The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning-star shines dead, As on the jag of a mountain-crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle, alit, one moment may sit, In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardors of rest and love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed Maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the Moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, By the midnight breezes strewn; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her, and peer! And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent of sea, Sun-beam proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-colored bow; The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of earth and water, And the nursling of the sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I can not die. For after the rain, when, with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a sprite from the gloom, like a ghost from the tomb, I rise and unbuild it again.

HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes and Questions.

In this poem Shelley personifies the Cloud. Why?

What does the second stanza mean to you?

The third stanza relates to the sun; what comparisons are made?

What comparisons are found in the fourth stanza?

Read the last stanza and tell what lesson the poem teaches. What line tells you?

What pictures do you get from the fifth stanza?

Which stanza is most musical and pleasing?

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"sanguine sunrise" "pavilion of heaven" "reel and swim" "meteor eyes" "caverns of rain" "million-colored bow" "burning plumes" "fleece-like floor" "sphere-fire" "orbed maiden" "wind-built tent" "cenotaph"

* * * * *

APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN (From "Childe Harold," Canto IV.)

LORD BYRON

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin—his control Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths, with bubbling groan— Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

His steps are not upon thy paths—thy fields Are not a spoil for him—thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray, And howling to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth: there let him lay.

The armaments which thunder-strike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war: These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires changed in all save thee— Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters washed them power while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts; not so thou; Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play. Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow: Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, Calm or convulsed—in breeze or gale or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime— The image of Eternity—the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers—they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror—'twas a pleasing fear; For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.



HELPS TO STUDY.

Biographical and Historical: George Gordon Byron was born in London the year before the outbreak of the French Revolution. At the age of ten, upon the death of his grand-uncle he became Lord Byron. He traveled extensively through Europe, spending much time in Italy. At Pisa he formed a warm friendship for the poet Shelley. So deeply was he moved by his impulses toward liberty and freedom that in the summer of 1823 he left Genoa with a supply of arms, medicines, and money to aid the Greeks in their struggle for independence. In the following year he became commander-in-chief at Missolonghi, but he died of a fever before he had an opportunity to actually engage in battle. Hearing the news, the boy Tennyson, dreaming at Somersby on poetic greatness, crept away to weep and carve upon sandstone the words, "Byron is dead."

Notes and Questions.

In the first stanza why "pathless woods" and "lonely shore"?

In the second and third stanzas Byron contrasts the ocean and the earth in their relation to man.

Line 12—What two words require emphasis?

Line 13—With what is "watery plain" contrasted?

Line 14—With what is "thy" contrasted?

Line 22—What word requires emphasis?

In the fourth stanza what contrast does Byron make?

What does the fifth stanza tell? The sixth?

Which stanza do you like best? Why?

Which lines are the most beautiful?

"The Invincible Armada"—an immense Spanish fleet consisting of one hundred thirty vessels, sailed from Corunna in 1588 and attacked the English fleet but suffered defeat. This event furnished Southey the inspiration for a poem, "The Spanish Armada."

"Trafalgar"—one of Lord Nelson's great sea-fights, occurring off Cape Trafalgar on the coast of Spain in 1805. Here he defeated the combined fleets of France and Spain, but was himself killed.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"unknelled" "uncoffined" "unknown" "playful spray" "oak leviathans" "yeast of waves" "These are thy toys" "The Armada's pride" "spoils of Trafalgar" "rock-built" "glasses itself" "fathomless"

* * * * *

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB LORD BYRON

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath flown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And their idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!



HELPS TO STUDY.

Historical: Sennacherib was King of Assyria. His army invaded Judea and besieged Jerusalem but was overthrown; 185,000 of his men were destroyed in a single night. Sennacherib returned in haste with the remnant to his own country. For the Bible story of this event read 2 Kings XIX. 6-36.

Notes and Questions.

Find Assyria and Galilee on your map.

Note the development: 1. Brilliant outset of the Assyrian cavalry. 2. Their summer changes to winter. 3. The angel turns their sleep into death. 4. The steed and the rider. 5. The mourning. 6. Their idols powerless to help them. 7. Their religion broken down. 8. Their power "melted like snow."

What two comparisons are found in the first stanza?

Note the movement and rhythm.

Point out the fitness of the two similes in the second stanza.

Find a comparison in the sixth stanza.

"Ashur"—Assyria.

"Baal"—the sun-god worshipped by the Assyrians.

Indicate the rhythm of the four lines of the second stanza by writing them in groups under curves as on page 47:

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"cohorts" "sheen" "host" "unsmote" "idols are broke" (broken) "purple and gold" "withered and strown" "rock-beating surf"

* * * * *

THE EVE BEFORE WATERLOO (From "Childe Harold," Canto III.)

