burnished hooves his war horse trode;From underneath his helmet flowedHis coal-black curls as on he rode,As he rode down to Camelot.From the bank and from the riverHe flashed into the crystal mirror;“Tirra lirra,” by the riverSang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,She made three paces through the room,She saw the water lily bloom,She saw the helmet and the plume,She looked down to Camelot.Out flew the web and floated wide;The mirror cracked from side to side;“The curse is come upon me,” criedThe Lady of Shalott.
PART IV.In the stormy east wind straining,The pale yellow woods were waning,The broad stream in his banks complaining,Heavily the low sky rainingOver towered Camelot;Down she came and found a boatBeneath a willow left afloat,And round about the prow she wrote,The Lady of Shalott.And down the river’s dim expanse—Like some bold seer in a trance,Seeing all his own mischance—With a glassy countenanceDid she look to Camelot.And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away,The Lady of Shalott.Lying, robed in snowy whiteThat loosely flew to left and right—The leaves upon her falling light—Through the noises of the nightShe floated down to Camelot:And as the boat-head wound alongThe willowy hills and fields among,They heard her singing her last song,The Lady of Shalott.Heard a carol, mournful, holy,Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,Till her blood was frozen slowly,And her eyes were darkened wholly,Turned to towered Camelot;For ere she reached upon the tideThe first house by the waterside,Singing in her song she died,The Lady of Shalott.Under tower and balcony,By garden wall and gallery,A gleaming shape she floated by,A corse between the houses high,Silent into Camelot.Out upon the wharfs they came,Knight and burgher, lord and dame,And round the prow they read her name,The Lady of Shalott.Who is this? and what is here?And in the lighted palace nearDied the sound of royal cheer;And they crossed themselves for fear,All the knights at Camelot;But Lancelot mused a little space;He said, “She has a lovely face;God in his mercy lend her grace,The Lady of Shalott.”
PART IV.In the stormy east wind straining,The pale yellow woods were waning,The broad stream in his banks complaining,Heavily the low sky rainingOver towered Camelot;Down she came and found a boatBeneath a willow left afloat,And round about the prow she wrote,The Lady of Shalott.And down the river’s dim expanse—Like some bold seer in a trance,Seeing all his own mischance—With a glassy countenanceDid she look to Camelot.And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away,The Lady of Shalott.Lying, robed in snowy whiteThat loosely flew to left and right—The leaves upon her falling light—Through the noises of the nightShe floated down to Camelot:And as the boat-head wound alongThe willowy hills and fields among,They heard her singing her last song,The Lady of Shalott.Heard a carol, mournful, holy,Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,Till her blood was frozen slowly,And her eyes were darkened wholly,Turned to towered Camelot;For ere she reached upon the tideThe first house by the waterside,Singing in her song she died,The Lady of Shalott.Under tower and balcony,By garden wall and gallery,A gleaming shape she floated by,A corse between the houses high,Silent into Camelot.Out upon the wharfs they came,Knight and burgher, lord and dame,And round the prow they read her name,The Lady of Shalott.Who is this? and what is here?And in the lighted palace nearDied the sound of royal cheer;And they crossed themselves for fear,All the knights at Camelot;But Lancelot mused a little space;He said, “She has a lovely face;God in his mercy lend her grace,The Lady of Shalott.”
PART IV.In the stormy east wind straining,The pale yellow woods were waning,The broad stream in his banks complaining,Heavily the low sky rainingOver towered Camelot;Down she came and found a boatBeneath a willow left afloat,And round about the prow she wrote,The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river’s dim expanse—Like some bold seer in a trance,Seeing all his own mischance—With a glassy countenanceDid she look to Camelot.And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away,The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy whiteThat loosely flew to left and right—The leaves upon her falling light—Through the noises of the nightShe floated down to Camelot:And as the boat-head wound alongThe willowy hills and fields among,They heard her singing her last song,The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,Till her blood was frozen slowly,And her eyes were darkened wholly,Turned to towered Camelot;For ere she reached upon the tideThe first house by the waterside,Singing in her song she died,The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,By garden wall and gallery,A gleaming shape she floated by,A corse between the houses high,Silent into Camelot.Out upon the wharfs they came,Knight and burgher, lord and dame,And round the prow they read her name,The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? and what is here?And in the lighted palace nearDied the sound of royal cheer;And they crossed themselves for fear,All the knights at Camelot;But Lancelot mused a little space;He said, “She has a lovely face;God in his mercy lend her grace,The Lady of Shalott.”
