Chapter VII: Part 7

“My men grow mutinous day by day,
My men grow ghastly wan, and weak.”
The stout mate thought of home; a spray
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.
“What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,
If we sight naught but seas at dawn?”
“Why, you may say, at break of day,
‘Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!’”

They sailed and sailed as winds might blow,
Until at last the blanched mate said:
“Why, now not even God would know
Should I and all my men fall dead.
These very winds forget their way,
For God from these dread seas is gone.
Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say--”
He said, “Sail on! sail on! and on!”

They sailed. They sailed. Then spoke the mate:
“This mad sea shows his teeth to-night;
He curls his lips, he lies in wait
With lifted teeth as if to bite;
Brave Admiral, say but one good word,
What shall we do when hope is gone?”
The words leaped like a leaping sword,
“Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!”

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,
And peered through darkness. Ah, that night
Of all dark nights! and then a speck,
“A light! A light! A light! A light!”
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!
It grew to be Time’s burst of dawn.
He gained a world; he gave that world
Its grandest lesson: “On! sail on!”
--JOAQUIN MILLER.

OPPORTUNITY

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:--
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince’s banner
Wavered, then staggered backwards, hemmed by foes.
A craven hung along the battle’s edge,
And thought, “Had I a sword of keener steel--
That blue blade that the king’s son bears,--but this
Blunt thing--!” he snapt and flung it from his hand,
And lowering crept away and left the field.
Then came the king’s son, wounded, sore bestead,
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout
Lifted afresh, he hewed his enemy down,
And saved a great cause that heroic day.
--EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.

TO-DAY

So here hath been dawning
Another blue day;
Think wilt thou let it
Slip useless away?

Out of eternity
This new day is born,
Into eternity,
At night, will return.

Behold it aforetime
No eye ever did;
So soon it forever
From all eyes is hid!

Here hath been dawning
Another blue day;
Think, wilt thou let it
Slip useless away?
--THOMAS CARLYLE.

AN ERUPTION OF VESUVIUS

Many years ago there stood a town in Italy, at the foot of Mount Vesuvius, which was to Rome what Brighton or Hastings is to London--a very fashionable watering-place, at which Roman gentlemen and members of the senate built villas, to which they were in the habit of retiring from the fatigues of business or the broils of politics. The outsides of all the houses were adorned with frescoes, and every shop glittered with all the colors of the rainbow. At the end of each street there was a charming fountain, and any one who sat down beside it to cool himself had a delightful view of the Mediterranean, then as beautiful, as blue, and as sunny as it is now. On a fine day, crowds might be seen lounging here; some sauntering up and down in gala dresses of purple, while slaves passed to and fro, bearing on their heads splendid vases; others sat on marble benches, shaded from the sun by awnings, and having before them tables covered with wine, and fruit, and flowers. Every house in that town was a little palace, and every palace was like a temple, or one of our great public buildings.

On entering one of these mansions, the visitor passed through a vestibule decorated with rows of pillars, and then found himself in the room in which the household gods kept guard over the owner’s treasure, which was placed in a safe, or strong box, secured with brass or iron bands. Issuing thence, the visitor found himself in an apartment paved with mosaic, and decorated with paintings, in which were kept the family papers and archives. It contained a dining room and a supper room, and a number of sleeping rooms; a cabinet, filled with rare jewels and antiquities, and sometimes a fine collection of paintings; and, last of all, a pillared peristyle, opening out upon the garden, in which the finest fruit hung temptingly in the rich light of a golden sky, and fountains, which flung their waters aloft in every imaginable form and device, cooled the air and discoursed sweet music to the ear. On the gate there was always the image of a dog, and underneath it the inscription, “Beware the dog.”

The pillars in the peristyle were encircled with garlands of flowers, which were renewed every morning. The tables of citron-wood were inlaid with silver; the couches were of bronze, gilt and jewelled, and were furnished with thick cushions and tapestry, embroidered with marvellous skill. When the master gave a dinner party, the guests reclined upon these cushions, washed their hands in silver basins, and dried them with napkins fringed with purple. They ate oysters brought from the shores of Britain, kids which were carved to the sound of music, and fruits served up on ice in the hottest days of summer; and while the cup-bearers filled their golden cups with the rarest and most delicate wines, other attendants crowned them with flowers wet with dew, and dancers executed for their pleasure the most graceful movements.

One day, when such festivities as these were in full activity, Vesuvius sent up a tall and very black column of smoke, something like a pine-tree; and suddenly, in broad noonday, darkness black as pitch came over the scene! There was a frightful din of cries and groans, mingled confusedly together. The brother lost his sister, the husband his wife, the mother her child; for the darkness became so dense that nothing could be seen but the flashes which every now and then darted forth from the summit of the neighboring mountain. The earth trembled, the houses shook and began to fall, and the sea rolled back from the land as if terrified; the air became thick with dust; and then, amidst tremendous and awful noise, a shower of ashes and stones fell upon the town and blotted it out forever!