LORD BYRON

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men. A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell. But, hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear, it?—No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street. On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet! But, hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is—it is the cannon's opening roar!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! They come! they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's Gathering" rose! The war note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard—and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instills The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave—alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valor, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall molder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay; The midnight brought the signal sound of strife— The morn, the marshaling in arms—the day, Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunderclouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse—friend, foe—in one red burial blent!



HELPS TO STUDY.

Historical: On the evening of June 15, 1815, the Duchess of Richmond gave a ball at Brussels. Wellington's officers, at his request, were present, his purpose being to conceal the near approach of battle. Napoleon, the leader of the French army, was the military genius of the age; Wellington, the leader of the English forces, had, Tennyson tells us, "gained a hundred fights nor ever lost an English gun." These two great generals now met for the first time. The event was of supreme interest to all the world. The engagement that followed next day was fought at Quatre Bras; the great battle of Waterloo took place June 18th, Sunday. Read Thackeray's "Vanity Fair" for description of this night in Brussels. This is a great martial poem—the greatest inspired by this event.

Note the movement of the poem. The revelry, the beauty and the chivalry, the music and the merry-making, the alarm, the hurrying to and fro, the gathering tears, the mounting in hot haste, the whispering with white lips, the Scotch music, the green leaves of Ardennes, the closing scene.

Notes and Questions.

Find Belgium's capital on your map; also Waterloo, twelve miles away.

What does the first stanza tell? The second stanza?

Note the differences between the fourth and fifth stanzas.

The sixth stanza describes the Scottish martial music—What purpose does this stanza serve in the poem?

Which lines do you like best? Why?

Which is the most beautiful stanza?

What words seem to be especially appropriate?

Note the rhythm and the change in movement. "Cameron's Gathering"—The Cameron Highlander's call to arms. "Lochiel"—Donald Cameron of Lochiel was a famous highland chieftain. Read the poem "Lochiel's Warning."

"Albyn"—name given poetically to northern Scotland, the Highland region.

"Pibroch"—martial music upon the bagpipe.

"Evan's, Donald's fame"—Evan Cameron (another Lochiel) and his grandson, Donald, were famous Highland chiefs.

"Ardennes"—Arden, a forest on the Meuse river between Brussels and Waterloo, called Arden by Shakespeare in "As You Like It."

"car"—a cart.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"voluptuous swell" "rising knell" "glowing hours" "opening roar" "terror dumb" "noon of night" "stirring memory" "revelry" "chivalry" "mustering squadron" "clattering car" "pouring forward" "impetuous speed" "unreturning brave" "rolling on the foe" "magnificently stern" "clansman" "inanimate" "verdure" "blent"

* * * * *

SONG OF THE GREEK BARD (From "Don Juan," Canto-III.)

LORD BYRON

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse; Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest."

The mountains look on Marathon— And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free: For, standing on the Persian's grave, I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sat on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships by thousands lay below, And men in nations;—all were his! He counted them at break of day— And when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now— The heroic bosom beats no more. And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

'Tis something in the dearth of fame, Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear.

Must we but weep o'er days more blest? Must we but blush?—Our fathers bled. Earth, render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae!

What, silent still? and silent all? Ah, no; the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, "Let one living head, But one, arise—we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumb.

In vain—in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble call— How answers each bold bacchanal!

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet— Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave— Think you he meant them for a slave?

The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades! O that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks— They have a king who buys and sells— In native swords and native ranks The only hope of courage dwells; But Turkish force and Latin fraud Would break your shield, however broad.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die; A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine— Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!



HELPS TO STUDY.

Historical: The decline of Greece is the theme of this poem. Byron represents a Greek poet as contrasting ancient and modern Greece, showing that, in modern Greece, "all except their sun is set."

Notes and Questions.

What does the first stanza tell?

What are "the arts of war and peace"?

What nation is meant by the Franks?

"I could not deem myself a slave." Why?

Line 19—relates to Xerxes.

Lines 23, 24. Explain these lines,

Explain lines 67, 70.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"Sappho" "Delos" "Phoebus" "Marathon" "Persian's grave" "Salamis" "eternal summer" "rocky brow" "voiceless shore" "heroic lay" "fettered race" "dearth of fame" "Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae"

* * * * *

MARCO BOZZARIS

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK

At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power. In dreams, through camp and court he bore The trophies of a conqueror; In dreams, his song of triumph heard; Then wore his monarch's signet-ring; Then pressed that monarch's throne—a king: As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden-bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood, There had the glad earth drunk their blood, On old Plataea's day: And now there breathed that haunted air, The sons of sires who conquered there, With arms to strike, and soul to dare, As quick, as far as they.