This poem, by Alfred Tennyson, was written in 1832. Considered as a picture, or as a series of pictures, its beauty is unsurpassed. The story which is here so briefly told is founded upon a touching legend connected with the romance of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. Tennyson afterwards (in 1859) expanded it into theIdyllcalled “Elaine,” wherein he followed more closely the original narrative as related by Sir Thomas Malory.Sir Lancelot was the strongest and bravest of the Knights of the Round Table, and for love of him Elaine, “the fair maid of Astolat,” pined away and died. But before her death she called her brother, and having dictated a letter which he was to write, she spoke thus:“ ‘While my body is whole, let this letter be put into my right hand, and my hand bound fast with the letter until I be cold, and let me be put in a fair bed with all my richest clothes that I have about me, and so let my bed and all my rich clothes be laid with me in a chariot to the next place whereas the Thames is, and there let me be put in a barge, and but one man with me, such as ye trust to steer me thither, and that my barge be covered with black samite over and over.’... So when she was dead, the corpse and the bed and all was led the next way unto the Thames, and there all were put in a barge on the Thames, and so the man steered the barge to Westminster, and there he rowed a great while to and fro, or any man espied.”[1]At length the King and his Knights, coming down to the water side, and seeing the boat and the fair maid of Astolat, they uplifted the hapless body of Elaine, and bore it to the hall.
This poem, by Alfred Tennyson, was written in 1832. Considered as a picture, or as a series of pictures, its beauty is unsurpassed. The story which is here so briefly told is founded upon a touching legend connected with the romance of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. Tennyson afterwards (in 1859) expanded it into theIdyllcalled “Elaine,” wherein he followed more closely the original narrative as related by Sir Thomas Malory.
Sir Lancelot was the strongest and bravest of the Knights of the Round Table, and for love of him Elaine, “the fair maid of Astolat,” pined away and died. But before her death she called her brother, and having dictated a letter which he was to write, she spoke thus:
“ ‘While my body is whole, let this letter be put into my right hand, and my hand bound fast with the letter until I be cold, and let me be put in a fair bed with all my richest clothes that I have about me, and so let my bed and all my rich clothes be laid with me in a chariot to the next place whereas the Thames is, and there let me be put in a barge, and but one man with me, such as ye trust to steer me thither, and that my barge be covered with black samite over and over.’... So when she was dead, the corpse and the bed and all was led the next way unto the Thames, and there all were put in a barge on the Thames, and so the man steered the barge to Westminster, and there he rowed a great while to and fro, or any man espied.”[1]At length the King and his Knights, coming down to the water side, and seeing the boat and the fair maid of Astolat, they uplifted the hapless body of Elaine, and bore it to the hall.
[1]Malory’s “King Arthur,” Book XVIII.
[1]Malory’s “King Arthur,” Book XVIII.
[image not availableElaine.From the Painting by T. E. Rosenthal.Engraved by Henry Wolf.(See note, p. 77.)
Elaine.From the Painting by T. E. Rosenthal.Engraved by Henry Wolf.(See note, p. 77.)
Elaine.
From the Painting by T. E. Rosenthal.Engraved by Henry Wolf.
(See note, p. 77.)
Let us suppose that it is summer time, that you are in the country, and that you have fixed upon a certain day for a holiday ramble. Some of you are going to gather wild flowers, some to collect pebbles, and some without any very definite aim beyond the love of the holiday and of any sport or adventure which it may bring with it.
Soon after sunrise on the eventful day you are awake, and great is your delight to find the sky clear, and the sun shining warmly. It is arranged, however, that you do not start until after breakfast time, and meanwhile you busy yourselves in getting ready all the baskets and sticks and other gear of which you are to make use during the day. But the brightness of the morning begins to get dimmed. The few clouds which were to be seen at first have grown large, and seem evidently gathering together for a storm. And sure enough, ere breakfast is well over, the first ominous big drops are seen falling.
