I II--= c- ----~L --re II II
The Baldin Lihran
^_-_ --__ _-_"__,_,
SCHOOL READING BY
NEW YORK .:. CINCINNATI *: CHICAGO
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1897, BY
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY.
SCII. READ. EIGHTH YEAK.
w. 1'. 3
No more important duty is incumbent upon teachers than that of incul-
cating in the minds of their pupils a discriminating love for good books.
The acquirement of the ability to give correct oral expression to the
printed or written word is, after all, only a means to this more important
end. The young person who can read intelligibly to himself, and in a
manner that is pleasing to his hearers, is quite sure to find much pleasure
in books. If his tastes have been properly cultivated and lie has been
taught to discriminate between that which is good and that which is worth-
less, this habit of reading will prove to be of incalculable value to him in
after life; but, on the other hand, if he has been permitted to acquire a
liking for that kind of writing which is neither instructive nor beautiful,
and a distaste for the nobler and more enduring forms of literature, it
would have been better if books had never been placed in his way. In the
preparation of the series of reading books of which this volume is the
eighth and concluding number, the importance of thus cultivating the lit-
erary judgment has been constantly borne in mind, and every reasonable
means has been employed to assist the pupil to discover and appreciate
things which are beautiful and true in literature and art. The selections
in this volume have been chosen with the special view of opening the way
to much supplementary reading on many important subjects and from
books that can be safely recommended. The notes in connection with
certain of the selections, as well as the notes on "Books" (page 236),
are intended to assist in the attainment of this purpose. It is presumed
that pupils in this grade have general access to dictionaries and other
works of reference on all subjects; hence, no space is given to biographi-
cal or explanatory notes, but only a brief list of the authors and artists
whose works are represented, with the date of the birth and death and, in
most cases, the title of the most famous work of each. The educative
and esthetic value of the full-page illustrations will be readily appreciated
Joan of Arc . .
The Halcyon . .
Jaffar . . .
The Sonnet . .
Sir Thomas More:
I. His Character .. ..
II. His Trial . .
III. His Execution .. .
A Boarding School Incident
Thanatopsis . .
Raphael . . .
Rip Van Winkle . .
Hymn to Diana . .
The Vision of Mirzah .. .
Michelangelo's Moses .
The Merchant of Venice:
I. The Story . .
II. The Trial Scene ..
William Shakespeare . .
The Blessed Damozel .
The Charge at Balaclava. .
The Charge of the Light Brigade .
Words of Wisdom from the Poets:
Justice . .
Retribution . .
Perfection . .
A Father's Love . .
Two Sonnets . .
The Battle of Waterloo .
Thomas De Quincey ..
Leigh Hunt .. ...
William Wordsworth .
John Richard Green ..
Miss Manning ......
James Anthony Froude .
Charlotte BrontV . .
William Cullen Bryant .
John Greenleaf Whittier .
Washington Irving .
Ben Jonson . .
Joseph Addison . ..
The Poetry by J. A. Symonds .
Charles and Mary Lamb
William Shakespeare .
Dr. Samuel Johnson ..
Dante Gabriel Rossetti .
Henry Kingsley. . .
Alfred Tennyson . .
Ralph Waldo Emerson .
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .
William Shakespeare .
Walter Savage Landor .
Edmund Spenser .. ..
Victor Hugo . .
Battle of Waterloo. . .
Two Pictures by Thackeray:
I. Castlewood, England-1691
II. Castlewood, Virginia-1775
The Parting of Hector and An-
dromache . .
How Nitetis came to Babylon .
Assassination of Julius Casar .
The Funeral of Julius Cesar
The Fall of Constantinople .
Hervd Riel . .
How Cromwell dissolved the Long
Parliament . .
Sonnet to Cromwell . .
Milton's L'Allegro and Il Penseroso
L' Allegro . .
II Penseroso . .
On his Blindness . .
To Milton . .
The Trial of Warren Hastings .
Supplementary Notes . .
Lord Byron . .
From Henry Esmond
From The Virginians
From Homer's Iliad "
Georg Ebers . ..
From Plutarch's Lives" .
William Shakespeare. .
Edward Gibbon ..
Robert Browning . .
Thomas Carlyle . .
John Milton . .
John Milton ...
Thomas B. Macaulay
The Vision of Joan of Arc ,
The Sistine Madonna .. ..
Statue of Moses . .
The Blessed Damozel ..
Napoleon at Waterloo .
The Parting of Hector and An-
dromache . .
Cromwell dissolving the Long Par-
liament . .
Milton dictating "Paradise Lost"
to his Daughters . .
D. Maillard .
Raphael .. ..
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
C. Steuben ..
A. Maignar . 154
Benjamin WVest .
M. Munkacsy . .. 221
William Shakespeare ..
Thomas De Quincey .
Sir Thomas More ..
John Richard Green ....
James Anthony Froude .
Charlotte Bront. .. ...
Ben Jonson ...
Joseph Addison . .
William Shakespeare .
Ralph Waldo Emerson .
Walter Savage Landor .
Edmund Spenser . .
Victor Hugo . .
William Makepeace Thackeray .
Robert Browning . .
Thomas Carlyle .. ...
John Milton . .
