Chapter XII: Stave FIVE: The End of It (1)

Yes! and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make amends in!

"I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!" Scrooge repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. "The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. Oh Jacob Marley! Heaven and the Christmas Time be praised for this! I say it on my knees, old Jacob, on my knees!"

He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions, that his broken voice would scarcely answer to his call. He had been sobbing violently in his conflict with the Spirit, and his face was wet with tears.

"They are not torn down," cried Scrooge, folding one of his bed-curtains in his arms, "they are not torn down, rings and all. They are here: I am here: the shadows of the things that would have been, may be dispelled. They will be. I know they will!"

His hands were busy with his garments all this time: turning them inside out, putting them on upside down, tearing them, mislaying them, making them parties to every kind of extravagance.

"I don't know what to do!" cried Scrooge, laughing and crying in the same breath; and making a perfect Laocoön[346-18] of himself with his stockings. "I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy. I am as giddy as a drunken man. A Merry Christmas to everybody! A Happy New Year to all the world. Hallo here! Whoop! Hallo!"

He had frisked into the sitting-room, and was now standing there: perfectly winded.

"There's the saucepan that the gruel was in!" cried Scrooge, starting off again, and frisking round the fireplace. "There's the door, by which the Ghost of Jacob Marley entered! There's the corner where the Ghost of Christmas Present sat! There's the window where I saw the wandering Spirits! It's all right, it's all true, it all happened. Ha, ha, ha!"

Really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years, it was a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh. The father of a long, long line of brilliant laughs!

"I don't know what day of the month it is!" said Scrooge. "I don't know how long I've been among the Spirits. I don't know anything. I'm quite a baby. Never mind. I don't care. I'd rather be a baby. Hallo! Whoop! Hallo here!"

He was checked in his transports by the churches ringing out the lustiest peals he had ever heard. Clash, clang, hammer, ding, dong, bell. Bell, dong, ding, hammer, clang, clash! Oh, glorious, glorious!

Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head. No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; golden sunlight; heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells. Oh, glorious! Glorious!

"What's to-day?" cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in Sunday clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him.

"EH?" returned the boy, with all his might of wonder.

"What's to-day, my fine fellow?" said Scrooge.

"To-day!" replied the boy. "Why, CHRISTMAS DAY."

"It's Christmas Day!" said Scrooge to himself. "I haven't missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can. Hallo, my fine fellow!" "Hallo!" returned the boy.

"Do you know the poulterer's, in the next street but one, at the corner?" Scrooge inquired.

"I should hope I did," replied the lad.

"An intelligent boy!" said Scrooge. "A remarkable boy! Do you know whether they've sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there? Not the little prize turkey: the big one?"

"What, the one as big as me?" returned the boy.

"What a delightful boy!" said Scrooge. "It's a pleasure to talk to him. Yes, my buck!"

"It's hanging there now," replied the boy.

"Is it?" said Scrooge. "Go and buy it."

"Walk-ER!"[349-19] exclaimed the boy.

"No, no," said Scrooge, "I am in earnest. Go and buy it, and tell 'em to bring it here, that I may give them the direction where to take it. Come back with the man, and I'll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less than five minutes, and I'll give you half-a-crown!"

The boy was off like a shot. He must have had a steady hand at a trigger who could have got a shot off half so fast.

"I'll send it to Bob Cratchit's!" whispered Scrooge, rubbing his hands, and splitting with a laugh. "He shan't know who sends it. It's twice the size of Tiny Tim. Joe Miller[349-20] never made such a joke as sending it to Bob's will be!"

The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady one, but write it he did, somehow, and went downstairs to open the street door, ready for the coming of the poulterer's man. As he stood there, waiting his arrival, the knocker caught his eye.

"I shall love it, as long as I live!" cried Scrooge, patting it with his hand. "I scarcely ever looked at it before. What an honest expression it has in its face! It's a wonderful knocker!--Here's the turkey. Hallo! Whoop! How are you! Merry Christmas!"

It _was_ a turkey! He could never have stood upon his legs, that bird. He would have snapped 'em short off in a minute, like sticks of sealing-wax.

"Why, it's impossible to carry that to Camden Town," said Scrooge. "You must have a cab."

The chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle with which he paid for the turkey, and the chuckle with which he paid for the cab, and the chuckle with which he recompensed the boy, were only to be exceeded by the chuckle with which he sat down breathless in his chair again, and chuckled till he cried.