You cling to the hope that it is only a shower which will soon be over, and you go on with the preparations for the journey notwithstanding. But the rain shows no symptom of soon ceasing. The big drops come down thicker and faster. Little pools of water begin to form in the hollows of theroad, and the window panes are now streaming with rain. With sad hearts you have to give up all hope of holding your excursion to-day.
It is no doubt very tantalizing to be disappointed in this way when the promised pleasure was on the very point of becoming yours. But let us see if we can not derive some compensation even from the bad weather. Late in the afternoon the sky clears a little, and the rain ceases. You are glad to get outside again, and so we all sally forth for a walk. Streams of muddy water are still coursing along the sloping roadway. If you will let me be your guide, I would advise that we should take our walk by the neighboring river. We wend our way by wet paths and green lanes, where every hedgerow is still dripping with moisture, until we gain the bridge, and see the river right beneath us. What a change this one day’s heavy rain has made! Yesterday you could almost count the stones in the channel, so small and clear was the current. But look at it now!
The water fills the channel from bank to bank, and rolls along swiftly. We can watch it for a little from the bridge. As it rushes past, innumerable leaves and twigs are seen floating on its surface. Now and then a larger branch, or even a whole tree trunk, comes down, tossing and rolling about on theflood. Sheaves of straw or hay, planks of wood, pieces of wooden fence, sometimes a poor duck, unable to struggle against the current, roll past us and show how the river has risen above its banks and done damage to the farms higher up its course.
We linger for a while on the bridge, watching this unceasing tumultuous rush of water and the constant variety of objects which it carries down the channel. You think it was perhaps almost worth while to lose your holiday for the sake of seeing so grand a sight as this angry and swollen river, roaring and rushing with its full burden of dark water. Now, while the scene is still fresh before you, ask yourselves a few simple questions about it, and you will find perhaps additional reasons for not regretting the failure of the promised excursion.
In the first place, where does all this added mass of water in the river come from? You say it was the rain that brought it. Well, but how should it find its way into this broad channel? Why does not the rain run off the ground without making any river at all?
But, in the second place, where does the rain come from? In the early morning the sky was bright, then clouds appeared, and then came the rain, and you answer that it was the clouds which supplied the rain. But the clouds must have derived the waterfrom some source. How is it that clouds gather rain, and let it descend upon the earth?
In the third place, what is it which causes the river to rush on in one direction more than another? When the water was low, and you could, perhaps, almost step across the channel on the stones and gravel, the current, small though it might be, was still quite perceptible. You saw that the water was moving along the channel always from the same quarter. And now when the channel is filled with this rolling torrent of dark water, you see that the direction of the current is still the same. Can you tell why this should be?
Again, yesterday the water was clear, to-day it is dark and discolored. Take a little of this dirty-looking water home with you, and let it stand all night in a glass. To-morrow morning you will find that it is clear, and that a fine layer of mud has sunk to the bottom. It is mud, therefore, which discolors the swollen river. But where did this mud come from? Plainly, it must have something to do with the heavy rain and the flooded state of the stream.
Well, this river, whether in shallow or in flood, is always moving onward in one direction, and the mud which it bears along is carried toward the same point to which the river itself is hastening. While we sit on the bridge watching the foaming water as iteddies and whirls past us, the question comes home to us—what becomes of all this vast quantity of water and mud?
Remember, now, that our river is only one of many hundreds which flow across this country, and that there are thousands more in other countries where the same thing may be seen which we have been watching to-day. They are all flooded when heavy rains come; they all flow downwards; and all of them carry more or less mud along with them.
As we walk homewards again, it will be well to put together some of the chief features of this day’s experience. We have seen that sometimes the sky is clear and blue, with the sun shining brightly and warmly in it; that sometimes clouds come across the sky, and that, when they gather thickly, rain is apt to fall. We have seen that a river flows, that it is swollen by heavy rain, and that when swollen it is apt to be muddy. In this way we have learned that there is a close connection between the sky above us and the earth under our feet. In the morning, it seemed but a little thing that clouds should be seen gathering overhead; and yet, ere evening fell, these clouds led by degrees to the flooding of the river, the sweeping down of trees and fences and farm produce; and it might even be to the destruction of bridges, the inundation of fields andvillages and towns, and a large destruction of human life and property.