William Wordsworth .
Thomas Babington Macaulay .
Edmund Burke ......
. . . 64
. . . 105
. . 119
. . 121
.. . 130
. . . 131
. . 145
. . . 203
. . 208
. . 222
. . 223
. . . 228
JOAN OF ARC.
Jeanne d'Arc, or, as she is named in
English, Joan of Arc, was the daugli-
ter of a peasant of Domremy, i
little village on the borders of
5 Lorraine and Champagne. She
was born in 1412. Domr6my
is close to the great woods of "4
the Vosges, in which Jeanne
loved to wander, watching the /
1o birds and the beasts, and mak- ,J '
ing friends of them. At home she
was "a good girl, simple and pleas- Thomas De Quincey.
ant in her ways," and differed
from other girls in being more modest, industrious, and
15 pious. She was taught to sew and to spin, but not to
read and write.
At this time all the northern part of France was torn
and desolated by the war which had for its object the
subjugation of France to the power of England. Misery
20 and disease were everywhere, and even in her distant vil-
lage, at the foot of the Vosges, Jeanne had been made
acquainted with the horrors and hardships which afflicted
her country. When about thirteen years of age, she
believed that St. Michael appeared to her in a blaze of
light, commanding her to be modest and attentive to all 5.
the duties of religion. This vision, and her sorrow for
the distress of France, absorbed her whole being ; her con-
stant expression was, she "had pity on the fair realm of
When she was fifteen, St. Michael appeared to her again, to
and bade her go and fight for the Dauphin.
"Messire," replied the girl, "I am but a poor maiden;
I know not how to ride to the wars, or to lead men
The poor girl wept, and wished to escape a work so 15
difficult and so new. But, encouraged by the angel, her
brave spirit overcame her fears, and she made known her
mission to her friends.
At first she was laughed at as insane, and her father
swore he would drown her rather than she should go with 20
men to the wars; but she succeeded in the end in leaving
her home, and in making her way to the Dauphin, whom
she persuaded of her heavenly mission, and promised that
he should be anointed and crowned in the town of Rheims.
She was now in her eighteenth year -tall, strong, and 25
active, and able to remain on horseback without food from
dawn till dark. Mounted on a charger, clad in a suit of
white armor from head to foot, and bearing a white
banner, she seemed "a thing wholly divine, whether to see
or hear." 30
Carbon by Braun, Clement & Co.
The Vision of Joan of Arc,
graved by Charles Meeder.
In April, 1429, she commenced the relief of Orleans,
which was closely besieged by the English, and which,
pressed by famine, was on the point of surrender when
Jeanne presented herself to the Dauphin. In the midst
of a terrible thunderstorm she marched through the 5
English lines, unperceived and unopposed, and next
morning showed herself with her banner on the walls of
"I bring you," she said? to the French general Dunois,
who had sallied out of Orleans to meet her, "the best aid 10
ever sent to any one, the aid of the King of Heaven."
Fort after fort fell into her hands, and the English,
believing they were fighting against invisible powers,
raised the siege and marched away. The belief in witch-
craft and sorcery was then real and living among all 15
classes of people. Triumph after triumph followed ; and,
with an ever-increasing army, she at length reached the
gates of Rheims.
"0 gentle king, the pleasure of God is done!" she
cried, when she saw the crown placed on the head 'of 20
Charles the Seventh ; and she now passionately longed to
go back to her father, to her village and her quiet home.
"Oh that I might go and keep sheep once more with my
brothers and sisters; they would be so glad to see me
again! But the French court had found out how use- 25
ful she was, and refused to let her depart.
Jeanne's instinct and heavenly voices spoke the truth.
From this time she could not help feeling that her mission
was at an end, and that she was fighting without the sup-
port of heaven. During the defense of Compiegne she 30
was thrown from her horse and taken prisoner. After
the barbarous custom of the time in dealing with prisoners,
she was sold by her captor to the Duke of Burgundy, an
ally of England, and again by the Duke into the hands of
5 the English.
Her triumphs were triumphs of sorcery in the eyes of
her enemies; and even her king must have believed her
to be a witch, for, with the base ingratitude born of
intense and royal selfishness, he made not the smallest
10 attempt either to ransom or release her.
After a year's imprisonment, an ecclesiastical court,
with the Bishop of Beauvais at its head, was formed to
try her. The accusation was that she had been guilty of
heresy and magic. Not permitted an advocate or de-
15 fender, she was only supported by the courage of inno-
cence ; but she displayed in her answers a shrewdness and
simple good sense that contrasted strongly with the artful
dealings of the learned doctors, her judges.
When they asked: "Do you believe that you are in the
20 favor of God ?" she replied, "If I am not, God will put
me in it ; if I am, God will keep me in it."
When asked if the saints of her visions hated the Eng-
lish, she answered; "They love whatever God loves, and
hate whatever he hates." And when the Bishop of Beau-
25 vais, still trying to entrap her, proceeded: "Does God,
then, hate the English ? she still replied : Whether God
loves or hates the English, I do not know; but I know
that all those who do not die in battle shall be driven away
from this realm by the king of France."
30 When questioned about her standard, she said: "I car-
ried it instead of a lance, to avoid slaying any one; I
have killed nobody. I only said: 'Rush in among the
English,' and I rushed among them the first myself."
