Cutcliffe Hyne_ 217
LOCHINVAR _Sir Walter Scott_ 232
IN LABRADOR _H.
LOCHINVAR _Sir Walter Scott_ 232
IN LABRADOR _H.
The Literary World - Seventh Reader
THE LITERARY WORLD
SEVENTH READER
BY
JOHN CALVIN METCALF
PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA
SARAH WITHERS
PRINCIPAL ELEMENTARY GRADES AND CRITIC TEACHER
WINTHROP NORMAL AND INDUSTRIAL COLLEGE
ROCK HILL. S. C.
AND
HETTY S. BROWNE
EXTENSION WORKER IN RURAL SCHOOL PRACTICE
WINTHROP NORMAL AND INDUSTRIAL COLLEGE
[Illustration]
JOHNSON PUBLISHING COMPANY
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA
COPYRIGHT, 1919
B. F. JOHNSON PUBLISHING COMPANY
_All Rights Reserved_
L. H. J.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For permission to use copyrighted material the authors and publishers
express their indebtedness to the Macmillan Company for "A Deal in
Bears" from _McTodd_, by W. Cutcliffe Hyne, and for "Sea Fever," by John
Masefield; to Duffield & Company and Mr. H. G. Wells for "In Labrador"
from _Marriage_; to the John Lane Company for "The Making of a Man" from
_The Rough Road_, by W. J. Locke; to Dodd, Mead & Company and Mr. Arthur
Dobson for "A Ballad of Heroes," and to Dodd, Mead & Company for "Under
Seas," by Count Alexis Tolstoi; to G. P. Putnam's Sons for "Old Ephraim"
from _The Hunting Trips of a Ranchman_, by Theodore Roosevelt; to
Houghton Mifflin Company for "A Greyport Legend," by Bret Harte,
"Midwinter," by John Townsend Trowbridge, "The First Snowfall," by James
Russell Lowell, "Among the Cliffs" from _The Young Mountaineers_, by
Charles Egbert Craddock (Mary N. Murfree), and for "The Friendship of
Nantaquas" from _To Have and to Hold_, by Mary Johnston; to Harper &
Brothers for "The Great Stone of Sardis" from _The Great Stone of
Sardis_, by Frank R. Stockton, and to Harper & Brothers and Mr. Booth
Tarkington for "Ariel's Triumph" from _The Conquest of Canaan_.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
LEGENDS OF OUR LAND
RIP VAN WINKLE _Washington Irving_ 9
THE GREAT STONE FACE _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 33
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH _Henry W. Longfellow_ 59
THE FRIENDSHIP OF NANTAQUAS _Mary Johnston_ 79
HOME SCENES
HARRY ESMOND'S BOYHOOD _Wm. Makepeace Thackeray_ 112
THE FAMILY HOLDS ITS HEAD UP _Oliver Goldsmith_ 126
THE LITTLE BOY IN THE BALCONY _Henry W. Grady_ 138
ARIEL'S TRIUMPH _Booth Tarkington_ 141
NATURE AND ANIMALS
THE CLOUD _Percy Bysshe Shelley_ 160
NEW ENGLAND WEATHER _Mark Twain_ 162
THE FIRST SNOWFALL _James Russell Lowell_ 166
OLD EPHRAIM _Theodore Roosevelt_ 168
MIDWINTER _John Townsend Trowbridge_ 175
A GEORGIA FOX HUNT _Joel Chandler Harris_ 177
RAIN AND WIND _Madison Julius Cawein_ 192
THE SOUTHERN SKY _Matthew Fontaine Maury_ 193
DAFFODILS _William Wordsworth_ 195
DAWN _Edward Everett_ 196
SPRING _Henry Timrod_ 198
MOVING ADVENTURE
AMONG THE CLIFFS _Charles Egbert Craddock_ 201
A DEAL IN BEARS _W. Cutcliffe Hyne_ 217
LOCHINVAR _Sir Walter Scott_ 232
IN LABRADOR _H. G. Wells_ 235
THE BUGLE SONG _Alfred Tennyson_ 258
THE SIEGE OF THE CASTLE _Sir Walter Scott_ 259
MODERN WONDER TALES
SEA FEVER _John Masefield_ 334
A GREYPORT LEGEND _Bret Harte_ 335
A HUNT BENEATH THE OCEAN _Jules Verne_ 337
UNDER SEAS _Count Alexis Tolstoi_ 354
A VOYAGE TO THE MOON _Edgar Allan Poe_ 367
THE GREAT STONE OF SARDIS _Frank R. Stockton_ 391
SKETCHES OF THE GREAT WAR
A STOP AT SUZANNE'S _Greayer Clover_ 407
THE MAKING OF A MAN _W. J. Locke_ 414
IN FLANDERS FIELDS _John McCrae_ 436
IN FLANDERS FIELDS (AN ANSWER) _C. B. Galbraith_ 436
A BALLAD OF HEROES _Austin Dobson_ 437
DICTIONARY 439
[Illustration: [See page 19]
He Was Tempted to Repeat the Draught]
[Illustration]
RIP VAN WINKLE
I
Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Catskill
Mountains. They are a branch of the great [v]Appalachian[9-*] family,
and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble
height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of
season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces
some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they
are regarded by all the goodwives, far and near, as perfect
[v]barometers.