The inhabitants died just as the catastrophe found them--guests in their banqueting halls, soldiers at their posts, prisoners in their dungeons, thieves in their theft, maidens at the mirror, slaves at the fountain, traders in their shops, students at their books. Some attempted flight, guided by blind people, who had walked so long in darkness that no thicker shadows could ever come upon them; but of these many were struck down on the way. When, a few days afterwards, people came from the surrounding country to the place, they found naught but a black, level, smoking plain, sloping to the sea, and covered thickly with ashes! Down, down beneath, thousands and thousands were sleeping “the sleep that knows no waking,” with all their little pomps, and vanities, and pleasures, and luxuries buried with them.

This took place on the 23d of August, A.D. 79; and the name of the town, thus suddenly overwhelmed with ruin, was Pompeii. Sixteen hundred and seventeen years afterwards, curious persons began to dig and excavate on the spot, and lo! they found the city pretty much as it was when overwhelmed. The houses were standing, the paintings were fresh, and the skeletons stood in the very positions and the very places in which death had overtaken their owners so long ago! The researches are still going on, new wonders are every day coming to light, and we soon shall have almost as perfect an idea of a Roman town, in the first century of the Christian era, as if we had walked the streets and gossiped with the idle loungers at the fountains. Pompeii is the ghost of an extinct civilization rising up before us.

--ANONYMOUS.

THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS

Up soared the lark into the air,
A shaft of song, a wingèd prayer,
As if a soul, released from pain,
Were flying back to heaven again.

St. Francis heard; it was to him
An emblem of the Seraphim;
The upward motion of the fire,
The light, the heat, the heart’s desire.

Around Assisi’s convent gate
The birds, God’s poor who cannot wait,
From moor and mere and darksome wood
Came flocking for their dole of food.

“O brother birds,” St. Francis said,
“Ye come to me and ask for bread,
But not with bread alone to-day
Shall ye be fed and sent away.

“Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds,
With manna of celestial words;
Not mine, though mine they seem to be,
Not mine, though they be spoken through me.

“O, doubly are ye bound to praise
The great Creator in your lays;
He giveth you your plumes of down,
Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown.

“He giveth you your wings to fly
And breathe a purer air on high,
And careth for you everywhere,
Who for yourselves so little care!”

With flutter of swift wings and songs
Together rose the feathered throngs,
And singing scattered far apart;
Deep peace was in St. Francis’ heart.

He knew not if the brotherhood
His homily had understood:
He only knew that to one ear
The meaning of his words was clear.
--HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE GREENWOOD TREE

Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to lie in the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather.
--WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:
A mile or so away,
On a little mound, Napoleon
Stood on our storming-day;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused, “My plans
That soar, to earth may fall,
Let once my army-leader Lannes
Waver at yonder wall,”
Out ’twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew
Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect
By just his horse’s mane, a boy;
You hardly could suspect--
(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through)--
You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.

“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s grace
We’ve got you Ratisbon!
The Marshal’s in the market-place,
And you’ll be there anon
To see your flag-bird flap his vans
Where I, to heart’s desire,
Perched him!” The chief’s eye flashed; his plans
Soared up again like fire.

The chief’s eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother-eagle’s eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes;
“You’re wounded!” “Nay,” the soldier’s pride
Touched to the quick, he said:
“I’m killed, Sire!” And his chief beside,
Smiling, the boy fell dead.
--ROBERT BROWNING.

ROBINSON CRUSOE

When I waked, it was broad day. The weather was clear, and the storm had abated, so that the sea did not rage and swell as before; but what surprised me most was, that by the swelling of the tide the ship was lifted off in the night from the sand where she lay, and was driven up almost as far as the rock where I had been so bruised by the waves dashing me against it. I saw that I could easily swim to the vessel, and accordingly I pulled off my clothes and took to the water. But when I reached the ship, my difficulty was still greater to know how to get on board; for, as she lay aground, and high out of the water, there was nothing within my reach by which to climb on board. I swam round her twice, and the second time I spied a small piece of rope, by the help of which I got into the forecastle of the ship.

When I had climbed on board, I found that the ship was bulged, and that she had a great deal of water in her hold, but that she lay on the side of a bank of hard earth, in such a way that her stern was lifted up on the bank, while her bow was low, almost to the water. By this means all her quarter was free, and all that was in that part was dry; for you may be sure my first work was to find out what was spoiled and what was not. And, first, I found that all the ship’s provisions were dry and untouched by the water; and, being very well disposed to eat, I went to the bread-room, and filling my pockets with biscuits, ate them.