"The voices," she continued, in answer to further ques-
tions-"the voices told me to take it without fear, and 5
that God would help me." And when they asked her if
her hope of victory was founded on the banner or herself,
she said: "It was founded on God, and on nought be-
She was deprived of mass. "Our Lord can make me to
hear it without your aid," she said, weeping.
It is said that an Englishman who was present at the
trial was so struck with Jeanne's evident sincerity that he
could not help crying out: A worthy woman, if she were
but English 15
Her judges drew up twelve articles of accusation on
the grounds of sorcery and heresy. On the 24th of May,
1431, the anniversary of the day on which the maid had
been taken prisoner the year before, she was led to the
cemetery of St. Ouen, where two platforms were erected. 20
On the one stood the Cardinal of Winchester, the Bishop
of Beauvais, and several other churchmen.
Jeanne was conducted to the second platform, where a
preacher, named Erard, stormed at her fiercely; she lis-
tened with gentle patience, until he began to accuse the 25
king; then she interrupted him warmly, saying : "Speak
of me, but do not speak of the king. He is a good Chris-
tian, and not such as you say; I can swear to you he is
the noblest of all Christians, and one who the most loves
the Church and the faith." 30
When the sermon was finished, the preacher read to
Jeanne a form of abjuration, of which she asked an ex-
planation, saying she had nothing to abjure, for that all
she had done was at the command of God. At this they
a told her she must submit to the Church, and then, using
threats, they pointed to the public executioner, telling her
that instant death was the only alternative.
Poor Jeanne! Braver hearts than thine have failed at
such a trial. Trembling, she put her mark to the paper,
10 saying : "I would rather sign than burn "
The Bishop of Beauvais then proceeded to pass sentence.
He said, "that as, by the grace of God, she had given up
her errors, and come back to the bosom of the Church,
the ban of excommunication was removed. But," he
15 added, "as she had sinned against God and the holy
Catholic Church, though 'by grace and moderation' her
life was spared, she must pass the rest of it in prison, with
the bread of grief and the water of anguish for her food."
This, however, was only a temporary respite; it was
20 not designed that her life should be spared. Her enemies
sought only to gain time in order to find a better excuse
for her death, but they sought in vain. She was accused
of a return to heresy, and condemned to death. A great
pile was raised in the market place of Rouen; here she
25 was led, and found her enemies awaiting her. Asking
for a cross, an English soldier made one by breaking his
staff asunder. She kissed it and clasped it to her breast.
Suddenly she cried out: Yes my voices were of God!
they have never deceived me Her last word, with her
30 eyes fixed on a crucifix held before her by a priest, was
"Jesus! and amid the deep and awful silence of the
brutal soldiery and unfeeling people, the heroic soul of
the poor young country girl passed away.
A statue of the Maid of Orleans now marks the spot
where she suffered death. 5
What is to be thought of her? What is to be
thought of the poor shepherd girl from the hills and
forests of Lorraine, who rose suddenly out of the quiet,
out of the safety, out of the religious inspiration of deep
pastoral solitudes, to a station in the van of armies, and to
to the more perilous station at the right hand of kings ?
The poor maiden drank not herself from that cup of rest
which she had secured for France. No for her voice
was then silent. No for her feet were dust.
Pure, innocent, noble-hearted girl When the thun- 15
ders of universal France, as even yet may happen, shall
proclaim the grandeur of her who gave up all for her
country, thy ear will have been deaf for five centuries.
To suffer and to do, that was thy portion in this life; to
do never for thyself, always for others; to sufer 2o
never in the persons of generous champions, always in
thy own -that was thy destiny; and not for a moment
was it hidden from thyself. Life, thou saidst, is short;
let me use that life, so transitory, for glorious ends.
This pure creature pure from every suspicion of even 25
a visionary self-interest, even as she was pure in senses
more obvious never once relaxed in her belief in the
darkness that was traveling to meet her. She might not
prefigure the very manner of her death ; she saw not in
vision, perhaps, the aerial altitude of the fiery scaffold, the 30
spectators on every road pouring into Rouen as to a coro-
nation, the surging smoke, the volleying flames; but the
voice that called her to death that she heard forever.
Great was the throne of France even in those days,
5 and great was he that sat upon it; but well she knew
that not the throne, nor he that sat upon it, was for
her; but, on the contrary, that she was for them. Not
she by them, but they by her, should rise from the dust.
Gorgeous were the lilies of France, and for centuries had
10 they the privilege to spread their beauty over land and
sea ; but well she knew that the lilies of France would
decorate no garland for her. Flower nor bud, bell nor
blossom, would ever bloom for her.
Her piety displayed itself in the most touching manner
15 to the last; and her angelic forgetfulness of self was
manifested in a remarkable degree. The executioner
had been directed to apply his torch from below. He
did so. The fiery smoke rose upwards in billowing
volumes. A monk was then standing at her side.
20 Wrapt up in his sublime office, he saw not the danger,
but still persisted in his prayers.