Shaving was not an easy task, for his hand continued to shake very much; and shaving requires attention, even when you don't dance while you are at it. But if he had cut the end of his nose off, he would have put a piece of sticking-plaster over it, and been quite satisfied.

He dressed himself "all in his best," and at last got out into the streets. The people were by this time pouring forth, as he had seen them with the Ghost of Christmas Present; and walking with his hands behind him, Scrooge regarded every one with a delighted smile. He looked so irresistibly pleasant, in a word, that three or four good-humoured fellows said, "Good morning, Sir! A Merry Christmas to you!" And Scrooge said often afterwards, that of all the blithe sounds he had ever heard, those were the blithest in his ears.

He had not gone far, when coming on towards him he beheld the portly gentleman, who had walked into his counting-house the day before and said, "Scrooge and Marley's, I believe?" It sent a pang across his heart to think how this old gentleman would look upon him when they met; but he knew what path lay straight before him, and he took it.

"My dear Sir," said Scrooge, quickening his pace, and taking the old gentleman by both his hands. "How do you do? I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you. A Merry Christmas to you, Sir!"

"Mr. Scrooge?"

"Yes," said Scrooge. "That is my name, and I fear it may not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon. And will you have the goodness"--here Scrooge whispered in his ear.

"Lord bless me," cried the gentleman, as if his breath were gone. "My dear Mr. Scrooge, are you serious?"

"If you please," said Scrooge. "Not a farthing less. A great many back-payments are included in it, I assure you. Will you do me that favour?"

"My dear Sir," said the other, shaking hands with him. "I don't know what to say to such munifi----"

"Don't say anything, please," retorted Scrooge. "Come and see me. Will you come and see me?"

"I will!" cried the old gentleman. And it was clear he meant to do it.

"Thank'ee," said Scrooge. "I am much obliged to you. I thank you fifty times. Bless you!"

He went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched the people hurrying to and fro, and patted children on the head, and questioned beggars, and looked down into the kitchens of houses, and up to the windows; and found that everything could yield him pleasure. He had never dreamed that any walk--that anything--could give him so much happiness. In the afternoon, he turned his steps towards his nephew's house. He passed the door a dozen times, before he had the courage to go up and knock. But he made a dash, and did it.

"Is your master at home, my dear?" said Scrooge to the girl. Nice girl! Very.

"Yes, Sir."

"Where is he, my love?" said Scrooge.

"He's in the dining-room, Sir, along with mistress. I'll show you upstairs, if you please."

"Thank'ee. He knows me," said Scrooge, with his hand already on the dining-room lock. "I'll go in here, my dear."

He turned it gently, and sidled his face in, round the door. They were looking at the table (which was spread out in great array); for these young housekeepers are always nervous on such points, and like to see that everything is right.

"Fred!" said Scrooge.

Dear heart alive, how his niece by marriage started! Scrooge had forgotten, for the moment, about her sitting in the corner with the footstool, or he wouldn't have done it, on any account.

"Why bless my soul!" cried Fred, "who's that?"

"It's I. Your uncle Scrooge. I have come to dinner. Will you let me in, Fred?"

Let him in! It is a mercy he didn't shake his arm off. He was at home in five minutes. Nothing could be heartier. His niece looked just the same. So did Topper when _he_ came. So did the plump sister, when _she_ came. So did every one when _they_ came. Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, won-der-ful happiness!

But he was early at the office next morning. Oh he was early there. If he could only be there first, and catch Bob Cratchit coming late! That was the thing he had set his heart upon.

And he did it; yes he did! The clock struck nine. No Bob. A quarter past. No Bob. He was full eighteen minutes and a half behind his time. Scrooge sat with his door wide open, that he might see him come into the Tank. His hat was off, before he opened the door; his comforter too. He was on his stool in a jiffy; driving away with his pen, as if he were trying to overtake nine o'clock.

"Hallo!" growled Scrooge in his accustomed voice as near as he could feign it. "What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?"

"I am very sorry, Sir," said Bob. "I _am_ behind my time."

"You are?" repeated Scrooge. "Yes. I think you are. Step this way, Sir, if you please."

"It's only once a year, Sir," pleaded Bob, appearing from the Tank. "It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday, Sir."

"Now, I'll tell you what, my friend," said Scrooge. "I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore," he continued, leaping from his stool, and giving Bob such a dig in the waistcoat that he staggered back into the Tank again: "and therefore I am about to raise your salary!"

Bob trembled, and got a little nearer to the ruler. He had a momentary idea of knocking Scrooge down with it; holding him; and calling to the people in the court for help and a strait-waist-coat.