I now needed nothing but a boat, to furnish myself with many things which I foresaw would be very necessary to me. It was in vain, however, to sit still and wish for what was not to be had, and this extremity roused my application. We had several spare yards, and two or three large spars of wood, and a spare topmast or two in the ship. I resolved to fall to work with these, and so flung as many of them overboard as I could manage, tying each one with a rope, that they might not float away. When I had done this, I went down the ship’s side, and, pulling them to me, tied four of them together at both ends, as well as I could, in the form of a raft. By laying two or three short pieces of plank upon them, crossways, I found I could walk upon them very well, but that they were not able to bear any great weight, the pieces being too light. So I went to work, and with a carpenter’s saw cut a spare topmast into three lengths, and added these to my raft, with a great deal of labor and pains. But the hope of furnishing myself with necessaries encouraged me to go beyond what I should have been able to do upon another occasion.

My raft was now strong enough to bear any reasonable weight. My next care was what to load it with, and how to preserve what I laid upon it from the surf of the sea. However, I was not long considering this. I first laid all the plank, or boards, upon it that I could get, and, having considered well what I most needed, I first got three of the seamen’s chests, which I had broken open and emptied, and lowered them down upon my raft. The first of these I filled with provisions; namely, bread, rice, three cheeses, five pieces of dried goat’s flesh and a little remainder of grain which had been laid by for some fowls which we brought to sea with us, but which had been killed. There had been some barley and wheat together; but, to my great disappointment, I found afterwards that the rats had eaten or spoiled it all.

While I was doing this, I found that the tide had begun to flow, though it was very calm, and I had the mortification to see my coat, shirt, and waistcoat, which I had left on the shore, upon the sands, swim away. As for my trousers, which were only linen, and open-kneed, I had swam on board in them and my stockings. However, this set me on rummaging for clothes, of which I found enough, but took no more than I needed for present use, for I had other things which my eye was more upon; as, first, tools to work with on shore. And it was after long searching that I found out the carpenter’s chest, which was, indeed, a very useful prize to me, and much more valuable than a ship-load of gold would have been at that time. I got it down to my raft, whole as it was, without losing time to look into it, for I knew in general what it contained.

My next care was for some ammunition and arms. There were two very good fowling-pieces in the great cabin, and two pistols. These I secured first, with some powder-horns and a small bag of shot, and two old rusty swords. I knew there were three barrels of powder in the ship, but knew not where our gunner had stowed them; but with much search I found them. Two of them were dry and good, the third had taken water. These two I got to my raft, with the arms. And now, I thought myself pretty

well freighted, and began to think how I should get to shore with them, having neither sail, oar, nor rudder; and the least capful of wind would have overset all my navigation.

I had three encouragements: first, a smooth, calm sea; secondly, the fact that the tide was rising and setting in to the shore; thirdly, what little wind there was blew me towards the land. And thus, having found two or three broken oars belonging to the boat, and, besides the tools which were in the chest, two saws, an axe, and a hammer, with this cargo I put to sea. For a mile or thereabouts my raft went very well, only that I found it drive a little distant from the place where I had landed before. By this I perceived that there was some indraft of the water, and consequently hoped to find some creek or river there, which I might use as a port to get to land with my cargo.

At length I spied a little cove on the right shore of the creek, to which, with great pain and difficulty, I guided my raft, and at last got so near, that, reaching ground with my oar, I could thrust her directly in. But here I almost dropped all my cargo into the sea again; for the shore lay pretty steep and sloping, and, wherever I might land, one end of my float, if it ran on shore, would lie so high, and the other be sunk so low, that it would endanger my cargo again. All that I could do was to wait till the tide was at the highest, keeping the raft with my oar like an anchor, to hold the side of it fast to the shore, near a flat piece of ground, which I expected the water would flow over. And so it did. As soon as I found water enough, for my raft drew about a foot of water, I thrust her up on that flat piece of ground, and there moored her by sticking my two broken oars into the ground--one on one side, near one end, and one on the other side, near the other end. Thus I lay till the water ebbed away, and left my raft and all my cargo safe on shore.

I now began to consider that I might yet get a great many things out of the ship, which would be useful to me, and particularly some of the rigging and sails, and such other things as might come to land; and I resolved to make another voyage on board the vessel, if possible. I got on board the ship as before and prepared a second raft; and, having had experience of the first, I neither made this so unwieldy, nor loaded it so hard. Still, I brought away many things very useful to me; as, first, in the carpenter’s stores, I found two or three bags full of nails and spikes, a great screw-jack, a dozen or two of hatchets, and, above all, that most useful thing, a grindstone. All these I secured, together with several things belonging to the gunner, particularly two or three iron crowbars, and two barrels of musket bullets, seven muskets, and another fowling-piece, with a small quantity of powder, a large bagful of small shot, and a great roll of sheet-lead; but this last was so heavy I could not hoist it up to get it over the ship’s side. Besides these things, I took all the men’s clothes that I could find, and a spare foretop-sail, a hammock, and some bedding; and with these I loaded my second raft, and brought them all safe on shore, to my very great comfort.