Even then, when the last enemy was racing up the
fiery stairs to seize her, even at that moment did this
noblest of girls think only for him--the one friend that
25 would not forsake her- and not for herself; bidding him
with her last breath to care for his own preservation, but
to leave her to God. Go down," she said; "lift up the
cross before me, that I may see it in dying, and speak to
me pious words to the end."
-From "Biographies," by Thomas De Quincey.
"What sound was that, Socrates ? asked Chaerephon.
"It came from the beach under the cliff yonder, and
seemed a long way off. And how melodious it was!
Was it a bird? I thought all sea birds were songless."
"It was a sea bird," answered Socrates, "a bird called
the Halcyon, and has a note full of plaining and tears.
There is an old story people tell of it. It was a mortal
woman once, daughter of 2Eolus, god of the winds.
Ceyx, the son of the morning star, wedded her in her
early maidenhood. The son was not less fair than the
father; and when it came to pass that he died, the cry-
ing of the girl, as she lamented his sweet usage, was-
just that And some while after, as Heaven willed it,
she was changed into a bird. Floating now on bird's
wings over the sea, she seeks her lost Ceyx there, since
she was not able to find him after long wandering over
"That, then, is the Halcyon the kingfisher," said
Chmrephon. "I never heard a bird like it before. It
has truly a plaintive note. What kind of a bird is it ? "
"Not a large bird, though she has received large honor
from the gods on account of her singular conjugal affec-
tion; for whensoever she makes her nest, a law of nature
brings round what is called Halcyon's weather -days dis-
tinguishable among all others for their serenity, though
they come sometimes amid the storms of winter -days
like to-day See how transparent is the sky above us,
and how motionless the sea, like a smooth mirror "
"True A Halcyon day, indeed, and yesterday was
the same. But tell me, Socrates, what is one to think
of those stories which have been told from the beginning,
of birds changed into mortals, and mortals into birds?
5 To me nothing seems more incredible."
"Dear Chaerephon," said Socrates, "methinks we are
but half-blind judges of the impossible and the possible.
We try the question by the standard of our human
faculty, which avails neither for true knowledge, nor
10 for faith, nor vision. Therefore many things seem to
us impossible which are really easy ; many things unat-
tainable which are within our reach; partly through
inexperience, partly through the childishness of our
minds ; for, in truth, every man, even the oldest of us,
15 is like a little child, so brief and babyish are the years
of our life in comparison with eternity. Then how can
we, who comprehend not the faculties of gods and the
heavenly host, tell whether aught of that kind be pos-
sible or no ? What a tempest you saw three days ago !
20 One trembles but to think of the lightning, the thun-
derclaps, the violence of the wind You might have
thought the whole world was going to ruin. And then,
after a little, came this wonderful serenity of weather,
which has continued till to-day. Which do you think
25 the greater and more difficult thing to do -to exchange
the disorder of that irresistible whirlwind for a clarity
like this, and becalm the whole world again, or to re-
fashion the form of a woman into that of a bird? We
can teach even little children to do something of that
30 sqyt: totake wax or clay, and mold out of the same
SCH. READ. VIII.--2
material many kinds of form, one after another, with-
out difficulty. And it may be that to the Deity, whose
power is too vast for comparison with ours, all processes
of that kind are manageable and easy. How much wider
is the whole heaven than thyself ? More than thou canst 5
express. Among ourselves, also, how vast the differences
we observe in men's degrees of power To you and me,
and many another like us, many things are impossible
which are quite easy to others. For those who are un-
musical, to play on the flute; to read or write, for those to
who have not yet learned, is no easier than to make
birds of women, or women of birds. From the dumb
and lifeless egg Nature molds her swarm of winged
creatures, aided, as some will have it, by a divine and
secret art in the wide air around us. She takes from 15
the honeycomb a little memberless live thing; she brings
it wings and feet, brightens and beautifies it with quaint
variety of color; and lo! the bee in her wisdom, making
honey worthy of the gods !
It follows that we mortals, being altogether of little 20
account, able wholly to discern no great matter, some-
times not even a little one, may hardly speak with secu-
rity as to what those vast powers of the immortal gods
may be concerning kingfisher or nightingale. Yet the
glory of thy mythus, 0 tearful songstress! that will I, 25
too, hand on to my children, and tell it often to my
wives,-the story of thy pious love to Ceyx, and of
thy melodious hymns, and above all, of the honor thou
hast with the gods! "
From Lucian of Samosata: Translated by Walter Pater.
Jaff r, the Barmecide, the good vizier,
The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer, -
Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust;
And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust
Of what the good, and e'en the bad, might say,
Ordained that no man living from that day
Should dare to speak his name on pain of death.
All Araby and Persia held their breath, -
All but the brave Mondeer: he, proud to show
How far for love a grateful soul could go,
And facing death for very scorn and grief
(For his great heart wanted a great relief),
Stood forth in Bagdad daily, in the square
Where once had stood a happy house, and there
Harangued the tremblers at the scimitar
On all they owed to the divine Jaffar.
"Bring me this man," the caliph cried; the man
Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began
To bind his arms. Welcome, brave cords," cried he,
"From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me;
From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears;
Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears;
Restored me, loved me, put me on a par
With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar ?"
Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this
The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss,
Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate
Might smile upon another half as great.
He said, Let worth grow frenzied if it will;
The caliph's judgment shall be master still.
Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem,
The richest in the Tartar's diadem,
And hold the giver as thou deemest fit! "
" Gifts! cried the friend; he took, and holding it
High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star,
Exclaimed, "This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar! "
Scorn not the Sonnet: Critic you have frowned
Mindless of its just honors; with this key
Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound:
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief;
The sonnet glittered like a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypresses with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow; a glow-worm lamp
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains alas, too few !
SIR THOMAS MORE.
I. HIS CHARACTER.
Young Thomas More had no sooner quitted the Univer-
sity than he was known throughout Europe as one of the
foremost figures in the new movement
for the advancement of learning. The
5 keen irregular face, the gray rest-
less eye, the thin mobile lips, the
tumbled brown hair, the care-
less gait and dress, as they re-
mained stamped on the canvas
10 of Holbein, picture the inner
soul of the man, his vivacity,
his restless all-devouring intellect,
his keen and even reckless wit, the
kindly, half-sad humor that drew its Sir Thomas More.
15 strange veil of laughter and tears (From the Painting by Holbein.)
over the deep, tender reverence of the soul within.
The young law student who laughed at the superstition
and asceticism of the monks of his day, wore a hair
shirt next his skin, and schooled himself by penances for
20 the cell he desired among the Carthusians. Free-
thinker, as the bigots who listened to his daring specula-
tions termed him, his eye would brighten and his tongue
falter as he spoke with friend of heaven and the after life.
When he took office, it was with the open stipulation
25 first to look to God, and after God to the king." But in
his outer bearing there was nothing of the monk or recluse.
The brightness and freedom of the New Learning seemed
incarnate in the young scholar, with his gay talk, his
winsomeness of manner, his reckless epigrams, his passion-
ate love of music, his omnivorous reading, his paradoxical
speculations, his gibes at monks, his schoolboy fervor of
liberty. But events were soon to prove that beneath this 5
sunny nature lay a stern inflexibility of conscientious
It is when we get a glimpse of him in his house at
Chelsea that we understand the endearing epithets which
Erasmus always lavishes upon More. The delight of the o1
young husband was to train the girl he had chosen for his
wife in his own taste for letters and for music. The reserve
which the age exacted from parents was thrown to the
winds in More's intercourse with his children. He loved
teaching them, and lured them to their 15
de 1.er studies by the coins and curi-
S .,ties he had gathered in his cabinet.
'He was as fond of their pets and
their games as his children
themselves, and would take 20
grave scholars and statesmen
into the garden to see his girls'
rabbit hutches, or to watch the
Sgambols of their favorite monkey.
I have given you kisses enough," 25
John Richard Green, he wrote to his little ones, in merry
verse, when far away on political
business, "but stripes hardly ever."
More "tried as hard to keep out of court," says his
descendant, "as most men try to get in." When the so
charm of his conversation gave so much pleasure to his
young sovereign that he could not once in a month get
leave to go home to his wife or children, whose company
he much desired, he began thereupon to dissemble his
5 nature, and so, little by little, from his mirth to dissemble
himself." More shared to the full the disappointment of
his friends at the sudden outbreak of King Henry's warlike
temper, but the Peace again drew him to the Court, he
entered the Royal service, anct was soon in the king's con-
10 fidence both as a counselor and as a diplomatist.
From "A Short History of the English People,"
by John Richard Green.
II. HIS TRIAL.
JULY 1, 1535.
By reason of Will's 1 minding to be present at the Trial,
which for the Concourse of Spectators, demanded his early
Attendance, he committed the Care of me, with Bess and
Cecilie,to Dancey, who got us places to see Father on his
15 way to the Tower from Westminster Hall .
Will tells me the Indictment was the longest ever
heard; on four Counts. First, his Opinion on the King's
Marriage. Second, his writing sundry Letters to the
Bishop of Rochester, counseling him to hold out. Third,
20 refusing to acknowledge his Grace's Supremacy. Fourth,
1 The spelling in this selection has been modernized, but the italics
and capital letters remain as in the original. Bess, Cecilie, and Mar-
garet, the writer of the account, are the children of Sir Thomas More;
Will is the young husband of Margaret; Patteson is a poor simpleton,
a servant and dependant of Sir Thomas's.
his positive Denial of it, and thereby willing to deprive
the King of his Dignity and Title.
When the reading of this was over, the Lord Chancellor
saith, You see how grievously you have offended the
King his Grace, but and yet he is so merciful, as that if you 5
will lay aside your Obstinacy, and change your Opinion,
we hope you may yet obtain Pardon."
Father makes answer and at Sound of his dear
Voice, all Men hold their Breaths; "Most noble
Lords, I have great Cause to thank your Honors for this to
your Courtesy but I pray ALMIGHTY GOD I may con-
tinue in the mind I'm in, through his Grace, until Death."