But perhaps you live in a large town and have no opportunity of seeing such country sights as I have been describing, and in that case you may naturally enough imagine that these things cannot have much interest for you. You may learn a great deal, however, about rain and streams even in the streets of a town. Catch a little of the rain in a plate, and you will find it to be so much clear water. But look at it as it courses along the gutters. You see how muddy it is. It has swept away the loose dust worn by wheels and feet from the stones of the street, and carried it into the gutters. Each gutter thus becomes like the flooded river. You can watch, too, how chips of straw, corks, bits of wood, and other loose objects lying in the street are borne away, very much as the trunks of trees are carried by the river. Even in a town, therefore, you can see how changes in the sky lead to changes on the earth.
If you think for a little, you will recall many other illustrations of the way in which the common things of everyday life are connected together. As far back as you can remember, you have been familiar with such things as sunshine, clouds, wind, rain, rivers, frost, and snow, and they have grown so commonplace that you never think of considering aboutthem. You cannot imagine them, perhaps, as in any way different from what they are; they seem, indeed, so natural and so necessary that you may even be surprised when any one asks you to give a reason for them.
But if you had lived all your lives in a country where no rain ever fell, and if you were to be brought to such a country as this, and were to see such a storm of rain as you have been watching to-day, would it not be very strange to you, and would you not naturally enough begin to ask the meaning of it? Or suppose that a boy from some very warm part of the world were to visit this country in winter, and see for the first time snow falling, and the rivers solidly frozen over, would you be surprised if he showed great astonishment? If he asked you to tell him what snow is, and why the ground is so hard, and the air so cold, why the streams no longer flow, but have become crusted with ice—could you answer his questions?
And yet these questions relate to very common, everyday things. If you think about them, you will learn, perhaps, that the answers are not quite so easily found as you had imagined. Do not suppose that because a thing is common, it can have no interest for you. There is really nothing so common as not to deserve your attention.
I would fain have you not to be content with what is said in books, whether small or great, but rather to get into the habit of using your own eyes and seeing for yourselves what takes place in this wonderful world of ours. All round you there is abundant material for this most delightful inquiry. No excursion you ever made in pursuit of mere enjoyment and adventure by river, heath, or hill, could give you more hearty pleasure than a ramble, with eyes and ears alike open to note the lessons to be learned from every day and from every landscape. Remember that besides the printed books which you use at home, or at school, there is the great book of Nature, wherein each of us, young and old, may read, and go on reading all through life without exhausting even a small part of what it has to teach us.
It is this book—about Air, Earth, and Sea—that I would have you look into. Do not be content with merely noticing that such and such events take place. For instance, to return to our walk to the flooded river: do not let a fact such as a storm or a flood pass without trying to find out something about it. Get into the habit of asking Nature questions. Never rest until you get at the reasons for what you notice going on around you.
—Sir Archibald Geikie.
Perhaps few books of Scottish history have been more generally read than the “Tales of a Grandfather,” written seventy years ago by Sir Walter Scott for the amusement of his little grandson. These “Tales” are supposed to be taken from the old Scotch chronicles, and they relate, with many touches of romance, the stirring and most graphic incidents in the early history of Scotland. They embrace the stories of William Wallace, the patriot chief, and of brave King Robert Bruce, and of many another hero of Scotch history. The following account of King James V., who was the father of Mary, Queen of Scots, is taken from these “Tales.”
James the Fifth had a custom of going about the country disguised as a private person, in order to hear complaints that might not otherwise reach his ears, and perhaps also to enjoy amusement which he could not have partaken of in his character as King of Scotland.
When James traveled in disguise he used a name which was known only to some of his nobles and attendants. He was called the Goodman (the tenant, that is) of Ballengiech.[2]Ballengiech is a steeppass which leads down behind the castle of Stirling. Once upon a time, when the court was feasting in Stirling, the king sent for some venison from the neighboring hills. The deer were killed and put on horses’ backs to be transported to Stirling.