An hour passed on—the Turk awoke; That bright dream was his last: He woke—to hear his sentries shriek, "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" He woke—to die mid flames and smoke, And shout and groan, and sabre-stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band: "Strike!—till the last armed foe expires; Strike!—for your altars and your fires; Strike!—for the green graves of your sires; God—and your native land!"

They fought—like brave men, long and well; They piled the ground with Moslem slain; They conquered—but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile, when rang their proud—"Hurrah," And the red field was won: Then saw in death his eyelids close, Calmly as to a night's response, Like flowers at set of sun.

But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Bozzaris! with, the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee—there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. We tell thy doom without a sigh; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's— One of the few, the immortal names That were not born to die.



HELPS TO STUDY.

Biographical and Historical: Fitz-Greene Halleck was born in Connecticut, July 8, 1790, and died November 19, 1867. Of his poems, "Marco Bozzaris" is probably the best known. Marco Bozzaris, leader of the Greek revolution, was, killed August 20, 1823, in an attack upon the Turks near Missolonghi, a Greek town. His last words were: "To die for liberty is a pleasure, not a pain."

Notes and Questions.

Over whom did the Turk dream he gained a victory?

What might be the "trophies of a conqueror"?

Upon whom would a monarch confer the privilege of wearing his signet ring?

Trace the successive steps by which the Turk in his dream rises to the summit of his ambition.

What other "immortal names" do you know?

"Suliote"—natives of Suli, a mountainous district in Albania (European Turkey).

"Plataea's day" refers to the victory of the Greeks over the Persians on this field 479 B. C.

"Moslem"—Mohammedans—name given the Turks.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"tried blades" "haunted air" "storied brave"

* * * * *

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE

CHARLES WOLFE

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, At his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin inclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spike not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.



HELPS TO STUDY.

Charles Wolfe, a British clergyman, was born at Dublin, December 14, 1791, and died at Cork, February 21, 1823. His poem, "The Burial of Sir John Moore," is the only one of his works now widely read.

Historical: Sir John Moore, an English general, was killed (January 16, 1809) in an engagement between the English and the army of Napoleon at Corunna, in Spain. In accordance with an expressed wish, he was buried at night on the battlefield. In St. Paul's Cathedral, London, a monument was erected to his memory, and a stone also marks the spot where he was buried on the ramparts, at Corunna. Note that it was from this port that the Spanish Armada sailed.

Notes and Questions.

Who tells the story of the poem?

What is the narrator's feeling for Sir John Moore? How do you know?

What impressions of Sir John Moore do you get from reading this poem?

Which stanza or stanzas do you like best? Why?

Select the lines that seem to you most beautiful and memorize them.

Which is the greater memorial, a monument of stone or bronze, or such a poem as this? Why?

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"corse" "upbraid" "rampart" "random" "bayonets" "sullenly" "shroud" "rock" "spirit" "struggling" "Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot" "The struggling moonbeam" "We bitterly thought of the morrow"

* * * * *

ABSALOM

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS

The waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. The reeds bent down the stream; the willow leaves, With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems, Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse, Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, And leaned in graceful attitudes to rest. How strikingly the course of nature tells, By its light heed of human suffering, That it was fashioned for a happier world!

King David's limbs were weary. He had fled From far Jerusalem; and now he stood, With his faint people, for a little rest, Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow To its refreshing breath; for he had worn The mourner's covering, and he had not felt That he could see his people until now. They gathered round him on the fresh green bank, And spoke their kindly words; and as the sun Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there, And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. Oh, when the heart is full—when bitter thoughts Come crowding thickly up for utterance, And the poor, common words of courtesy Are such an empty mockery—how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer! He prayed for Israel; and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those Whose love had been his shield; and his deep tones. Grew tremulous. But oh! for Absalom— For his estranged, misguided Absalom— The proud, bright being who had burst away In all his princely beauty, to defy The heart that cherished him—for him he poured, In agony that would not be controlled, Strong supplication, and forgave him there, Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straightened for the grave; and as the folds Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed The matchless symmetry of Absalom. His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls Were floating round the tassels as they swayed To the admitted air, as glossy now As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters. His helm was at his feet; his banner, soiled With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, Reversed, beside him; and the jeweled hilt, Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow. The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief, The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, As if he feared the slumberer might stir. A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form Of David entered, and he gave command, In a low tone, to his few followers, And left him with his dead. The King stood still Till the last echo died; then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child, He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe:

"Alas, my noble boy, that thou shouldst die! Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, My proud boy, Absalom?

"Cold is thy brow, my son, and I am chill As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! How I was wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet 'My father!' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom!

"But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung— But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom!

"And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom!