At the foot of these fairy mountains the traveler may have seen the
light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle roofs gleam among
the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the
fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great
age, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists in the early
times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the
good Peter [v]Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace! ), and there were some of
the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built
of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and
gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks.
In that same village, and in one of these very houses, there lived, many
years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a
simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a
descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the
[v]chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege
of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial
character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple,
good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor and an obedient,
henpecked husband.
Certain it is that he was a great favorite among all the goodwives of
the village, who took his part in all family squabbles; and never
failed, whenever they talked those matters over in their evening
gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the
village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted
at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and
shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and
Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded
by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and
playing a thousand tricks on him; and not a dog would bark at him
throughout the neighborhood.
The great error in Rip's composition was a strong dislike of all kinds
of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of perseverance; for
he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a lance, and
fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged
by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling piece on his shoulder for
hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down
dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to
assist a neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at
all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone fences;
the women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands,
and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not
do for them. In a word, Rip was ready to attend to anybody's business
but his own; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order,
he found it impossible.
His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to
nobody. His son Rip promised to inherit the habits, with the old
clothes, of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at
his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off
breeches, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady
does her train in bad weather.
Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish,
well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or
brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would
rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he
would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept
continually dinning in his ear about his idleness, his carelessness, and
the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her
tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to
produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of
replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had
grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up
his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh
volley from his wife; so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and
take to the outside of the house--the only side which, in truth, belongs
to a henpecked husband.
Rip's sole [v]domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much
henpecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions
in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of
his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit
befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever
scoured the woods; but what courage can withstand the ever-enduring and
all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the
house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground or curled between
his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong
glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or
ladle he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation.
Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony
rolled on. A tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is
the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long
while he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting
a kind of perpetual club of sages, philosophers, and other idle
personages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench before a
small inn, designated by a [v]rubicund portrait of His Majesty George
III. Here they used to sit in the shade of a long, lazy summer's day,
talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy
stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's
money to have heard the profound discussions which sometimes took place,
when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing
traveler. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out
by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster,--a dapper, learned little man,
who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary!
and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months
after they had taken place!
The opinions of this [v]junto were completely controlled by Nicholas
Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door
of which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving
sufficiently to avoid the sun, and keep in the shade of a large tree; so
that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as
by a sun-dial. It is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his
pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his
adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his
opinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was
observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short,
frequent, and angry puffs; but, when pleased, he would inhale the smoke
slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds, and
sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant
vapor curl about his nose, would nod his head in approbation.
From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his
[v]termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquility of
the assemblage, and call the members all to naught; nor was that august
personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of
this terrible virago, who charged him with encouraging her husband in
habits of idleness.
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only
[v]alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his
wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he
would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the
contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a
fellow-sufferer in persecution. "Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress
leads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live
thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee. " Wolf would wag his
tail, look wistfully in his master's face; and if dogs can feel pity, I
verily believe he [v]reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart.