[2]Pronounced bạll´en gēēk.
[2]Pronounced bạll´en gēēk.
Unluckily they had to pass the castle gates of Arnpryor, belonging to a chief of the Buchanans, who chanced to have a considerable number of guests with him. It was late, and the company was rather short of victuals, though they had more than enough of liquor. The chief, seeing so much fat venison passing his very door, seized on it; and to the expostulations of the keepers, who told him it belonged to King James, he answered insolently that if James was king in Scotland, he, Buchanan, was king in Kippen, that being the name of the district in which the castle of Arnpryor lay.
On hearing what had happened, the king got on horseback and rode instantly from Stirling to Buchanan’s house, where he found a strong, fierce-looking Highlander, with an ax on his shoulder, standing sentinel at the door. This grim warder refused the king admittance, saying that the laird was at dinner and would not be disturbed. “Yet go up to the company, my good friend,” said the king, “and tell him that the Goodman of Ballengiech is come to feast with the King of Kippen.”
The porter went grumbling into the house and told his master that there was a fellow with a red beard at the gate, who called himself the Goodman of Ballengiech, and said he was come to dine with the King of Kippen. As soon as Buchanan heard these words, he knew that the king was come in person, and hastened down to kneel at James’s feet and ask forgiveness for his insolent behavior. But the king, who only meant to give him a fright, forgave him freely, and going into the castle, feasted on his own venison which the chief had taken from his men. Buchanan of Arnpryor was ever afterwards called the King of Kippen.
Upon another occasion, King James, being alone and in disguise, fell into a quarrel with some gypsies, or other vagrants, and was assaulted by four or five of them. This chanced to be very near the bridge of Cramond; so the king got on the bridge, which, as it was high and narrow, enabled him to defend himself with his sword against the number of persons by whom he was attacked.
There was a poor farmer threshing corn in a barn near by, who came out on hearing the noise of the scuffle, and, seeing one man defending himself against numbers, gallantly took the king’s part with his flail, to such good purpose that the gypsies were obliged to fly. The farmer then took the kinginto the barn, brought him a towel and water to wash the blood from his face and hands, and finally walked with him a little way toward Edinburgh, in case he should be again attacked.
On the way, the king asked his companion what and who he was. The man answered that his name was John Howieson, and that he was a bondsman on the farm of Braehead, near Cramond, which belonged to the King of Scotland. James then asked him if there was any wish in the world which he would particularly wish to have gratified; and honest John confessed he should think himself the happiest man in Scotland were he but proprietor of the farm on which he wrought as a laborer.
He then asked the king in turn whohewas, and James replied, as usual, that he was the Goodman of Ballengiech, a poor man who had a small appointment about the palace; but he added that, if John Howieson would come to see him on the next Sunday, he would endeavor to repay his manful assistance, and, at least, give him the pleasure of seeing the royal apartments.
John put on his best clothes, as you may suppose, and, appearing at a postern gate of the palace, inquired for the Goodman of Ballengiech. The king had given orders that he should be admitted; and John found his friend, the goodman, in the samedisguise which he had formerly worn. The king conducted John Howieson from one apartment of the palace to another, and was amused with his wonder and his remarks.
At length James asked his visitor if he would like to see the king; to which John replied that nothing would delight him so much, if he could do so without giving offense. The Goodman of Ballengiech, of course, undertook that the king would not be angry. “But,” said John, “how am I to know his grace from the nobles who will be all about him?”—“Easily,” replied his companion; “all the others will be uncovered—the king alone will wear his hat or bonnet.”
So speaking, King James introduced the countryman into a great hall, which was filled with the nobility and officers of the crown. John was a little frightened, and drew close to his attendant, but was still unable to distinguish the king. “I told you that you should know him by his wearing his hat,” said the conductor. “Then,” said John, after he had again looked around the room, “it must be either you or me, for all but us two are bareheaded.”
The king laughed at John’s fancy; and, that the good yeoman might have occasion for mirth also, he made him a present of the farm of Braehead, which he had wished so much to possess.