They could not make good their Accusation against
him. 'Twas only on the Last Count he could be made
out a Traitor, and Proof of it they had none ; how could 15
they have? He should have been acquitted out of hand,
instead of which, his bitter Enemy, my Lord Chancellor
called on him for his Defense. Will saith there was a
general Murmur or Sigh ran through the Court. Father,
however, answered the Bidding by beginning to express 20
his Hope that the Effect of long Imprisonment might not
have been such upon his Mind and Body, as to impair his
Power of rightly meeting all the Charges against him .
when, turning faint with long standing, he staggered and
loosed Hold of his Staff, whereon he was accorded a Seat. 25
'Twas but a Moment's Weakness of the Body, and he
then proceeded frankly to avow his having always op-
posed the King's Marriage to his Grace himself, which he
was so far from thinking High Treason, that he should
rather have deemed it Treachery to have withholden his 30
Opinion from his Sovereign King when solicited by him
for his Counsel. His Letters to the good Bishop he proved
to have been harmless. Touching his declining to give
his Opinion, when asked, concerning the Supremacy, he
Alleged there could be no Transgression in holding his
Peace thereon, GOD only being cognizant of our Thoughts.
"Nay," interposeth the Attorney General. Your
Silence was the Token of a Malicious Mind."
I had always understood," answers Father, that
10 Silence stood for Consent," which made Sundry smile.
On the last Charge, he protested he had never spoken
Word against the Law unto any Man.
The Jury are about to acquit him, when up starts the
Solicitor General, offers himself as Witness for the Crown,
15 is sworn, and gives Evidence of his Dialogue with Father
in the Tower, falsely adding, like a Liar as he is, that on
his saying "No Parliament could make a Law that GoD
should not be GOD," Father had rejoined, "No more could
they make the King supreme Head of the Church."
20 I marvel the Ground opened not at his Feet. Father
briskly made Answer, "If I were a Man, my Lords, who
regarded not an Oath, you know well I needed not stand
now at this Bar. And if the Oath which you, Mr. Rich,
have just taken, be true, theil I pray I may never see
25 GOD in the Face. In good Truth, Mr. Rich, I am more
sorry for your Perjury than my Peril. You and I once
dwelt long together in one Parish; your manner, of Life
and Conversation from your Youth up were familiar to
me, and it paineth me to tell you were ever held very
30light of your Tongue, a great Dicer and Gamester, and
not any commendable Fame either there or in the Temple,
the Inn to which you belonged. Is it credible, therefore,
to your Lordships, that the Secrets of my Conscience
touching the Oath, which I never would reveal, after the
Statute once made, neither to the King's Grace himself, 5
nor to any of you, my honorable Lords, I should have
thus lightly blurted out in private Parley with Mr.
In short, the Villain made not good his Point: never-
theless, the Issue of this black Day was aforehand fixed; o1
my Lord Audley was primed with a virulent and venom-
ous Speech; the Jury retired, afd presently returned with
a Verdict of Guilty; for they knew what the King's Grace
would have them do in that Case.
Up starts my Lord Audley ;-commences pronouncing 15
"My Lord," says Father, "in my Time, the Custom in
these Cases was ever to ask the Prisoner before Sentence,
whether he could give any Reason why Judgment should
not proceed against him." 20
My Lord, in some Confusion, puts the Question.
And then came the frightful Sentence.
Yes, yes, my Soul, I know; there were Saints of old
sawn asunder. Men of whom the World was not worthy.
Then he spake unto them his Mind, and bade his 25
Judges and Accusers farewell; hoping like as St. Paul
was present and consenting unto St. Stephen's Death, and
yet both were now holy Saints in Heaven, so he and they
might speedily meet there, joint Heirs of everlasting
Meantime, poor Bess and Gecilie, spent with Grief and
long waiting, were forced to be carried home, or ever
Father returned to his Prison. Was it less Feeling, or
more Strength of Body, enabled me to bide at the Tower
5 Wharf with Dancey? GOD knoweth.
They brought him back by Water; my poor Sisters
must have passed him. The first Thing I saw was
the Ax, turned with its -Edge towards him my first Note
of his Sentence. I forced my Way through the Crowd
10. some one laid a cold Hand on mine Arm; 'twas poor
Patteson, so changed I scarce knew him, with a Rosary
of Gooseberries he kept running through his Fingers. He
saith, "Bide your Time, Mistress Meg; when he comes
past, I'll make a Passage for you." In another Mo-
15 ment, Now, Mistress, now and flinging his Arms right
and left, made a Breach through which I darted, fearless
of Bills and Halberds, and did cast mine Arms about
He cries, "My MJeg!" and hugs me to 'him as though
20 our very Souls should grow together. He1saith, Bless
thee, bless thee Enough, enough, my Child; what mean
you, to weep and break mine heart? Remember, though
I die innocent, 'tis not without the Will of GOD, who could
have turned mine Enemies' Hearts, if 'twere best; there-
25 fore possess your Soul in Patience. Kiss them all for me,
thus and thus. ." so gave me back into Dancey's Arms,
the Guards about him all weeping; but I could not thus
lose Sight of him forever; so after a Minute's Pause, did
make a second Rush, brake away from Dancey, clave to
30 Father again, and again they had Pity on me, and made
Pause while I hung upon his Neck. This Time there were
large Drops standing on his dear Brow; and the big Tears
were swelling into his Eyes. He whispered, "Meg, for
Christ's Sake don't unman me; thou'lt not deny my last
Request? I said, Oh! no; and at once loosened mine 5
Arms. God's Blessing be with you," he saith, with a
last Kiss. I could not help crying, My Father, my
Father!" "The Chariot of Israel, and the Horsemen
thereof he vehemently whispers, pointing upwards with
so passionate a Regard, that I look up, almost expecting 10
a beatific Vision; and when I turn about again, he's gone,
and I have no more Sense nor Life till I find myself again
in mine own Chamber, my Sisters chafing my Hands.