On the thirteenth day I was preparing for my twelfth trip, when I found the sky overcast. The wind began to rise, and in a quarter of an hour it blew a gale from the shore. It blew very hard all that night, and in the morning, when I looked out, behold, no ship was to be seen! I was a little surprised, but recovered myself with this satisfactory reflection, that I had lost no time, nor omitted any diligence, to get everything out of her that could be useful to me; and, indeed, there was little left in her that I was able to bring away, even if I had had more time.--DANIEL DEFOE.

THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHAY

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay
That was built in such a logical way?
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then of a sudden it--ah, but stay,
I’ll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits--
Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
Georgius Secundus was then alive--
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock’s army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.
Now, in building of chaises, I’ll tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest spot--
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring, or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace--lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will--
Above or below, or within or without--
And that’s the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down but doesn’t wear out.

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn’t be split nor bent nor broke:
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash from the straightest trees;
The panels of white-wood that cuts like cheese
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the “Settler’s ellum,”
Last of its timber--they couldn’t sell ’em;
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin, too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he “put her through.”--
“There!” said the Deacon, “naow she’ll dew.”
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and Deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren--where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon Earthquake-day!

Eighteen hundred: it came and found
The Deacon’s masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten--
“Hahnsum kerridge” they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came--
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then come fifty and fifty-five.
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there’s nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it.--You’re welcome.--No extra charge.)

First of November--the Earthquake-day:
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay;
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There couldn’t be, for the Deacon’s art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn’t a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less nor more,
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub encore.
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!

First of November, ’Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
“Huddup!” said the parson.--Off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday text--
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the--Moses--was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still
Close by the meet’n’-house on the hill.
--First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,
And the parson was sitting upon a rock
At half-past nine by the meet’n’-house clock--
Just the hour of the Earthquake-shock!
--What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you’re not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once--
All at once, and nothing first--
Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That’s all I say.
--OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

* * * * *

Have more than thou showest,
Speak less than thou knowest,
Lend less than thou owest.
--Shakespeare.

WILLIAM TELL AND HIS SON

The sun already shone brightly as William Tell entered the town of Altorf, and he advanced at once to the public place, where the first object that caught his eyes was a handsome cap embroidered with gold stuck upon the end of a long pole. Soldiers were walking around it in silence, and the people of Altorf as they passed bowed their heads to the symbol of authority. The cap had been set up by Gessler, the Austrian commander, for the purpose of discovering those who were not submissive to the Austrian power, which had ruled the people of the Swiss Cantons for a long time with great severity. He suspected that the people were about to break into rebellion, and with a view to learn who were the most discontented, he had placed the ducal cap of Austria on this pole, publicly proclaiming that every one passing near, or within sight of it, should bow before it in proof of his homage to the duke.

Tell was much surprised at this new and strange attempt to humble the people, and leaning on his crossbow, gazed scornfully on them and the soldiers. The captain of the guard at length observed this man, who alone amidst the cringing crowd carried his head erect. He ordered him to be seized and disarmed by the soldiers and then conducted him to Gessler, who put some questions to him. These he answered so haughtily that Gessler was both surprised and angry. Suddenly he was struck by the likeness between him and the boy Walter Tell, whom he had seized and put in prison the previous day for uttering some seditious words. He immediately asked his name, which he no sooner heard than he knew him to be the archer so famous as the best marksman in the Canton.

Gessler at once resolved to punish both father and son at the same time, by a method which was perhaps the most refined act of torture that man ever imagined. As soon, then, as the youth was brought out, the governor turned to Tell and said: “I have often heard of your great skill as an archer and I now intend to put it to the proof. Your son shall be placed at a distance of a hundred yards with an apple on his head. If you strike the apple with your arrow, I shall pardon you both, but if you refuse this trial, your son shall die before your eyes.”

Tell implored Gessler to spare him so cruel a trial, in which he might perhaps kill his beloved boy with his own hand. The governor would not alter his purpose, so Tell at last agreed to shoot at the apple as the only chance of saving his son’s life. Walter stood with his back to a linden tree. Gessler, some distance behind, watched every motion. His crossbow and one arrow were handed to Tell; he tried the point, broke the weapon, and demanded his quiver. It was brought to him, and emptied at his feet. He stooped down and, taking a long time to choose an arrow, managed to hide a second in his girdle.

After being in doubt for some time, his whole soul beaming in his face, his love for his son rendering him almost powerless, he at length roused himself--drew the bow--aimed--shot--and the apple, struck to the core, was carried away by the arrow.