"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee; And thy dark sin! Oh, I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom!"

He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child; then, giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively, as if in prayer; And, as if strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall Firmly and decently, and left him there, As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.



HELPS TO STUDY.

Nathaniel Parker Willis was born in Maine in 1806. He was a graduate of Yale and was an early contributor to various periodicals, including the "Youths' Companion," which magazine had been founded by his father. The selection here given is regarded as the poet's masterpiece.

Historical: Absalom, the son of David, King of Israel, rebelled against his father. David sent his army to put down the rebellion, but said to his captains, "Deal gently for my sake with the young man, even with Absalom." In spite of this entreaty, Absalom was slain by Joab, a captain in David's army. The first forty-one lines relate to events preceding the battle, the remainder to events following the battle. Read 2 Samuel XVIII.

Notes and Questions.

Find the Jordan on your map.

Locate the Dead Sea; the wood of Ephraim where Absalom was killed.

Describe the picture you see when you read the first stanza.

What do we call such expressions as "Night's silvery veil"?

What is night's silvery veil?

"The willow leaves with a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, Forgot the lifting winds"—What does this mean? Why "lulling tide"?

What flowers does the poet mean in the eighth line? Is the poet true to nature in what he says of them? Show why.

Select two words or expressions that seem to you to be especially beautiful or fit, and tell why. Do you like the selection? Why?

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"waters slept" "melting tenderness" "fashioned for a happier world" "lifting winds" "mantling blush" "straightened for the grave" "estranged" "breathing sleep" "resistless eloquence" "bruised reed" "still proportions" "Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade"

* * * * *

LOCHINVAR (From "Marmion.")

SIR WALTER SCOTT

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West,— Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And, save his good broadsword, he weapons had none,— He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Esk river, where ford there was none; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor, craven bridegroom said never a word), "O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

"I long wooed your daughter,—my suit you denied;— Love swells like the Selway, but ebbs like its tide; And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!"

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,— "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, And the bridemaidens whispered, "'Twere better, by far, To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near, So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode, and they ran; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

HELPS TO STUDY.

Biographical and Historical: Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh, in 1771. He loved the romance of Scotland's history and legends. A collection of legendary ballads, songs, and traditions, published by him early in life met with such immediate success that it confirmed him in his resolution to devote himself to literary pursuits. The two selections here given, are taken from his second metrical romance, "Marmion." Later Scott turned his attention to prose and became the creator of the historical novel, of which "Ivanhoe," "Kenilworth," and "Woodstock" are conspicuous examples. He died in 1832, and lies buried in one of the most beautiful ruins in Scotland, Dryburgh Abbey.

Notes and Questions.

Find Esk River and Solway Firth on your map.

Scott describes the tides of Solway Firth in Chapter IV of his novel, "Redgauntlet." Compare the rhythm with that in "How They Brought the Good News."

What impression of Lochinvar do the opening stanzas give you?

What purpose does the fourth stanza serve?

Line 20—Explain this line.

Line 46—What was the result?

What picture does the sixth stanza give you?

Which stanza do you like best?

Which lines are most pleasing?

"galliard"—a gay dance.

"scaur"—steep bank of river.

"clan"—a group of related families.

Translate into your own words: "'They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young Lochinvar."

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"laggard" "brake" "bar" "charger" "craven" "bonnet and plume" "dastard" "gallant"

* * * * *

THE PARTING OF MARMION AND DOUGLAS (From "Marmion.")

SIR WALTER SCOTT

Not far advanced was morning day, When Marmion did his troop array, To Surrey's camp to ride; He had safe conduct for his band, Beneath the royal seal and hand, And Douglas gave a guide.

The train from out the castle drew, But Marmion stopped to bid adieu: "Though something I might 'plain," he said, "Of cold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by your king's behest, While in Tantallon's towers I staid; Part we in friendship from your land, And, noble Earl, receive my hand." But Douglas round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke: "My manors, halls, and bowers shall still Be open, at my sovereign's will, To each one whom he lists, howe'er Unmeet to be the owner's peer. My castles are my king's alone, From turret to foundation stone; The hand of Douglas is his own; And never shall, in friendly grasp, The hand of such as Marmion clasp."

Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire; And "This to me," he said; "An 'twere not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion's had not spared To cleave the Douglas' head! And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer, He, who does England's message here, Although the meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate: And, Douglas, more, I tell thee here, Even in thy pitch of pride— Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near, I tell thee, thou'rt defied! And if thou said'st, I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"

On the Earl's cheek, the flush of rage O'ercame the ashen hue of age: Fierce he broke forth; "And dar'st thou then To beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall? And hopest thou hence unscathed to go? No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no! Up draw-bridge, grooms,—what, warder, ho! Let the portcullis fall." Lord Marmion turned,—well was his need, And dashed the rowels in his steed, Like arrow through the archway sprung; The ponderous grate behind him rung: To pass there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, razed his plume.