"A Merry Christmas, Bob!" said Scrooge, with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. "A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a year! I'll raise your salary, and endeavor to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop, Bob! Make up the fires, and buy another coal-scuttle before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit!"

* * * * *

Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did NOT die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him.

He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the Total Abstinence Principle, ever afterwards; and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God Bless Us, Every One!

FOOTNOTES:

[247-1] The fogs of London are famous. A genuine London fog seems not like the heavy gray mist which we know as a fog, but, as Dickens says, like "palpable brown air." So dense is this brown air at times that all traffic is obliged to cease, for not even those best acquainted with the geography of the city can find their way about.

[251-2] _Bedlam_ is the name of a famous asylum for lunatics, in London. In former times the treatment of the inmates was far from humane, but at the present time the management is excellent, and a large proportion of the inmates are cured.

[252-3] Workhouses are establishments where paupers are cared for, a certain amount of labor being expected from those who are able.

[252-4] In England formerly there existed a device for the punishment of prisoners which was known as the _treadmill_. A huge wheel, usually in the form of a long hollow cylinder, was provided with steps about its circumference, and made to revolve by the weight of the prisoner as he moved from step to step.

[253-5] Links are torches made of tow and pitch. In the days before the invention of street lights, they were in common use in England, and they are still seen during the dense London fogs.

[254-6] Saint Dunstan was an English archbishop and statesman who lived in the tenth century.

[254-7] This is one of the best-known and oftenest-sung of Christmas carols. In many parts of England, parties of men and boys go about for several nights before Christmas singing carols before people's houses. These troops of singers are known as "waits."

[258-8] The splinter-bar is the cross-bar of a vehicle, to which the traces of the horses are fastened.

[261-9] There is a play on the word _bowels_ here. What Scrooge had heard said of Marley was that he had no bowels of compassion--that is, no pity.

[277-10] Scrooge sees and recognizes the heroes of the books which had been almost his only comforters in his neglected childhood.

[284-11] "Sir Roger de Coverley" is the English name for the old-fashioned country-dance which is called in the United States the "Virginia Reel."

[300-12] Biffins are an excellent variety of apples raised in England.

[301-13] _Baker's_ here does not mean exactly what it means with us. In England the poorer people often take their dinners to a baker's to be cooked.

[303-14] A _bob_, in English slang, is a shilling.

[311-15] _Five-and-sixpence_ means five shillings and sixpence, or about $1.32.

[319-16] In what sense has Scrooge "resorted to the sexton's spade that buried Jacob Marley" to cultivate the kindnesses of life?

[320-17] "I love my love" is an old game of which there are several slightly different forms. The player says "I love my love with an _A_ because he's--," giving some adjective beginning with _A_; "I hate him with an _A_ because he's--; I took him to--and fed him on--," all the blanks being filled with words beginning with _A_. This is carried out through the whole alphabet.

[346-18] The Laocoön is a famous ancient statue of a Trojan priest, Laocoön, and his two sons, struggling in the grip of two monstrous serpents. You have doubtless seen pictures of the group. Dickens's figure gives us a humorously exaggerated picture of Scrooge and his stockings.

[349-19] This is a slang expression, used to express incredulity. It has somewhat the same meaning as the slang phrase heard in the United States--"Over the left."

[349-20] Joe Miller was an English comedian who lived from 1684 to 1738. The year after his death there appeared a little book called _Joe Miller's Jests_. These stories and jokes, however, were not written by Miller.

CHRISTMAS IN OLD TIME

_By_ Sir Walter Scott

Heap on more wood![356-1]--the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We'll keep our Christmas merry still.
Each age has deem'd the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer:[356-2]
And well our Christian sires of old
Loved when the year its course had roll'd,
And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all his hospitable train.[356-3]
Domestic and religious rite[356-4]
Gave honor to the holy night;
On Christmas Eve the bells were rung;[356-5]
On Christmas Eve the mass[356-6] was sung:
That only night in all the year,
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.[356-7]
The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen;[356-8]

The hall was dress'd with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go,
To gather in the mistletoe.[357-9]
Then open'd wide the baron's hall
To vassal,[357-10] tenant,[357-11] serf,[357-12] and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,[357-13]
And ceremony doff'd his pride.[357-14]
The heir, with roses in his shoes,[357-15]
That night might village partner choose;[357-16]
The lord, underogating,[357-17] share
The vulgar game of "post and pair."[357-18]
All hail'd, with uncontroll'd delight
And general voice, the happy night,
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of Salvation down.[357-19]