In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had
unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Catskill
Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel-shooting, and the
still solitudes had echoed and reëchoed with the reports of his gun.
Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a
green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a
precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the
lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the
lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic
course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging
bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing
itself in the blue highlands.
On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild and
lonely, the bottom filled with fragments from the overhanging cliffs,
and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some
time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the
mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he
saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he
heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame
Van Winkle.
As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing,
"Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle! " He looked round, but could see nothing
but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought
his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he
heard the same cry ring through the still evening air: "Rip Van Winkle!
Rip Van Winkle! "--at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving
a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully down into
the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked
anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly
toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he
carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this
lonely and unfrequented place; but supposing it to be some one of the
neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it.
On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the [v]singularity of
the stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, with
thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique
Dutch fashion,--a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist, and several
pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of
buttons down the sides. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg that seemed
full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with
the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance,
Rip complied with his usual [v]alacrity, and relieving one another, they
clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain
torrent.
As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long, rolling peals, like
distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather
cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He
paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of
those transient thundershowers which often take place in mountain
heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a
hollow, like a small [v]amphitheater, surrounded by perpendicular
precipices, over the brinks of which trees shot their branches, so that
you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud.
During the whole time Rip and his companion had labored on in silence;
for though the former marveled greatly, what could be the object of
carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something
strange and incomprehensible about the unknown that inspired awe and
checked familiarity.
On entering the amphitheater new objects of wonder presented themselves.
On a level spot in the center was a company of odd-looking personages
playing at ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint, outlandish fashion;
some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their
belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style with
that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a large
head, broad face, and small, piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to
consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat,
set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various
shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was
a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a
laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red
stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group
reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of
[v]Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, which had been brought over
from Holland at the time of the settlement.
What seemed particularly odd to Rip was that, though these folks were
evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the
most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of
pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the
scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled,
echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.
As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from
their play, and stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and
such strange, uncouth countenances, that his heart turned within him,
and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of
the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the
company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in
profound silence, and then returned to their game.
By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when
no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had
much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty
soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked
another; and he repeated his visits to the flagon so often that at
length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head
gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.
II
On waking he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen
the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes--it was a bright, sunny
morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and
the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze.
"Surely," thought Rip, "I have not slept here all night. " He recalled
the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of
liquor--the mountain ravine--the wild retreat among the rocks--the
woe-begone party at ninepins--the flagon--"Oh! that flagon! that wicked
flagon! " thought Rip; "what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle? "
He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled
fowling piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel
incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He
now suspected that the grave revelers of the mountain had put a trick
upon him and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun.
Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a
squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, and shouted his name, but
all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was
to be seen.
He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and if
he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to
walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual
activity. "These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, "and
if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall
have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle. " With some difficulty he got
down into the glen; he found the gully up which he and his companion had
ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain
stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling
the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up
its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch,
sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the
wild grapevines that twisted their coils from tree to tree, and spread a
kind of network in his path.
At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs
to the amphitheater; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks
presented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came
tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin,
black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip
was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he
was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows sporting high
in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure
in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's
perplexities. What was to be done? --the morning was passing away, and
Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his
dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve
among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock,
and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps
homeward.
As he approached the village he met a number of people, but none whom he
knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself
acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of
a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all
stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their
eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence
of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his
astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long!
He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange
children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray
beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old
acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered;
it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had
never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had
disappeared. Strange names were over the doors--strange faces at the
windows--everything was strange. His mind now misgave him; he began to
doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched.
Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day
before. There stood the Catskill Mountains--there ran the silver Hudson
at a distance--there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always
been. Rip was sorely perplexed. "That flagon last night," thought he,
"has addled my poor head sadly! "
It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house,
which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the
shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay--the
roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A
half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called
him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This
was an unkind cut indeed. "My very dog," sighed Rip, "has forgotten me! "
He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had
always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently
abandoned. He called loudly for his wife and children--the lonely
chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again was
silence.