The steed along the draw-bridge flies, Just as it trembled on the rise; Nor lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake's level brim; And when Lord Marmion reached his band He halts, and turns with clinched hand And shout of loud defiance pours, And shook his gauntlet at the towers. "Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!" But soon he reined his fury's pace: "A royal messenger he came, Though most unworthy of the name. Saint Mary mend my fiery mood! Old age ne'er cools the Douglas' blood; I thought to slay him where he stood. 'Tis pity of him, too," he cried; "Bold he can speak, and fairly ride— I warrant him a warrior tried." With this his mandate he recalls, And slowly seeks his castle halls.



HELPS TO STUDY.

Historical: Marmion, an English nobleman, is sent as an envoy by Henry the Eighth, King of England, to James the Fourth, King of Scotland. The two countries are on the eve of war with each other. Arriving in Edinburgh, Marmion is entrusted by King James to the care and hospitality of Douglas, Earl of Angus, who, taking him to his castle at Tantallon, treats him with the respect due his position as representative of the king, but at the same time dislikes him. The war approaching, Marmion leaves to join the English camp. This sketch describes the leave-taking.

Notes and Questions.

In what part of the castle does this conversation take place? What tells you?

Where are Marmion's followers during this time? Where are Douglas's soldiery and servants? What lines tell you?

Notice how simply Marmion reminds Douglas of the claim he had upon hospitality, while in Scotland. Lines 9 to 12.

Note the claims that have always been allowed the stranger: "And stranger is a holy name, Guidance and rest and food and fire, In vain he never must require."

What part of Marmion's claim does Douglas recognize? Which lines show this?

What claim does Marmion make for one "who does England's message"?

What do we call one "who do England's message" at Washington?

Is this Marmion's personal pride or pride of country (patriotism)? Read the lines in which Marmion's personal pride shows itself in resentment of Douglas's insults.

What does Douglas forget when he threatens Marmion? Line 69.

Which man appears to greater advantage in this scene?

"train"—procession.

"'plain"—complain.

"Tantal'lon"—Douglas's castle.

"warder"—guard.

"peer"—equal.

"peer"—a nobleman.

"Saint Bride"—a saint belonging to the house of Douglas,

"rowel"—wheel of a spur.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"pitch of pride" "ponderous grate" "swarthy cheek" "flush of rage" "level brim" "haughty peer" "ire" "vassals" "gauntlet" "unmeet" "hold"

* * * * *

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT

ROBERT BURNS

Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that? The coward-slave, we pass him by; We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hodden-gray, an a' that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man for a' that! For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, though e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Though hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that; For a' that, and a' that, His ribband, star, and a' that; The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can make a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that; But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith, he maunna fa' that! For a' that, and a' that; Their dignities, and a' that; The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a' that, That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, Shall bear the gree, and a' that. For a' that, and a' that, It's comin' yet, for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er Shall brothers be for a' that.



HELPS TO STUDY.

Biographical: Robert Burns was born in Ayrshire, Scotland, in 1759. His life was short and full of poverty and privation; but he saw poetry in all the commonplace occurrences of every-day life. His sympathy went out to all human kind and, as the above selection shows, he had a high regard for the real worth of man.

Notes and Questions.

Does birth or station in life determine the man?

Lines 7, 8. Explain these lines.

Lines 29-40. What do these lines mean?

In the following what is omitted? Man's (27); It's (38); o'er (39).

Why did Burns use the word "coward-slave"?

Does the poet say a man is "king of men" because he is poor?

What makes a man a king among his fellowmen?

Scotch words and their English equivalents: a'—all; wha—who; gowd—gold; hamely—homely; hodden—gray—coarse gray cloth; gie—give; sae—so; birkie—clever fellow; ca'd—called; coof—dunce; aboon—above; guid—good; maunna fa'—must not try; gree—prize.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"toils obscure" "pith o' sense" "guinea stamp" "ribband" "star" "belted knight"

* * * * *

SELECTIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE

1. MERCY

MERCHANT OF VENICE, ACT IV., SCENE I.

The quality of mercy is not strained; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed; It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes. 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown; His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings: But mercy is above the sceptred sway: It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute of God himself: And earthly power doth then show likest God's, When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, though justice be thy plea, consider this,— That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation; we do pray for mercy; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy.



HELPS TO STUDY.