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall-table's oaken face,
Scrubb'd till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.[358-20]
Then was brought in the lusty brawn,[358-21]
By old blue-coated serving-man;
Then the grim boar's head frown'd on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.[358-22]
Well can the green-garb'd ranger[358-23] tell,
How, when, and where, the monster fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.[358-24]
The wassail[358-25] round, in good brown bowls,
Garnish'd with ribbons, blithely trowls.[358-26]

There the huge sirloin reek'd; hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;[358-27]
Nor fail'd old Scotland to produce,
At such high tide, her savory goose.
Then came the merry maskers in,
And carols roar'd with blithesome din:
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;[359-28]
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made;--[359-29]
But, O! what maskers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms, half so light![359-30]
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale;
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man's heart through half the year.

FOOTNOTES:

[356-1] Is there a stove or a fireplace in the room where the poet sees Christmas kept?

[356-2] What is cheer? What is festal cheer?

[356-3] What is a "train"? How could it be called a hospitable train? Whose train was it?

[356-4] What is a rite?

[356-5] What bells were rung?

[356-6] What is a mass?

[356-7] What is a _stoled_ priest? What is a chalice? What did the priest do when he reared the chalice?

[356-8] The kirtle was a dress-skirt or outer petticoat. _Sheen_ means _gay_ or _bright_.

[357-9] What is mistletoe? Is there anything peculiar in its habits of growth? What did they want of it? What custom is still said to follow the use of mistletoe at Christmastime?

[357-10] A vassal was one of the followers of the baron and paid for protection or for lands he held by fighting in the baron's troops or rendering some other service.

[357-11] A tenant held lands or houses, for which he paid some form of rent.

[357-12] A serf was a slave.

[357-13] At Christmastime even the powerful were willing to cease from ruling and join with the common people.

[357-14] Instead of grand ceremonies, everybody joined in simple amusements, without pride or prejudice.

[357-15] Who was the heir? What was he heir to? Why did he have roses in his shoes?

[357-16] Was he permitted to dance with village maidens at any other time?

[357-17] Without losing any of his dignity.

[357-18] An old-fashioned game of cards.

[357-19] Who brought the tidings of Salvation? To whom was it brought? Who was "the crown"?

[358-20] A lord was one who had power and authority, while a squire was merely an attendant upon a lord.

[358-21] Brawn, in England, is a preparation of meat, generally sheep's head, pig's head, hock of beef, or boar's meat, boiled and seasoned, and run into jelly moulds.

[358-22] What are bays? What is rosemary? Why should the boar's head be called _crested_? Where was it? Why was it there? Why does the poet say it _frowned_ on high?

[358-23] Who was a ranger? What did he do? Do you see any reason for his being green-garbed?

[358-24] What is meant by _baiting_? Who tore the dogs? Why did he tear them? What made the monster fall?

[358-25] Wassail (_wossil_): the liquor in which they drank their toasts, and which signified the good cheer of Christmastime.

[358-26] Moves about; that is, the liquor in good brown bowls was merrily passed along the table from hand to hand.

[358-27] What was near the sirloin? How many kinds of meat were there on the table? Is anything mentioned besides meat? Do you suppose they had other things to eat? Did they have bread and vegetables?

[359-28] In the _mumming_ or acting of these maskers could be seen traces of the ancient mystic plays in which religious lessons were given in plays that were acted with the approval of the church.

[359-29] Did the maskers have rich costumes? What did they wear over their faces? How did they conceal their clothing?

[359-30] Does the poet think that rich maskers would enjoy their pleasure as much as the old-fashioned Christmas merrymakers?

ELEGY

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

_By_ THOMAS GRAY

NOTE.--A mournful song written to express grief at the loss of some
friend or relative, and at the same time to praise the dead person,
is known as an elegy. Sometimes the word has a wider meaning, and
includes a poem which expresses the same ideas but applies them to
a class of people rather than to an individual. Such a poem is not
so personal, and for that very reason it will be appreciated by a
larger number of readers. Gray's _Elegy_ is of the latter class--is
perhaps the one great poem of that class; for in all probability
more people have loved it and found in its gentle sadness, its
exquisite phraseology and its musical lines more genuine charm than
in any similar poem in the language.