-From "The Household of Sir Thomas Mlore (purporting to be the
diary of his daughter, Margaret More), by Miss Manning.
III. HIS EXECUTION.
At daybreak he was awakened by the entrance of Sir
Thomas Pope, who had come to confirm his anticipations, 15
and to tell him it was the king's pleasure that he should
suffer at nine o'clock that morning. He received the news
with utter composure.
"I am much bounden to the king," he said, "for the
benefits and honors he has bestowed upon me; and, so 20
help me God, most of all am I bounden to him that it
pleaseth his majesty to rid me so shortly out of the miseries
of this present world."
Pope told him the king desired that he would not use
many words on the scaffold." "Mr. Pope," he answered, 25
"you do well to give me warning, for otherwise I had
purposed somewhat to have spoken; but no matter where-
with his grace should have cause to be offended. Howbeit,
whatever I intended I shall obey his highness's command."
He afterwards discussed the arrangements for his fu-
5 neral, at which he begged that his family might be pres-
ent, and, when all was settled, Pope rnSP
to leave him. He was an old fri.-il. b
He took More's hand and wrung il.
and, quite overcome, burst into
o1 tears. L
SQuiet yourself, Mr. Pope,"
More said, and be not discom- .
fited; for I trust we shall soon
see each other full merrily,
15 when we shall live and love
together in eternal bliss."
As soon as he was alone, he
dressed in his most elaborate James Anthony Fronde.
costume. It was for the benefit, he said, of the execu-
20 tioner, who was to do him so great a service. Sir William
Kingston remonstrated, and with some difficulty induced
him to put on a plainer suit; but, that his intended liber-
ality should not fail, he sent the man a gold angel in
compensation, "as a token that he maliced him nothing,
25 but rather loved him extremely."
"So about nine of the clock he was brought by the
lieutenant out of the Tower, his beard being long, which
fashion he had never before used, his face pale and lean,
carrying in his hands a red cross, casting his eyes often
30 towards heaven." He had been unpopular as a judge,
and one or two persons in the crowd were insolent to
him; but the distance was short and soon over, as all else
was nearly over now.
The scaffold had been awkwardly erected, and shook
as he placed his foot upon the ladder. "See me safe up," 5
he said to Kingston. "For my coming down I can shift
for myself." He began to speak to the people, but the
sheriff begged him not to proceed, and he contented him-
self with asking for their prayers, and desiring them to
bear witness for him that he died a faithful servant of 1o
God and the king. He then repeated the Miserere prayer
on his knees; and when he had ended and had risen, the
executioner, with an emotion that promised ill for the
manner in which his part in the tragedy would be accom.
polished, begged his forgiveness. 15
More kissed him. "Thou art to do me the greatest
benefit that I can receive," he said. Pluck up thy spirit,
man, and be not afraid to do thine office. My neck is
very short. Take heed therefore that thou strike not
awry, for saving of thy honesty." The executioner offered 20
to tie his eyes. "I will cover them myself," he said, and,
binding them in a cloth which he had brought with him,
he knelt afid laid hishead upon the block.
The fatal stroke was about to fall, when he signed for
a moment's delay while he laid aside his beard. "Pity 25
that should be cut," he murmured; "that has not com-
mitted treason." With such strange words, the strangest
perhaps ever uttered at such a time, the lips most famous
through Europe for eloquence and wisdom closed for ever.
From "A History of England," by James Anthony Froude.
A BOARDING-SCHOOL INCIDENT.
I have not yet alluded to the visits of Mr. Brockle-
hurst; and indeed that gentleman was from home during
the greater part of the first month after my arrival; per-
haps prolonging his stay with his friend
j the archdeacon: his absence was a re-
lief to me. I need not say I had m3i
own reasons for dreading his coin-
ing: but come he did at last.
One afternoon (I had then
io been three weeks at Lowood)
as I was sitting with a slate in
my hand, puzzling over a sum
in long division, my eyes, *:
raised in abstraction to the
15 window, -caught sight of a
figure just passing: I recog- Charlotte Bronte,
nized almost instinctively the
gaunt outline; and when, two minutes after, all the
school, teachers included, rose, en masse, it was not
20 necessary for me to look up in order to ascertain whose
entrance they thus greeted. A long stride measured the
schoolroom, and presently beside Miss Temple, who her-
self had risen, stood the same black column which had
frowned on me so ominously from the hearth rug of Gates-
z2 head. I now glanced sideways at this piece of architec-
ture. Yes, I was right: it wa3 Mi. Brocklehurst, but-
toned up in a surtout, and looking longer, narrower, and
more rigid than ever.