Biographical and Historical: William Shakespeare, the greatest of English poets, indeed one of the greatest of the world's poets, was born in 1564 at Stratford-on-Avon. As a young man of twenty-two, after his marriage with Anne Hathaway, he went up to London, where he became connected with theaters, first, tradition says, by holding horses at the doors. The next twenty years he spent in London as an actor, and in writing poems and plays, later becoming a shareholder as well as an actor. The last ten years of his life were spent at Stratford, where he died at the age of fifty-two. This was the time of Queen Elizabeth and is known as the Elizabethan Age. It was the age richest in genius of all kinds, but especially in the creation of dramatic literature.

In the foregoing selection, Portia, disguised as a lawyer, makes this famous speech in pleading the cause of Antonio against Shylock.

Notes

"strained"—restrained "shows"—is the emblem of

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"temporal power" "sceptered sway" "Earthly power doth then show likest God's When mercy seasons justice"

* * * * *

2. THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN

AS YOU LIKE IT, ACT II, SCENE 7.

ALL the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms; Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the Justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined,— With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness, and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.



HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes

"Mewling"—squalling. "sudden"—impetuous. "sans"—without. "his"—its, which was just coming into use at this time. "formal cut"—trim, near—not shaggy as that of the soldier's, "wise saws"—wise sayings. "modern instances"—everyday examples, illustrations. "strange oaths"—soldiers are proverbially profane—probably satirical reference to the affectation of foreign oaths by soldiers who have been abroad.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

Comparisons: "creeping like snail" "sighing like furnace" "bearded like the pard"

"eyes severe" "woeful ballad" "mere oblivion" "Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth"

* * * * *

3. POLONIUS'S ADVICE

HAMLET, ACT I, SCENE 3.

Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportioned thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar: The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, Bear it, that the opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy: For the apparel oft proclaims the man. Neither a borrower nor a lender be: For loan oft loses both itself and friend; And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all,—to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.



HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes and Questions.

"unproportioned"—not worthy or fitting the occasion. "familiar"—courteous, friendly. "vulgar"-unduly familiar. "their adoption tried"—tested by long acquaintance. "dull thy palm"—lose discrimination. "censure"—opinion. "expressed in fancy"—loud, ostentatious. "husbandry"—thrift.

Put in your own words:

"Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportioned thought his act."

"Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice."

"The apparel oft proclaims the man."

"Borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry."

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"hoops of steel"

* * * * *

4. MAN

HAMLET, ACT II, SCENE 2.

What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties! In form and movement, how express and admirable! In action, how like an angel! In apprehension, how like a god! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!



HELPS TO STUDY.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"express" "paragon" "infinite" "apprehension"

* * * * *

5. HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY

HAMLET, ACT III, SCENE 1.

To be or not to be: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them. To die; to sleep; No more; and, by a sleep to say we end The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep; To sleep? Perchance to dream! ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiseover'd country, from whose bourn No traveler returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.



HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes

"coil"—turmoil. "respect"—consideration. "fardels"—burdens.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"shuffled off this mortal coil" "puzzles the will" "native hue of resolution" "pale cast of thought" "great pitch and moment"

* * * * *

6. REPUTATION

OTHELLO, ACT III, SCENE 3.

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls: Who steals my purse, steals trash; 'tis something, nothing; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands; But he, that filches from me my good name, Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed.



HELPS TO STUDY.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"immediate jewel of their souls" "Who steals my purse steals trash"

* * * * *

7. WOLSEY AND CROMWELL

KING HENRY VIII, ACT III, SCENE 2.

WOLSEY: Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: Today he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; tomorrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honors thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And—when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening—nips his root; And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers, in a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me, and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.—

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me, Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And—when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of—say, I taught thee; Say, Wolsey—that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor— Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in; A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition: By that sin fell the angels: how can man, then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by't? Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty: Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not. Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the king; And—Prithee, lead me in: There take an inventory of all I have, To the last penny; 'tis the king's; my robe, And my integrity to Heaven, is all I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell, Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies!



HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes

"This many summers"—this nineteen years. "Like Lucifer"—See Isaiah XIV, 12. "To play the woman"—to shed tears.

* * * * *

8. CASSIO AND IAGO

OTHELLO. ACT II. SCENE III.

Iago. What, are you hurt, lieutenant?

Cassio. Ay, past all surgery.

Iago. Marry, heaven forbid!

Cas. Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation, Iago, my reputation!

Iago. As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some bodily wound; there is more sense in that than in reputation. Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving: you have lost no reputation at all, unless you repute yourself such a loser. What, man! there are ways to recover the general again: you are but now cast in his mood, a punishment more in policy than in malice; even so as one would beat his offenceless dog to affright an imperious lion: sue to him again, and he's yours.

Cas. I will rather sue to be despised than to deceive so good a commander with so slight, so drunken, and so indiscreet an officer. Drunk? and speak parrot? and squabble? swagger? swear? and discourse fustian with one's own shadow? O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil!