To one who already loves it, any comments on the poem may at first
thought seem like desecration, but, on the other hand, there is so
much more in the _Elegy_ than appears at first glance that it is
worth while to read it in the light of another's eyes. Not a few
persons find some enjoyment in reading, but fall far short of the
highest pleasure because of their failure really to comprehend the
meaning of certain words and forms of expression. For that reason,
notes are appended where they may be needed. A good reader is never
troubled by notes at the bottom of the page. If they are of no
interest or benefit to him, he knows it with a glance and passes on
with his reading. If the note is helpful, he gathers the
information and returns to his reading, beginning not at the word
from which the reference was made, but at the beginning of the
sentence or stanza; then he loses nothing by going to the footnote.

The curfew[361-1] tolls the knell[361-2] of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;[361-3]

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower[362-4]
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.[362-5]

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mold'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
The rude[362-6] forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion,[362-7] or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.[362-8]

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;[362-9]
No children run to lisp their sire's return,[363-10]
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe[363-11] has broke;
How jocund[363-12] did they drive their team a-field!
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition[363-13] mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await[363-14] alike th' inevitable hour:
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.[363-15]

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aisle[364-16] and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust[364-17]
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke[364-18] the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;[364-19]
Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.[364-20]

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;[364-21]
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest--
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.[365-22]

Th' applause[365-23] of listening senates to command
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,[365-24]
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.[366-25]

Far from the madding[366-26] crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool, sequestered vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial[366-27] still erected nigh,
With uncouth[366-28] rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply;
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.[366-29]

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?[367-30]

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee,[367-31] who, mindful of th' unhonored dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

"One morn I missed him from the customed hill,
Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree.
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.

"The next, with dirges due,[368-32] in sad array,
Slow through the church way path we saw him borne.--
Approach and read, for thou canst read, the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."[368-33]

THE EPITAPH

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth,
A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown:
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Misery, all he had, a tear,
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The bosom of his Father and his God.

Thomas Gray was born in London on the twenty-sixth of December,
1716, and received his education at Cambridge, where he lived most
of his quiet life and where he died in 1771. He was a small and
graceful man with handsome features and rather an effeminate
appearance, always dressed with extreme care. The greater part of
his life was spent in neatly furnished rooms among his books, for
he was a hard student, and became noted as one of the first
scholars of his time. Among his friends he was witty and
entertaining, but among strangers, quiet and reserved, almost
timid. He loved his mother devotedly, and after her death he kept
her dress neatly folded in his trunk, always by him. Innocent,
well-meaning, gentle and retiring, he drew many warm friends to
him, though his great learning and his fondness for giving
information made many people think him something of a prig.

It might be considered a weakness in the _Elegy_ that it drifts
into an elegy on the writer, who becomes lost in the pathos of his
own sad end. Yet, knowing the man as we do, we can understand his
motives and forgive the seeming selfishness. He is not the only
poet whose own sorrows, real or imaginary, were his greatest
inspiration.

The metre of the _Elegy_ had been used, before Gray's time, by Sir
John Davies for his _Immortality of the Soul_, Sir William Davenant
in his _Gondibert_, and Dryden in his _Annus Mirabilis_, and
others; but in no instance so happily as here by Gray. In the
_Elegy_ the quatrain has not the somewhat disjunctive and isolating
effect that it has in some other works where there is continuous
argument or narrative that should run on with as few metrical
hindrances as possible. It is well adapted to convey a series of
solemn reflections, and that is its work in the _Elegy_.

FOOTNOTES:

[361-1] In some of our American towns and cities a curfew bell is rung as a signal that the children must leave the streets and go to their homes. Many years ago it was the custom in English villages to ring a bell at nightfall as a signal for people to cover their fires with ashes to preserve till morning, and as a signal for bed. The word _curfew_, in fact, is from the French, and means _cover fire_.

[361-2] The word _knell_ suggests death, and gives the first mournful note to the poem.

[361-3] The sheep are shut up for the night in the _folds_ or pens. What are the _tinklings_? Why should they be called _drowsy_?

[362-4] The poem is supposed to have been written in the yard of Stoke-Pogis church, a little building with a square tower, the whole covered with a riotous growth of ivy vines. The church is in the country, not many miles from Windsor Castle; and even to this day the beautiful landscape preserves the rural charms it had in Gray's time. We must not suppose that Gray actually sat in the churchyard and wrote his lines. As a matter of fact, he was a very careful and painstaking writer, and for eight years was at work on this poem, selecting each word so that it should express just the shade of meaning he wanted and give the perfect melody he sought. However, he did begin the poem at Stoke in October or November of 1742 and continued it there in November, 1749; but it was finished in Cambridge in June, 1750.

[362-5] _Reign_ here means _dominion_ or _possessions_. Why is the bird called a _moping_ owl? Why is her reign _solitary_? What word is understood after _such_ in the third line of this stanza?