The splendor falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story:The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.Oh hark! oh hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, further going!Oh sweet and far, from cliff and scar,The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.Oh love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow for ever and for ever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.—Alfred Tennyson.
The splendor falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story:The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.Oh hark! oh hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, further going!Oh sweet and far, from cliff and scar,The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.Oh love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow for ever and for ever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.—Alfred Tennyson.
The splendor falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story:The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
Oh hark! oh hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, further going!Oh sweet and far, from cliff and scar,The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
Oh love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow for ever and for ever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.—Alfred Tennyson.
In 1834, Richard Henry Dana, Jr., then a young man of nineteen, made a voyage to California, which was at that time almost an unknown region. He went as a common sailor “before the mast”; and on his return he wrote a narrative of his experience, depicting in its true colors the real life of the sailor at sea. This narrative was published in a volume entitled “Two Years before the Mast,” and is still regarded as one of the most interesting stories of its kind. The following is Mr. Dana’s account of some of his first experiences at sea:—
“With all my imperfections on my head,” I joined the crew. We hauled out into the stream, and came to anchor for the night. The next morning was Saturday; and, a breeze having sprung up from the southward, we took a pilot on board, hove up our anchor, and began beating down the bay.
[image not availableA Full-rigged Ship.
A Full-rigged Ship.
A Full-rigged Ship.
I took leave of those of my friends who came to see me off, and had barely opportunity to take a last look at the city and well-known objects, as no timeis allowed on board ship for sentiment. As we drew down into the lower harbor, we found the wind ahead in the bay, and were obliged to come to anchor in the roads. We remained there through the day and a part of the night.
About midnight the wind became fair; and having called the captain, I was ordered to call all hands. How I accomplished this I do not know; but I am quite sure that I did not give the true, hoarse, boatswain call of “A-a-ll ha-a-a-nds! up anchor, a-ho-oy!” In a short time every one was in motion, the sails loosed, the yards braced, and we began to heave up the anchor, which was our last hold upon Yankee-land.
I could take but little part in these preparations. My little knowledge of a vessel was all at fault. Unintelligible orders were so rapidly given, and so immediately executed, there was such a hurrying about, such an intermingling of strange cries and stranger actions, that I was completely bewildered. There is not so helpless and pitiable an object in the world as a landsman beginning a sailor’s life.
The first day we passed at sea was the Sabbath. As we were just from port, and there was a great deal to be done on board, we were kept at work all day. At night the watches were set, and everything put into sea order. I had now a fine time for reflection.I felt for the first time the perfect silence of the sea. The officer was walking the quarter-deck, where I had no right to go. One or two men were talking on the forecastle, whom I had little inclination to join; so that I was left open to the full impression of everything about me.
However much I was affected by the beauty of the sea, the bright stars, and the clouds driven swiftly over them, I could not but remember that I was separating myself from all the social and intellectual enjoyments of life. Yet, strange as it may seem, I did then and afterwards take pleasure in these reflections, hoping by them to prevent my becoming insensible to the value of what I was leaving.
But all my dreams were soon put to flight by an order from the officer to trim the yards, as the wind was getting ahead. I could plainly see, by the looks the sailors occasionally cast to windward, and by the dark clouds that were fast coming up, that we had bad weather to prepare for, and had heard the captain say that he expected to be in the Gulf Stream by twelve o’clock. In a few minutes “eight bells” was struck, the watch called, and we went below.
I now began to feel the first discomforts of a sailor’s life. The steerage in which I lived was filled with coils of rigging, spare sails, old junk, andship stores, which had not been stowed away. Moreover, there had been no berths built for us to sleep in, and we were not allowed to drive nails to hang our clothes upon.
The sea, too, had risen, the vessel was rolling heavily, and everything was pitched about in grand confusion. I shortly heard the raindrops falling on deck, thick and fast. The watch had evidently their hands full of work, for I could hear the loud and repeated orders of the mate, the trampling of feet, the creaking of blocks, and all the indications of a coming storm.