Iago. What was he that you followed with your sword? What had he done to you?

Cas. I know not.

Iago. Is't possible?

Cas. I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly; a quarrel, but nothing wherefore. O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! that we should, with joy, pleasance, revel, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts!

Iago. Why, but you are now well enough: how came you thus recovered?

Cas. It hath pleased the devil drunkenness to give place to the devil wrath: one unperfectness shows me another, to make me frankly despise myself.

Iago. Come, you are too severe a moraler: as the time, the place, and the condition of this country stands, I could heartily wish this had not befallen; but, since it is as it is, mend it for your own good.

Cas. I will ask him for my place again; he shall tell me I am a drunkard! Had I as many mouths as Hydra, such an answer would stop them all. To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast! O strange! Every inordinate cup is unblessed and the ingredient is a devil.

Iago. Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well used: exclaim no more against it. And, good lieutenant, I think you think I love you.

Cas. I have well approved it, sir. I drunk!

Iago. You or any man living may be drunk at a time, man. I'll tell you what you shall do. Our general's wife is now the general: I may say so in this respect, for that he hath devoted and given up himself to the contemplation, mark, and denotement of her parts and graces: confess yourself freely to her: importune her help to put you in your place again: she is of so free, so kind, so apt, so blessed a disposition, she holds it a vice in her goodness not to do more than she is requested: this broken joint between you and her husband entreat her to splinter; and my fortunes against any lay worth naming, this crack of your love shall grow stronger than it was before.

Cas. You advise me well.

Iago. I protest in the sincerity of love and honest kindness.

Cas. I think it freely; and betimes in the morning I will beseech the virtuous Desdemona to undertake for me: I am desperate of my fortunes if they check me here.

Iago. You are in the right. Good night, lieutenant; I must to the watch.

Cas. Good night, honest Iago.



HELPS TO STUDY. Notes

"marry"—an exclamation—indeed! "cast"—dismissed. "fustian"—empty phrasing, "pleasance"—merriment. "moraler"—moralizer

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"immortal part of myself" "repute yourself" "as many mouths as Hydra" "crack of your love" "false imposition" "speak parrot" "denotement" "must to the watch"

* * * * *



PART II

SELECTIONS FROM GREAT AMERICAN AUTHORS

"He cometh unto you with a tale which holdeth children from play and old men from the chimney corner."

—SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.



* * * * *

WASHINGTON IRVING

"Washington's work is ended and the child shall be named after him," so said the mother of Washington Irving at his birth in New York, April 3, 1783. When, six years later, all New York was enthusiastically greeting the first President of the United States, a Scotch servant in the Irving family followed the President into a shop with the youngest son of the family and approaching him said, "Please, your honor, here's a bairn was named for you." Washington, putting his hand upon the boy's head, gave him his blessing. It seems eminently fitting that this boy, who became known as the Father of American Letters, should write the biography of the man whose name he bore, and whom we know as the Father of his Country.

New York was then the capital of the country, a city of about twenty-five thousand inhabitants, small enough so that it was an easy matter for the city boy to get into the country. New York itself retained many traces of its Dutch origin, and upon its streets could be seen men from all parts of the world. Here the boy grew up happy, seeing many sides of American life, both in the city and in the country. He was fun-loving and social, and could hardly be called a student. He greatly preferred "Robinson Crusoe" and "Sinbad" to the construing of Latin. Best of all, he liked to go exploring down to the water front to see the tall ships setting sail for the other side of the world, or, as he grew older, up the Hudson and into the Catskills, or to that very Sleepy Hollow which lives for us now because of him. Irving liked people, and had many warm friends.

These three tastes—for people, for books, and for travel—his life was destined to gratify. His health being delicate, he was sent abroad at twenty-one, and the captain of the ship he sailed in, noting his fragile appearance, said, "There's one who'll go overboard before we get across," but he happily proved a mistaken prophet. Irving not only survived the voyage, but spent two years traveling in Italy, France, Sicily, and the Netherlands. The romantic spirit strong within him eagerly absorbed mediaeval history and tradition. "My native country was full of youthful promise; Europe was rich in the accumulated treasures of age."

Upon his return home, Irving was admitted to the bar, but he never seriously turned his attention to law. In 1809 he published "A History of New York by Diedrich Knickerbocker." It was a humorous history of New Amsterdam, a delicious mingling of sense and nonsense, over which Walter Scott said his "sides were absolutely sore with laughing." While writing this history a great sorrow touched his life—the death of a young girl to whom he was deeply attached.