[362-6] _Rude_ means _uneducated_, _uncultured_, not _ill-mannered_.

[362-7] A clarion is a loud, clear-sounding trumpet.

[362-8] In the church are the tombs of the wealthy and titled of the neighborhood, and in the building and on the walls are monuments that tell the virtues of the lordly dead. It is outside, however, under the sod, in their narrow cells, that the virtuous poor, the real subjects of the poet's thoughts, lie in quiet slumbers.

[362-9] What evening cares has the busy housewife? Was she making the clothes of her children, knitting, mending, darning, after the supper dishes were put away?

[363-10] Where were the children? Were they waiting for their father's return? To whom would they run to tell of his coming?

[363-11] The _glebe_ is the turf. Why should it be called _stubborn_?

[363-12] _Jocund_ means _joyful_.

[363-13] The word _Ambition_ begins with a capital letter because Gray speaks of ambition as though it were a person. The line means, "Let not ambitious persons speak lightly of the work the rude forefathers did."

[363-14] The inevitable hour (death) alike awaits the boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, and all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave.

[363-15] This is perhaps the most famous stanza in the poem. The following story is told of General Wolfe as he was leading his troops to the daring assault on Quebec in 1759: "At past midnight, when the heavens were hung black with clouds, and the boats were floating silently back with the tide to the intended landing-place at the chosen ascent to the Plains of Abraham, he repeated in low tones to the officers around him this touching stanza of Gray's _Elegy_. 'Now, gentlemen,' said Wolfe, 'I would rather be the author of that poem than the possessor of the glory of beating the French to-morrow!' He fell the next day, and expired just as the shouts of the victory of the English fell upon his almost unconscious ears."

[364-16] Now, an aisle is the passageway between the pews or the seats in a church or other public hall: in the poem it means the passageways running to the sides of the main body of the church.

[364-17] A storied urn is an urn-shaped monument on which are inscribed the virtues of the dead. Why should a _bust_ be called _animated_? What is the _mansion_ of _the fleeting breath_?

[364-18] In this instance _provoke_ means what it originally meant in the Latin language; namely, _call forth_.

[364-19] The line means, "Some heart once filled with the heavenly inspiration."

[364-20] A poet or musician is said to sing, and the lyre is the instrument with which the ancients accompanied their songs. _To wake to ecstasy the living lyre_ is to write the noblest poetry, to sing the most inspired songs.

[364-21] The books of the ancients were rolls of manuscripts. Did any of those persons resting in this neglected spot ever write great poetry, rule empires or sing inspiring songs? If not, what prevented them from doing such things if they had the ability?

[365-22] At first this stanza was written thus:

"Some village Cato, who with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute, inglorious Tully here may rest;
Some Caesar guiltless of his country's blood."

It is interesting to notice that at his first writing Gray selected three of the famous men of antiquity, but in his revision he substituted the names of three of his own countrymen. Who were Hampden, Milton and Cromwell?

[365-23] The three stanzas beginning at this point make but one sentence. Turned into prose the sentence would read: "Their lot forbade them to command the applause of listening senates, to despise the threats of pain and ruin, to scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, and read their history in a nation's eyes: their lot not only circumscribed their growing virtues but confined their crimes as well; it forbade them to wade through slaughter to a throne and shut the gates of mercy on mankind, to hide the struggling pangs of conscious truth, to quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, and to heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride with incense kindled at the Muse's flame."

[365-24] This line means that they could not become rulers by fighting and killing their fellowmen as Napoleon did not long afterward.

[366-25] Many of the English poets wrote in praise of the wealthy and titled in order to be paid or favored by the men they flattered. Gray thinks that such conduct is disgraceful, and rejoices that the rude forefathers of the hamlet were prevented from writing poetry for such an end. The Greeks thought poetry was inspired by one of the Muses, and genius is often spoken as a flame.

[366-26] _Madding_ means _excited_ or _raging_.

[366-27] The _frail memorials_ were simple headstones, similar to those one may see in any country graveyard in America. On such headstones may often be seen _shapeless sculpture_ that would almost provoke a smile, were it not for its pathetic meaning. A picture of Stoke-Pogis churchyard shows many stories of the ordinary type.

[366-28] The rhymes were _uncouth_ in the sense that they were unlearned and unpolished.

[366-29] What facts were inscribed on the headstones? _Elegy_ here means _praise_. Where were the texts strewn? Why were the texts called _holy?_ What was the nature of the texts? Can you think of one that might have been used?