The market-place was filled with loud cheers. Walter flew to embrace his father, who, overcome by his emotions, fell fainting to the ground, thus exposing the second arrow to view. Gessler stood over him awaiting his recovery, which speedily taking place, Tell rose and turned away with horror from the governor, who, however, scarcely yet believing his senses, thus addressed him: “Incomparable archer, I shall keep my promise; but what needed you with that second arrow which I see in your girdle?” Tell replied that it was the custom of the bowmen of Uri to have always one arrow in reserve. “Nay, nay,” said Gessler, “tell me your real motive, and, whatever it may have been, speak frankly, and your life is spared.” “The second shaft,” replied Tell, “was to pierce your heart, tyrant, if I had chanced to harm my son.”

--CHAMBERS’ _Tracts_.

SAINT CHRISTOPHER

For many a year Saint Christopher
Served God in many a land;
And master painters drew his face,
With loving heart and hand,
On altar fronts and churches’ walls;
And peasants used to say,--
To look on good Saint Christopher
Brought luck for all the day.

For many a year, in lowly hut,
The giant dwelt content
Upon the bank, and back and forth
Across the stream he went;
And on his giant shoulders bore
All travellers who came,
By night, by day, or rich or poor,
All in King Jesus’ name.

But much he doubted if the King
His work would note or know,
And often with a weary heart
He waded to and fro.
One night, as wrapped in sleep he lay,
He sudden heard a call,--
“O Christopher, come, carry me!”
He sprang, looked out, but all

Was dark and silent on the shore.
“It must be that I dreamed,”
He said, and laid him down again;
But instantly there seemed
Again the feeble, distant cry,--
“Oh, come and carry me!”
Again he sprang and looked; again
No living thing could see.

The third time came the plaintive voice,
Like infant’s, soft and weak;

Titian]

With lantern strode the giant forth,
More carefully to seek.
Down on the bank a little child
He found,--a piteous sight,--
Who, weeping, earnestly implored
To cross that very night.

With gruff good-will he picked him up,
And on his neck to ride
He tossed him, as men play with babes,
And plunged into the tide.
But as the water closed around
His knees, the infant’s weight
Grew heavier and heavier,
Until it was so great

The giant scarce could stand upright,
His staff shook in his hand,
His mighty knees bent under him,
He barely reached the land.
And, staggering, set the infant down,
And turned to scan his face;
When, lo! he saw a halo bright
Which lit up all the place.

Then Christopher fell down, afraid
At marvel of the thing,
And dreamed not that it was the face
Of Jesus Christ, his King,
Until the infant spoke, and said:
“O Christopher, behold!
I am the Lord whom thou hast served.
Rise up, be glad and bold!

“For I have seen, and noted well,
Thy works of charity;
And that thou art my servant good
A token thou shalt see.
Plant firmly here upon this bank
Thy stalwart staff of pine,
And it shall blossom and bear fruit,
This very hour, in sign.”

Then, vanishing, the infant smiled.
The giant, left alone,
Saw on the bank, with luscious dates,
His stout pine staff bent down.

I think the lesson is as good
To-day as it was then--
As good to us called Christians
As to the heathen men,--
The lesson of Saint Christopher,
Who spent his strength for others,
And saved his soul by working hard
To help and save his brothers!
--HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

* * * * *

Who sows his corn in the fields trusts in God.

GENERAL BROCK

One voice, one people,--one in heart
And soul, and feeling, and desire!
Relight the smouldering martial fire,
Sound the mute trumpet, strike the lyre.
The hero-deed cannot expire;
The dead still play their part.

Raise high the monumental stone!
A nation’s fealty is theirs,
And we are the rejoicing heirs,
The honored sons of sires whose cares
We take upon us unawares,
As freely as our own.

We boast not of the victory,
But render homage, deep and just,
To his--to their--immortal dust,
Who proved so worthy of their trust,
No lofty pile nor sculptured bust
Can herald their degree.

No tongue can blazon forth their fame--
The cheers that stir the sacred hill
Are but mere promptings of the will
That conquered then, that conquers still;
And generations yet shall thrill
At Brock’s remembered name.
--CHARLES SANGSTER.

AN ICEBERG

At twelve o’clock we went below, and had just got through dinner, when the cook put his head down the scuttle and told us to come on deck and see the finest sight we had ever seen. “Where away, Doctor?” asked the first man who was up. “On the larboard bow.” And there lay, floating in the ocean, several miles off, an immense, irregular mass, its top and points covered with snow, and its centre of a deep indigo color. This was an iceberg, and of the largest size, as one of our men said who had been in the Northern Ocean. As far as the eye could reach, the sea in every direction was of a deep blue color, the waves running high and fresh, and sparkling in the light, and in the midst lay this immense mountain-island, its cavities and valleys thrown into deep shade, and its points and pinnacles glittering in the sun.