III
He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village
inn--but it, too, was gone. A large, rickety wooden building stood in
its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended
with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, "The Union
Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle. " Instead of the great tree that used to
shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a
tall, naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red
nightcap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular
assemblage of stars and stripes; all this was strange and
incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of
King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but even
this was singularly changed. The red coat was changed for one of blue
and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a scepter, the head
was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large
characters, GENERAL WASHINGTON.
There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip
recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was
a busy, bustling tone about it, instead of the accustomed drowsy
tranquility. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his
broad face, double chin, and long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke
instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth
the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean fellow,
with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about
rights of citizens--elections--members of congress--Bunker's
Hill--heroes of seventy-six--and other words, which were a perfect
jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.
The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty fowling
piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his
heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They
crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity.
The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired
"On which side he voted? " Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short
but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe,
inquired in his ear, "Whether he was Federal or Democrat? " Rip was
equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing,
self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way
through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as
he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo,
the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating,
as it were, into his very soul, demanded, in an austere tone, "What
brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his
heels; and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village? "--"Alas!
gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor, quiet man, a
native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him! "
Here a general shout burst from the bystanders--"A tory! a tory! a spy!
a refugee! hustle him! away with him! " It was with great difficulty that
the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and having
assumed a tenfold [v]austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown
culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking! The poor man
humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in
search of some of his neighbors.
"Well--who are they? Name them. "
Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder?
Cutcliffe Hyne_ 217
LOCHINVAR _Sir Walter Scott_ 232
IN LABRADOR _H. G. Wells_ 235
THE BUGLE SONG _Alfred Tennyson_ 258
THE SIEGE OF THE CASTLE _Sir Walter Scott_ 259
MODERN WONDER TALES
SEA FEVER _John Masefield_ 334
A GREYPORT LEGEND _Bret Harte_ 335
A HUNT BENEATH THE OCEAN _Jules Verne_ 337
UNDER SEAS _Count Alexis Tolstoi_ 354
A VOYAGE TO THE MOON _Edgar Allan Poe_ 367
THE GREAT STONE OF SARDIS _Frank R. Stockton_ 391
SKETCHES OF THE GREAT WAR
A STOP AT SUZANNE'S _Greayer Clover_ 407
THE MAKING OF A MAN _W. J. Locke_ 414
IN FLANDERS FIELDS _John McCrae_ 436
IN FLANDERS FIELDS (AN ANSWER) _C. B. Galbraith_ 436
A BALLAD OF HEROES _Austin Dobson_ 437
DICTIONARY 439
[Illustration: [See page 19]
He Was Tempted to Repeat the Draught]
[Illustration]
RIP VAN WINKLE
I
Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Catskill
Mountains. They are a branch of the great [v]Appalachian[9-*] family,
and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble
height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of
season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces
some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they
are regarded by all the goodwives, far and near, as perfect
[v]barometers.
At the foot of these fairy mountains the traveler may have seen the
light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle roofs gleam among
the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the
fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great
age, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists in the early
times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the
good Peter [v]Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace! ), and there were some of
the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built
of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and
gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks.
In that same village, and in one of these very houses, there lived, many
years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a
simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a
descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the
[v]chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege
of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial
character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple,
good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor and an obedient,
henpecked husband.
Certain it is that he was a great favorite among all the goodwives of
the village, who took his part in all family squabbles; and never
failed, whenever they talked those matters over in their evening
gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the
village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted
at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and
shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and
Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded
by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and
playing a thousand tricks on him; and not a dog would bark at him
throughout the neighborhood.
The great error in Rip's composition was a strong dislike of all kinds
of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of perseverance; for
he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a lance, and
fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged
by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling piece on his shoulder for
hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down
dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to
assist a neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at
all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone fences;
the women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands,
and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not
do for them. In a word, Rip was ready to attend to anybody's business
but his own; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order,
he found it impossible.
His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to
nobody. His son Rip promised to inherit the habits, with the old
clothes, of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at
his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off
breeches, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady
does her train in bad weather.
Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish,
well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or
brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would
rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he
would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept
continually dinning in his ear about his idleness, his carelessness, and
the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her
tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to
produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of
replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had
grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up
his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh
volley from his wife; so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and
take to the outside of the house--the only side which, in truth, belongs
to a henpecked husband.
Rip's sole [v]domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much
henpecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions
in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of
his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit
befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever
scoured the woods; but what courage can withstand the ever-enduring and
all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the
house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground or curled between
his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong
glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or
ladle he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation.
Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony
rolled on. A tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is
the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long
while he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting
a kind of perpetual club of sages, philosophers, and other idle
personages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench before a
small inn, designated by a [v]rubicund portrait of His Majesty George
III. Here they used to sit in the shade of a long, lazy summer's day,
talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy
stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's
money to have heard the profound discussions which sometimes took place,
when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing
traveler. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out
by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster,--a dapper, learned little man,
who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary!
and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months
after they had taken place!
The opinions of this [v]junto were completely controlled by Nicholas
Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door
of which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving
sufficiently to avoid the sun, and keep in the shade of a large tree; so
that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as
by a sun-dial. It is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his
pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his
adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his
opinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was
observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short,
frequent, and angry puffs; but, when pleased, he would inhale the smoke
slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds, and
sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant
vapor curl about his nose, would nod his head in approbation.
From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his
[v]termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquility of
the assemblage, and call the members all to naught; nor was that august
personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of
this terrible virago, who charged him with encouraging her husband in
habits of idleness.
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only
[v]alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his
wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he
would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the
contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a
fellow-sufferer in persecution. "Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress
leads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live
thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee. " Wolf would wag his
tail, look wistfully in his master's face; and if dogs can feel pity, I
verily believe he [v]reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart.
In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had
unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Catskill
Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel-shooting, and the
still solitudes had echoed and reëchoed with the reports of his gun.
Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a
green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a
precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the
lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the
lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic
course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging
bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing
itself in the blue highlands.
On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild and
lonely, the bottom filled with fragments from the overhanging cliffs,
and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some
time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the
mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he
saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he
heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame
Van Winkle.
As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing,
"Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle! " He looked round, but could see nothing
but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought
his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he
heard the same cry ring through the still evening air: "Rip Van Winkle!
Rip Van Winkle! "--at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving
a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully down into
the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked
anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly
toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he
carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this
lonely and unfrequented place; but supposing it to be some one of the
neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it.
On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the [v]singularity of
the stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, with
thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique
Dutch fashion,--a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist, and several
pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of
buttons down the sides. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg that seemed
full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with
the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance,
Rip complied with his usual [v]alacrity, and relieving one another, they
clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain
torrent.
As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long, rolling peals, like
distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather
cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He
paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of
those transient thundershowers which often take place in mountain
heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a
hollow, like a small [v]amphitheater, surrounded by perpendicular
precipices, over the brinks of which trees shot their branches, so that
you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud.
During the whole time Rip and his companion had labored on in silence;
for though the former marveled greatly, what could be the object of
carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something
strange and incomprehensible about the unknown that inspired awe and
checked familiarity.
On entering the amphitheater new objects of wonder presented themselves.
On a level spot in the center was a company of odd-looking personages
playing at ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint, outlandish fashion;
some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their
belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style with
that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a large
head, broad face, and small, piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to
consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat,
set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various
shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was
a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a
laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red
stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group
reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of
[v]Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, which had been brought over
from Holland at the time of the settlement.
What seemed particularly odd to Rip was that, though these folks were
evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the
most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of
pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the
scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled,
echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.
As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from
their play, and stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and
such strange, uncouth countenances, that his heart turned within him,
and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of
the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the
company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in
profound silence, and then returned to their game.
By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when
no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had
much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty
soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked
another; and he repeated his visits to the flagon so often that at
length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head
gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.
II
On waking he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen
the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes--it was a bright, sunny
morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and
the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze.
"Surely," thought Rip, "I have not slept here all night. " He recalled
the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of
liquor--the mountain ravine--the wild retreat among the rocks--the
woe-begone party at ninepins--the flagon--"Oh! that flagon! that wicked
flagon! " thought Rip; "what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle? "
He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled
fowling piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel
incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He
now suspected that the grave revelers of the mountain had put a trick
upon him and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun.
Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a
squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, and shouted his name, but
all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was
to be seen.
He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and if
he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to
walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual
activity. "These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, "and
if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall
have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle. " With some difficulty he got
down into the glen; he found the gully up which he and his companion had
ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain
stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling
the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up
its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch,
sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the
wild grapevines that twisted their coils from tree to tree, and spread a
kind of network in his path.
At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs
to the amphitheater; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks
presented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came
tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin,
black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip
was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he
was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows sporting high
in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure
in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's
perplexities. What was to be done? --the morning was passing away, and
Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his
dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve
among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock,
and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps
homeward.
As he approached the village he met a number of people, but none whom he
knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself
acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of
a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all
stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their
eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence
of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his
astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long!
He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange
children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray
beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old
acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered;
it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had
never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had
disappeared. Strange names were over the doors--strange faces at the
windows--everything was strange. His mind now misgave him; he began to
doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched.
Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day
before. There stood the Catskill Mountains--there ran the silver Hudson
at a distance--there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always
been. Rip was sorely perplexed. "That flagon last night," thought he,
"has addled my poor head sadly! "
It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house,
which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the
shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay--the
roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A
half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called
him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This
was an unkind cut indeed. "My very dog," sighed Rip, "has forgotten me! "
He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had
always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently
abandoned. He called loudly for his wife and children--the lonely
chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again was
silence.
III
He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village
inn--but it, too, was gone. A large, rickety wooden building stood in
its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended
with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, "The Union
Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle. " Instead of the great tree that used to
shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a
tall, naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red
nightcap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular
assemblage of stars and stripes; all this was strange and
incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of
King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but even
this was singularly changed. The red coat was changed for one of blue
and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a scepter, the head
was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large
characters, GENERAL WASHINGTON.
There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip
recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was
a busy, bustling tone about it, instead of the accustomed drowsy
tranquility. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his
broad face, double chin, and long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke
instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth
the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean fellow,
with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about
rights of citizens--elections--members of congress--Bunker's
Hill--heroes of seventy-six--and other words, which were a perfect
jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.
The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty fowling
piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his
heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They
crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity.
The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired
"On which side he voted? " Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short
but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe,
inquired in his ear, "Whether he was Federal or Democrat? " Rip was
equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing,
self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way
through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as
he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo,
the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating,
as it were, into his very soul, demanded, in an austere tone, "What
brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his
heels; and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village? "--"Alas!
gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor, quiet man, a
native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him! "
Here a general shout burst from the bystanders--"A tory! a tory! a spy!
a refugee! hustle him! away with him! " It was with great difficulty that
the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and having
assumed a tenfold [v]austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown
culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking! The poor man
humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in
search of some of his neighbors.
"Well--who are they? Name them. "
Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder? "
There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a
thin, piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these
eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used
to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone, too. "
"Where's Brom Dutcher? "
"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he
was killed at the storming of Stony Point; others say he was drowned in
a squall at the foot of Anthony's Nose. I don't know; he never came back
again. "
"Where's Van Brummel, the schoolmaster? "
"He went off to the wars, too, was a great militia general, and is now
in congress. "
Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and
friends and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer
puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of
matters which he could not understand: war--congress--Stony Point. He
had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair,
"Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle? "
"Oh, Rip Van Winkle! " exclaimed two or three, "oh, to be sure! that's
Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree. "
Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up
the mountain--apparently as lazy and certainly as ragged. The poor
fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and
whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment,
the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name.
"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wits' end; "I'm not myself--I'm
somebody else--that's me yonder--no--that's somebody else got into my
shoes--I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and
they've changed my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm changed, and I
can't tell what's my name, or who I am! "
The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly,
and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper,
also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing
mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the
cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a
fresh, comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the
gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened
at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little
fool; the old man won't hurt you. " The name of the child, the air of the
mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in
his mind. "What is your name, my good woman? " asked he.