When I got upon deck, a new scene and a new experience were before me. The little brig was close-hauled upon the wind, and lying over, as it then seemed to me, nearly upon her beam ends. The heavy head sea was beating against her bows with the noise and force almost of a sledge hammer, and flying over the deck, drenching us completely through. The topsail halyards had been let go, and the great sails were filling out and backing against the masts with a noise like thunder. The wind was whistling through the rigging, loose ropes flying about; loud, and to me unintelligible, orders were constantly given, and rapidly executed; and the sailors were “singing out” at the ropes in their hoarse and peculiar strains.
In addition to all this, I had not got my “sea legs on,” was dreadfully sick, with hardly strength enough to hold on to anything; and it was pitch dark. This was my state when I was ordered aloft, for the first time, to reef topsails.
How I got along I cannot now remember. I “laid out” on the yards, and held on with all my strength. I could not have been of much service, for I remember having been sick several times before I left the topsail yard. Soon, however, all was snug aloft, and we were again allowed to go below.
In Spain there once lived two men each of whom claimed to be the rightful king. I do not remember their names, the time was so long ago, but to make the story easier to tell, let us call one Alfonso and the other John. Of course John declared that Alfonso was a traitor, and Alfonso said that John was a rebel and must be put down. At last, in a great battle, John overthrew his rival and made himself master of the country. But one strong town which Alfonso had intrusted to a knight called Aguilar still held out, and although John besieged it with all his army, he could not take it.
“You have done enough for honor,” said King John one day to the knight. “Come, open the gates of the town to my army, and I promise that you shall not suffer.”
“If you had read the history of our country,” answered Aguilar, “you would have learned that no man of my family ever surrenders.”
“Then I will starve you where you are!”
“Starve the eagle if you can,” said the knight.
“I will put you and your town to the sword.”
“Try it,” was the reply, and the siege went on.
One morning, as the rising sun was beginning to gild with its rays the highest towers of the city, a trumpet sounded in the camp of the enemy. It was the signal for a parley. The old knight soon appeared on the wall and looked down on the king.
“Surrender,” said King John again. “My rival Alfonso is dead, and our dispute is ended.”
“Sir,” said the knight, “I believe that you speak the truth, but I must see my dead master.”
“Go, then, to Seville, where his body lies,” said the king. “You have my word that no harm shall befall you.”
The knight came out with banners flying and an escort of a few half-starved warriors. As he rode slowly along, the soldiers who knew of his courage and his many brave deeds, greeted him with loudshouts and gazed after him until the red plume above his helmet disappeared in the distance.
As soon as he reached Seville, he went straight to the great church where he was told the body of his master was still lying in its open coffin. Gazing awhile with tearful eyes at the pale face which met his look, he thus spoke to the dead Alfonso: “Sir, I promised never to surrender to any one but yourself the keys of the town which you intrusted to my care. Here they are. I have kept my promise.” With that, he laid the keys on the breast of his master, and then, mounting his steed, he galloped back to his post.
“Well,” said the king, “are you satisfied, and are you willing to give up?”
“Yes, sir,” he answered.
“But where are the keys of the town?”
“I have delivered them to my master, King Alfonso, and of him you may get them. Now I ride on, and we shall meet no more.”
“Not so,” said the king. “You shall hold the town for me and be its governor in my name.”
The followers of the king murmured, and complained at his thus rewarding a rebel. “He is no longer a rebel,” said King John; “such men when won, become the best of subjects.”
—Charles E. A. Gayarré.
The settlement of the wilderness beyond the Alleghany Mountains was promoted by native pioneers. In his peaceful habitation on the banks of the Yadkin River in North Carolina, Daniel Boone, the illustrious hunter, had heard Finley, a trader, describe a tract of land, west of Virginia, as the richest in North America, or in the world. In May, 1769, leaving his wife and offspring, having Finley as his pilot, and four others as companions, the young man, of about three and twenty, wandered forth through the wilderness of America “in quest of the country of Kentucky,” known to the savages as “the dark and bloody ground.” After a long and fatiguing journey through mountain ranges, the party found themselves in June on the Red River, a tributary of the Kentucky, and from the top of an eminence surveyed with delight the beautiful plain that stretched to the northwest. Here they built their shelter and began to reconnoiter the country, and to hunt.