All hands were soon on deck, looking at it, and admiring in various ways its beauty and grandeur. But no description can give any idea of the strangeness, splendor, and, really, the sublimity of the sight. Its great size,--for it must have been from two to three miles in circumference and several hundred feet in height,--its slow motion, as its base rose and sank in the water and its high points nodded against the clouds; the dashing of the waves upon it, which, breaking high with foam, lined its base with a white crust; and the thundering sound of the crackling of the mass, and the breaking and tumbling down of huge pieces, together with its nearness and approach, which added a slight element of fear,--all combined to give it the character of true sublimity.

The main body of the mass was, as I have said, of an indigo color, its base incrusted with frozen foam; and as it grew thin and transparent towards the edges and top, its color shaded off from a deep blue to the whiteness of snow. It seemed to be drifting slowly towards the north, so that we kept away and avoided it.

It was in sight all the afternoon; and when we got to leeward of it the wind died away, so that we lay to, quite near it for the greater part of the night. Unfortunately, there was no moon, but it was a clear night, and we could plainly mark the long, regular heaving of the stupendous mass, as its edges moved slowly against the stars, now revealing them, and now shutting them in. Several times in our watch loud cracks were heard, and several pieces fell down, plunging heavily into the sea. Towards morning a strong breeze sprang up, and we sailed away, and left it astern. At daylight it was out of sight.

--RICHARD HENRY DANA.

* * * * *

To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw a perfume on the violet,
To smooth the ice, or add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,
Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess.--SHAKESPEARE.

A LEGEND OF BREGENZ

Girt round with rugged mountains
The fair Lake Constance lies;
In her blue heart reflected,
Shine back the starry skies;
And, watching each white cloudlet
Float silently and slow,
You think a piece of Heaven
Lies on our earth below!

Midnight is there: and Silence,
Enthroned in Heaven, looks down
Upon her own calm mirror,
Upon a sleeping town:
For Bregenz, that quaint city
Upon the Tyrol shore,
Has stood above Lake Constance
A thousand years and more.

Her battlements and towers,
From off their rocky steep,
Have cast their trembling shadow
For ages on the deep.
Mountain and lake and valley
A sacred legend know,
Of how the town was saved one night
Three hundred years ago.

Far from her home and kindred
A Tyrol maid had fled,
To serve in the Swiss valleys,
And toil for daily bread;
And every year that fleeted
So silently and fast
Seemed to bear farther from her
The memory of the Past.

She spoke no more of Bregenz
With longing and with tears;
Her Tyrol home seemed faded
In a deep mist of years;
Yet, when her master’s children
Would clustering round her stand,
She sang them ancient ballads
Of her own native land;

And when at morn and evening
She knelt before God’s throne,
The accents of her childhood
Rose to her lips alone.
And so she dwelt: the valley
More peaceful year by year;
When suddenly strange portents
Of some great deed seemed near.

One day, out in the meadow,
With strangers from the town
Some secret plan discussing,
The men walked up and down.
At eve they all assembled;
Then care and doubt were fled;
With jovial laugh they feasted;
The board was nobly spread.

The elder of the village
Rose up, his glass in hand,
And cried, “We drink the downfall
Of an accursed land!
The night is growing darker;
Ere one more day is flown,
Bregenz, our foeman’s stronghold,
Bregenz shall be our own!”

The women shrank in terror,
Yet Pride, too, had her part;
But one poor Tyrol maiden
Felt death within her heart.
Nothing she heard around her,
Though shouts rang forth again;
Gone were the green Swiss valleys,
The pasture and the plain;

Before her eyes one vision,
And in her heart one cry
That said, “Go forth! save Bregenz,
And then, if need be, die!”
With trembling haste and breathless,
With noiseless step she sped;
Horses and weary cattle
Were standing in the shed;

She loosed the strong white charger
That fed from out her hand;
She mounted, and she turned his head
Towards her native land.
Out--out into the darkness--
Faster, and still more fast;--
The smooth grass flies behind her,
The chestnut wood is past;

She looks up; clouds are heavy;
Why is her steed so slow?--
Scarcely the wind beside them
Can pass them as they go.
“Faster!” she cries, “oh, faster!”
Eleven the church bells chime;
“O God,” she cries, “help Bregenz,
And bring me there in time!”

But louder than bells’ ringing,
Or lowing of the kine,
Grows nearer in the midnight
The rushing of the Rhine.
She strives to pierce the blackness,
And looser throws the rein;
Her steed must breast the waters
That dash above his mane.

How gallantly, how nobly,
He struggles through the foam!
And see--in the far distance
Shine out the lights of home!
Up the steep bank he bears her,
And now they rush again
Towards the heights of Bregenz
That tower above the plain.

They reach the gates of Bregenz
Just as the midnight rings,
And out come serf and soldier
To meet the news she brings.
Bregenz is saved! Ere daylight
Her battlements are manned;
Defiance greets the army
That marches on the land.

Three hundred years are vanished,
And yet upon the hill
An old stone gateway rises
To do her honor still.
And there, when Bregenz women
Sit spinning in the shade,
They see in quaint old carving
The Charger and the Maid.