[367-30] This is one of the difficult stanzas, and there is some dispute as to its exact meaning, owing to the phrase, _to dumb forgetfulness a prey_. Perhaps the correct meaning is shown in the following prose version: "For who has ever died (resigned this pleasing, anxious being, left the warm precincts of this cheerful day), a prey to dumb forgetfulness, and cast not one longing, lingering look behind?"

[367-31] _Thee_ refers to the poet, Gray himself. The remainder of the poem is personal. Summed up briefly it means that perhaps a sympathetic soul may some day come to inquire as to the poet's fate, and will be told by some hoary-headed swain a few of the poet's habits, and then will have pointed out to him the poet's own grave, on which may be read his epitaph.

[368-32] _Due_ means _appropriate_ or _proper_.

[368-33] As first written, the poem contained the following stanza, placed before the epitaph; but in the final revision Gray rejected it as unworthy. It seems a very critical taste that would reject such lines as these:

"There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year,
By hands unseen are show'rs of violets found:
The redbreast loves to build and warble there,
And little footsteps lightly print the ground."

THE SHIPWRECK[371-1]

_By_ ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

I went down, and drank my fill; and then came up, and got a blink at the moon; and then down again. They say a man sinks the third time for good. I cannot be made like other folk, then, for I would not like to write how often I went down or how often I came up again. All the while, I was being hurled along, and beaten upon and choked, and then swallowed whole; and the thing was so distracting to my wits, that I was neither sorry nor afraid.

Presently, I found I was holding to a spar, which helped me somewhat. And then all of a sudden I was in quiet water, and began to come to myself.

It was the spare yard I had got hold of, and I was amazed to see how far I had traveled from the brig. I hailed her, indeed; but it was plain she was already out of cry. She was still holding together; but whether or not they had yet launched the boat, I was too far off and too low down to see.

While I was hailing the brig, I spied a tract of water lying between us, where no great waves came, but which yet boiled white all over and bristled in the moon with rings and bubbles. Sometimes the whole tract swung to one side, like the tail of a live serpent; sometimes, for a glimpse, it would all disappear and then boil up again. What it was I had no guess, which for the time increased my fear of it; but I now know it must have been the roost or tide-race, which had carried me away so fast and tumbled me about so cruelly, and at last, as if tired of that play, had flung out me and the spare yard upon its landward margin.

I now lay quite becalmed, and began to feel that a man can die of cold as well as of drowning. The shores of Earraid were close in; I could see in the moonlight the dots of heather and the sparkling of the mica in the rocks.

"Well," thought I to myself, "if I cannot get as far as that, it's strange."

I had no skill of swimming; but when I laid hold upon the yard with both arms, and kicked out with both feet, I soon began to find that I was moving. Hard work it was, and mortally slow; but in about an hour of kicking and splashing, I had got well in between the points of a sandy bay surrounded by low hills.

The sea was here quite quiet; there was no sound of any surf; the moon shone clear, and I thought in my heart I had never seen a place so desert and desolate. But it was dry land; and when at last it grew so shallow that I could leave the yard and wade ashore upon my feet, I cannot tell if I was more tired or more grateful. Both at least, I was; tired as I never was before that night; and grateful to God, as I trust I have been often, though never with more cause.

With my stepping ashore, I began the most unhappy part of my adventures. It was half-past twelve in the morning, and though the wind was broken by the land, it was a cold night. I dared not sit down (for I thought I should have frozen), but took off my shoes and walked to and fro upon the sand, barefoot and beating my breast with infinite weariness. There was no sound of man or cattle; not a cock crew, though it was about the hour of their first waking; only the surf broke outside in the distance, which put me in mind of my perils. To walk by the sea at that hour of the morning, and in a place so desert-like and lonesome, struck me with a kind of fear.

As soon as the day began to break, I put on my shoes and climbed a hill--the ruggedest scramble I ever undertook--falling, the whole way between big blocks of granite or leaping from one to another. When I got to the top the dawn was come. There was no sign of the brig, which must have been lifted from the reef and sunk. The boat, too, was nowhere to be seen. There was never a sail upon the ocean; and in what I could see of the land, was neither house nor man.

I was afraid to think what had befallen my ship-mates, and afraid to look longer at so empty a scene. What with my wet clothes and weariness, and my belly that now began to ache with hunger, I had enough to trouble me without that. So I set off eastward along the south coast, hoping to find a house where I might warm myself, and perhaps get news of those I had lost. And at the worst, I considered the sun would soon rise and dry my clothes.