Ten years later, upon his second visit to Europe, Irving published "The Sketch Book." It rapidly won favor both in England and America. Byron said of it: "I know it by heart; at least there is not a passage that I cannot refer to immediately." This second visit to Europe was to be a short business trip, but as it chanced, it lasted seventeen years. The first five years were spent in England. Later he went to Spain, and as a result of this visit, we have a series of books dealing with Spanish history and tradition—"The Alhambra," "The Conquest of Granada" and "The Life of Columbus." During all these years and in all these places, he met and won the regard of hosts of interesting people. Everyone praised his books, and everyone liked the likable American, with his distinguished face and gentle manners.

In 1832 Irving was gladly welcomed back to America, for many had feared that his long absence might mean permanent residence abroad. The next ten years were spent in his beautiful home, Sunnyside, at Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson. Daniel Webster, Secretary of State, could find no person more gratifying to the Spanish people, than the author of the "Life of Columbus" and, in 1842, persuaded Irving to represent us at the Spanish court. After four years, he returned to America and passed his time almost exclusively in writing. The work which he finished just before his death, in November, 1859, was the "Life of Washington." He was buried on a hill overlooking the river and a portion of the Sleepy Hollow Valley.

Because of the ease and smoothness of his style, and his delicate sense of form, Irving delighted his own and succeeding generations of both his countrymen and his British cousins. All his work is pervaded by the strong and winning personal quality that brought him the love and admiration of all. Charles Dudley Warner says of him: "The author loved good women and little children and a pure life; he had faith in his fellow-men, a kindly sympathy with the lowest, without any subservience to the highest. His books are wholesome, full of sweetness and charm, of humor without any sting, of amusement without any stain; and their more solid qualities are marred by neither pedantry nor pretension."

* * * * *

RIP VAN WINKLE

A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER

FROM "THE SKETCH BOOK," BY WASHINGTON IRVING

By Woden, God of Saxons, From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday. Truth is a thing that ever I will keep Unto thylke day in which I creep into My sepulchre. —CARTWRIGHT.

The following tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie so much among books as among men; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich in that legendary lore so invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a book worm. The result of all these researches was a history of the province during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years since. There have been various opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little questioned on its first appearance, but has since been completely established; and it is now admitted into all historical collections, as a book of unquestionable authority.

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work, and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory to say that his time might have been much better employed in weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way; and though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and affection; yet his errors and follies are remembered "more in sorrow than in anger," and it begins to be suspected that he never intended to injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear by many folk, whose good opinion is worth having; particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their new-year cakes; and have thus given him a chance for immortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal, or a Queen Anne's Farthing.

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes when the rest of the landscape is cloudless they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists in the early time of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks.

In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient henpecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal popularity; for those men are most apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation; and a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects be considered a tolerable blessing, and if so, rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed.

Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles; and never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood.

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor, even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone-fences; the women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for them. In a word, Rip was ready to attend to anybody's business but his own; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible.

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country; everything about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some out-door work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood.

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with, one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather.

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night her tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife; so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house—the only side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband.

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods—but what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation.

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village; which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade through a long lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound discussions that sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the school-master, a dapper learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months after they had taken place.

The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent and angry puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds; and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect approbation.

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage and call the members all to naught; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness.

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized, as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. "Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!" Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and if dogs can feel pity I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart.

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands.

On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle.

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" He looked round, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air: "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!"—at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place; but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of assistance, he hastened down to yield it.

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion: a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist, several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity; and mutually relieving one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He paused for a moment, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time Rip and his companion had labored on in silence; for though the former marveled greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspired awe and checked familiarity.

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches of similar style with that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar; one had a large beard, broad face, and small piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement.

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.

As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game.

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes—it was a bright, sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. "Surely," thought Rip, "I have not slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor—the mountain ravine—the wild retreat among the rocks—the woe-begone party at ninepins—the flagon—"Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!" thought Rip—"what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?"

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roisterers of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, and shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen.

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. "These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, "and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into the glen; he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witchhazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his path.

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks presented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be done? the morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty fire-lock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward.

As he approached the village he met a number of people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long!

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered; it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors—strange faces at the windows,—everything was strange. His mind now misgave him; he began to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day before. There stood the Kaatskill Mountains—there ran the silver Hudson at a distance—there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been—Rip was sorely perplexed—"That flagon last night," thought he, "has addled my poor head sadly!"

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay—the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed—"My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten me!"

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears—he called loudly for his wife and children—the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then again all was silence.

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn—but it, too, was gone. A large, rickety wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, "The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes—all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, GENERAL WASHINGTON.

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of hand bills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens—elections—members of congress—liberty—Bunker's Hill—heroes of seventy-six—and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.