And when, to guard old Bregenz
By gateway, street, and tower,
The warder paces all night long
And calls each passing hour;
“Nine,” “ten,” “eleven,” he cries aloud,
And then (Oh, crown of Fame!),
When midnight pauses in the skies,
He calls the maiden’s name!
--ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

GLUCK’S VISITOR

In a secluded and mountainous part of Styria there was, in old time, a valley of the most surprising fertility. It was surrounded on all sides by steep and rocky mountains, rising into peaks, which were always covered with snow, and from which a number of torrents descended in constant cataracts. One of these fell westwards over the face of a crag so high that when the sun had set to everything else, and all below was darkness, his beams still shone full upon this waterfall, so that it looked like a shower of gold. It was, therefore, called by the people of the neighborhood the Golden River. It was strange that none of these streams fell into the valley itself. They all descended on the other side of the mountains, and wound away through broad plains and by populous cities. But the clouds were drawn so constantly to the snowy hills that in time of drought and heat, when all the country round was burnt up, there was still rain in the little valley; and its crops were so heavy, and its hay so high, and its apples so red, and its grapes so blue, and its wine so rich, and its honey so sweet, that it was a marvel to every one who beheld it, and was commonly called the Treasure Valley.

The whole of this little valley belonged to three brothers called Schwartz, Hans, and Gluck. Schwartz and Hans, the two elder brothers, were very ugly men, with overhanging eyebrows and small dull eyes, which were always half shut, so that you couldn’t see into _them_, and always fancied that they saw very far into _you_. They lived by farming the Treasure Valley, and very good farmers they were.

They killed everything that did not pay for its eating. They shot the blackbirds because they pecked the fruit, they poisoned the crickets for eating the crumbs in the kitchen, and smothered the locusts, which used to sing all summer in the lime trees. They worked their servants without any wages till they would not work any more, and then quarrelled with them, and turned them out of doors without paying them. It would have been very odd, if, with such a farm and such a system of farming, they hadn’t got very rich; and very rich they _did_ get. They generally contrived to hold their own grain until it was very dear, and then sell it for twice its value; they had heaps of gold lying about on their floors, yet it was never known that they had given so much as a penny or a crust in charity. They were, in a word, of so cruel and grinding a temper as to receive from all those with whom they had any dealings the nickname of the “Black Brothers.”

The youngest brother, Gluck, was as completely opposed, in both appearance and character, to his seniors as could possibly be imagined or desired. He was not above twelve years old, fair, blue-eyed, and kind in temper to every living thing. He did not, of course, agree particularly well with his brothers; or, rather, they did not agree with _him_. He was usually appointed to the honorable office of turnspit,--when there was anything to roast, which was not often; for, to do the brothers justice, they were hardly less sparing upon themselves than upon other people. At other times he used to clean the shoes, floors, and sometimes the plates,--occasionally getting what was left upon them by way of encouragement, and a wholesome quantity of dry blows by way of education.

Things went on in this manner for a long time. At last came a very wet summer, and everything went wrong in the country around. The hay had hardly been got in when the haystacks were floated bodily down to the sea by a flood; the vines were cut to pieces by the hail; the grain was all killed by a black blight; only in the Treasure Valley, as usual, all was safe. As it had rain when there was rain nowhere else, so it had sun when there was sun nowhere else. Everybody came to buy grain at the farm, and went away pouring curses on the “Black Brothers.” They asked what they liked and got it, except from the poor people, who could only beg, and several of whom were starved at their very door without the slightest regard or notice.

It was drawing towards winter, and very cold weather, when one day the two elder brothers had gone out, with their usual warning to little Gluck, who was left to mind the roast, that he was to let nobody in and give nothing out. Gluck sat down quite close to the fire, for it was raining very hard, and the kitchen walls were by no means dry or comfortable-looking. He turned and turned, and the roast got nice and brown. “What a pity,” thought Gluck, “my brothers never ask anybody to dinner! I’m sure when they have such a nice piece of mutton as this, and nobody else has so much as a dry piece of bread, it would do their hearts good to have somebody to eat it with them.”

Just as he spoke there came a double knock at the house door, yet heavy and dull, as though the knocker had been tied up,--more like a puff than a knock.

“It must be the wind,” said Gluck; “nobody else would venture to knock double knocks at our door.”

No, it wasn’t the wind; there it came again very hard, and what was particularly surprising, the knocker seemed to be in a hurry, and not to be in the least afraid of the consequences. Gluck went to the window, opened it, and put his head out to see who it was.