After a little, my way was stopped by a creek or inlet of the sea, which seemed to run pretty deep into the land; and as I had no means to get across, I must needs change my direction to go about the end of it. It was still the roughest kind of walking; indeed the whole, not only of Earraid, but of the neighboring part of Mull (which they call the Ross) is nothing but a jumble of granite rocks with heather in among. At first the creek kept narrowing as I had looked to see; but presently to my surprise it began to widen out again. At this I scratched my head, but had still no notion of the truth; until at last I came to a rising ground, and it burst upon me all in a moment that I was cast upon a little, barren isle, and cut off on every side by the salt seas.

Instead of the sun rising to dry me, it came on to rain, with a thick mist; so that my case was lamentable.

I stood in the rain, and shivered, and wondered what to do, till it occurred to me that perhaps the creek was fordable. Back I went to the narrowest point, and waded in. But not three yards from shore, I plunged in head over ears; and if ever I was heard of more it was rather by God's grace than my own prudence. I was no wetter (for that could hardly be), but I was all the colder for this mishap; and having lost another hope, was the more unhappy.

And now, all at once, the yard came in my head. What had carried me through the roost, would surely serve to cross this little quiet creek in safety. With that I set off, undaunted, across the top of the isle, to fetch and carry it back. It was a weary tramp in all ways, and if hope had not buoyed me up, I must have cast myself down and given up. Whether with the sea salt, or because I was growing fevered, I was distressed with thirst, and had to stop, as I went, and drink the peaty water out of the hags.

I came to the bay at last, more dead than alive; and at the first glance, I thought the yard was something further out than when I left it. In I went, for the third time, into the sea. The sand was smooth and firm and shelved gradually down; so that I could wade out till the water was almost to my neck and the little waves splashed into my face. But at that depth my feet began to leave me and I durst venture no farther. As for the yard, I saw it bobbing very quietly some twenty feet in front of me.

I had borne up well until this last disappointment; but at that I came ashore, and flung myself down upon the sands and wept.

The time I spent upon the island is still so horrible a thought to me, that I must pass it lightly over. In all the books I have read of people cast away, they had either their pockets full of tools, or a chest of things would be thrown upon the beach along with them, as if on purpose. My case was very different. I had nothing in my pockets but money; and being inland bred, I was as much short of knowledge as of means.

I knew indeed that shell-fish were counted good to eat; and among the rocks of the isle I found a great plenty of limpets, which at first I could scarcely strike from their places, not knowing quickness to be needful. There were, besides, some of the little shells that we call buckies; I think periwinkle is the English name. Of these two I made my whole diet, devouring them cold and raw as I found them; and so hungry was I, that at first they seemed to me delicious.

Perhaps they were out of season, or perhaps there was something wrong in the sea about my island. But at least I had no sooner eaten my first meal than I was seized with giddiness and retching, and lay for a long time no better than dead. A second trial of the same food (indeed I had no other) did better with me and revived my strength. But as long as I was on the island, I never knew what to expect when I had eaten; sometimes all was well, and sometimes I was thrown into a miserable sickness; nor could I ever distinguish what particular fish it was that hurt me.

All day it streamed rain; the island ran like a sop, there was no dry spot to be found; and when I lay down that night, between two boulders that made a kind of roof, my feet were in a bog.

The second day, I crossed the island to all sides. There was no one part of it better than another; it was all desolate and rocky; nothing living on it but game birds which I lacked the means to kill, and the gulls which haunted the outlying rocks in a prodigious number. But the creek, or straits, that cut off the isle from the main land of the Ross, opened out on the north into a bay, and the bay again opened into the Sound of Iona; and it was the neighborhood of this place that I chose to be my home; though if I had thought upon the very name of home in such a spot, I must have burst out crying.

I had good reasons for my choice. There was in this part of the isle a little hut of a house like a pig's hut, where fishers used to sleep when they came there upon their business; but the turf roof of it had fallen entirely in; so that the hut was of no use to me, and gave me less shelter than my rocks. What was more important, the shell-fish on which I lived grew there in great plenty; when the tide was out I could gather a peck at a time: and this was doubtless a convenience. But the other reason went deeper. I had become in no way used to the horrid solitude of the isle, but still looked round me on all sides (like a man that was hunted) between fear and hope that I might see some human creature coming. Now, from a little up the hillside over the bay, I could catch a sight of the great, ancient church and the roofs of the people's houses in Iona. And on the other hand, over the low country of the Ross, I saw smoke go up, morning and evening, as if from a homestead in a hollow of the land.