It was the most extraordinary-looking gentleman he had ever seen in his life. He had a very large nose, slightly brass-colored; his cheeks were very round and very red; his eyes twinkled merrily through long silky eyelashes; his mustaches curled twice round like a corkscrew on each side of his mouth, and his hair, of a curious mixed pepper-and-salt color, descended far over his shoulders. He was about four feet six in height, and wore a conical, pointed cap of nearly the same altitude, decorated with a black feather some three feet high. His coat was prolonged behind, but was almost hidden by the swelling folds of an enormous black, glossy-looking cloak, which must have been very much too long in calm weather, as the wind, whistling round the old house, carried it clear out from the wearer’s shoulders to about four times his own length.

Gluck was so frightened by the singular appearance of his visitor that he remained fixed without uttering a word, until the old gentleman, having performed another, and a more energetic tune on the knocker, turned round to look after his fly-away cloak. In so doing, he caught sight of Gluck’s little yellow head jammed in the window, with its mouth and eyes very wide open indeed.

“Hello!” said the little gentleman, “that’s not the way to answer the door: I’m wet, let me in.”

To do the little gentleman justice he _was_ wet. His feather hung down between his legs like a beaten puppy’s tail, dripping like an umbrella; and from the ends of his mustaches the water was running into his waistcoat pockets and out again like a mill stream.

“I beg pardon, sir!” said Gluck. “I’m very sorry, but I really can’t.”

“Can’t what?” said the old gentleman.

“I can’t let you in, sir,--I can’t indeed; my brothers would beat me to death, sir. What do you want, sir?”

“Want?” said the old gentleman, crossly. “I want fire and shelter; and there’s your great fire there blazing, crackling, and dancing on the walls, with nobody to feel it. Let me in, I say; I want only to warm myself.”

Gluck had had his head, by this time, so long out of the window, that he began to feel that it was really unpleasantly cold, and when he turned and saw the beautiful fire rustling and roaring and throwing long bright tongues by the chimney, his heart melted within him that it should be burning away for nothing. “He does look _very_ wet,” said little Gluck; “I’ll just let him in for a quarter of an hour.” Round he went to the door and opened it; and as the little gentleman walked in, there came a gust of wind through the house that made the old chimneys totter.

“That’s a good boy,” said the little gentleman. “Never mind your brothers. I’ll talk to them.”

“Pray, sir, don’t do any such thing,” said Gluck. “I can’t let you stay till they come; they’d be the death of me.”

“Dear me,” said the old gentleman, “I’m very sorry to hear that. How long may I stay?”

“Only till the mutton’s done, sir,” replied Gluck, “and it’s very brown.”

The old gentleman walked into the kitchen, and sat himself down on the hob, with the top of his cap accommodated up the chimney, for it was a great deal too high for the roof.

“You’ll soon dry there, sir,” said Gluck, and sat down again to turn the mutton. But the old gentleman did _not_ dry there, but went on drip, drip, dripping among the cinders, and the fire fizzed, and sputtered, and began to look very black and uncomfortable; never was such a cloak; every fold in it ran like a gutter.

“I beg pardon, sir,” said Gluck, at length, after watching the water spreading in long quicksilver-like streams over the floor for a quarter of an hour; “mayn’t I take your cloak?”

“No, thank you,” said the old gentleman.

“Your cap, sir?”

“I am all right, thank you,” said the old gentleman, rather gruffly.

“But--sir--I’m very sorry,” said Gluck, hesitatingly, “but--really, sir--you’re--putting the fire out.”

“It’ll take longer to do the mutton, then,” replied his visitor, dryly.

Gluck was very much puzzled by the behavior of his guest, it was such a strange mixture of coolness and humility. He turned away at the string thoughtfully for another five minutes.

“That mutton looks very nice,” said the old gentleman. “Can’t you give me a little bit?”

“Impossible, sir,” said Gluck.

“I’m very hungry,” continued the old gentleman. “I’ve had nothing to eat yesterday nor to-day. They surely couldn’t miss a bit from the knuckle!”

He spoke in so very melancholy a tone that it quite melted Gluck’s heart. “They promised me one slice to-day, sir,” said he; “I can give you that, but not a bit more.”

“That’s a good boy,” said the old gentleman, again.

Then Gluck warmed a plate and sharpened a knife. “I don’t care if I do get beaten for it,” thought he. Just as he had cut a large slice out of the mutton there came a tremendous rap at the door. The old gentleman jumped off the hob, as if it had suddenly become inconveniently warm. Gluck fitted the slice into the mutton again, and ran to open the door.

“What did you keep us waiting in the rain for?” said Schwartz, as he walked in, throwing his umbrella in Gluck’s face. “Ay! what for indeed, you little vagabond?” said Hans, administering a blow on the ear as he followed his brother into the kitchen.

“Bless my soul!” said Schwartz, when he opened the door.

“Amen!” said the little gentleman, who had taken his cap off, and was standing in the middle of the kitchen, bowing with the utmost possible swiftness.

“Who’s that?” said Schwartz, catching up a rolling-pin, and turning to Gluck with a fierce frown.

“I don’t know, indeed, brother,” said Gluck, in great terror.