I had my own reasons for being dismayed at this appa-
rition: too well I remembered the perfidious hints given
by Mrs. Reed about my disposition, etc.; the promise
pledged by Mr. Brocklehurst to apprise Miss Temple and
the teachers of my vicious nature. All along I had been c
dreading the fulfillment of this promise, -I had been
looking out daily for the "Coming Man," whose informa-
tion respecting my past life and conversation was to
brand me as a bad child forever: now there he was.
He stood at Miss Temple's side; le was speaking low in 1o
her ear: I did not doubt he was making disclosures of my
villainy; and I watched her eye with painful anxiety,
expecting every moment to see its dark orb turn on me
a glance of repugnance and contempt. I listened too;
and as I happened to be seated quite at the top of the 15
room, I caught most of what he said: its import relieved
me from immediate apprehension.
"I suppose, Miss Temple, the thread I bought at Low-
ton will do; it struck me it would be just the quality for
the calico chemises, and I sorted the needles to match. 20
You may tell Miss Smith that I forgot to make a memo-
randum of the darning needles, but she shall have some
papers sent in next week; and she is not, on any account,
to give out more than one at a time to each pupil: if
they have more, they are apt to be careless and lose 2
them. And, 0 ma'am! I wish the woolen" stockings
were better looked to! -when I was here last, I went
into the kitchen garden, and examined the clothes dry-
ing on the line; there was a quantity of black hose in
a very bad state of repair: from the size of the holes in 0s
them I was sure they had not been well mended from
time to time."
"Your directions shall be attended to, sir," said Miss
"And, ma'am," he continued, "the laundress tells me
some of the girls have two clean tuckers in the week: it
is too much; the rule limits them to one."
"I think I can explain that circumstance, sir. Agnes
to and Catherine Johnstone were invited to take tea with
some friends at Lowton last Thursday, and I gave them
leave to put on clean tuckers for the occasion."
Mr. Brocklehurst nodded.
"Well, for once it may pass; but please not to let the
1a circumstance occur too often. And there is another
thing which surprised me: I find, in settling accounts
with the housekeeper, that a lunch, consisting of bread
and cheese, has twice been served out to the girls during
the past fortnight. How is this? I look over the regu-
20 lations, and I find no such meal as lunch mentioned.
Who introduced this innovation ? and by what authority ? "
"I must be responsible for the circumstance, sir,"
replied Miss Temple. The breakfast was so ill prepared
that the pupils could not possibly eat it; and I dared not
25 allow them to remain fasting till dinner time."
"Madam, allow me an instant. -You are aware that
my plan in bringing up these girls is, not to accustom
them to habits of luxury and indulgence, but to render
them hardy, patient, self-denying. Should any little
so accidental disappointment of the appetite occur, such as
SCH. READ. VIII. -3
the spoiling of a meal, the under or over dressing of a
dish, the incident ought not to be neutralized by replac-
ing with something more delicate the comfort lost, thus
pampering the body and obviating the aim of the institu-
tion; it ought to be improved to the spiritual edification 5
of the pupils, by encouraging them to evince fortitude
under the temporary privation. A brief address on these
occasions would not be mistimed, wherein a judicious
instructor would take the opportunity of referring to the
sufferings of the primitive Christians; to the torments of 10
the martyrs; to the exhortations of our blessed Lord Him-
self, calling upon His disciples to take up their cross and
follow Him; to His warnings that man shall not live by
bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the
mouth of God; to His divine consolations, 'If ye suffer 15
hunger or thirst for my sake, happy are ye.' O madam,
when you put bread and cheese, instead of burnt por-
ridge, into these children's mouths, you may indeed feed
their vile bodies, but you little think how you starve
their immortal souls! 20
Mr. Brocklehurst again paused-perhaps overcome by
his feelings. Miss Temple had looked down when he
first began to speak to her; but she now gazed straight
before her, and her face, naturally pale as marble, ap-
peared to be assuming also the coldness and fixity of that 25
material; especially her mouth, closed as if it would have
required a sculptor's chisel to open it, and her brow
settled gradually into petrified severity.
Meantime, Mr. Brocklehurst, standing on the hearth
with his hands behind his back, majestically surveyed the 30
whole school. Suddenly his eye gave a blink, as if it
had met something that either dazzled or shocked its
pupil; turning, he said in more rapid accents than he
had hitherto used:
5 "Miss Temple, Miss Temple, what- what is that girl
with curled hair? Red hair, ma'am, curled curled all
over?" And extending his cane he pointed to the awful
object, his hand shaking as he did so.
"It is Julia Severn," replied Miss Temple, very
"Julia Severn, ma'am! And why has she, or any
other, curled hair? Why, in defiance of every precept
and principle of this house, does she conform to the
world, so openly here in an evangelical, charitable
is establishment as to wear her hair one mass of Furls ? "
"Julia's hair curls naturally," returned Miss Temple,
still more quietly.
"Naturally! Yes, but we are not to conform to nature:
I wish these girls to be the children of Grace: and why
20 that abundance? I have again and again intimated that
I desire the hair to be arranged closely, modestly,
plainly. Miss Temple, that girl's hair must be cut off
entirely; I will send a barber to-morrow: and I see
others who have far too much of the excrescence -that
25 tall girl, tell her to turn round. Tell all the first form
to rise up and direct their faces to the wall."
Miss Temple passed her handkerchief over her lips, as
if to smooth away the involuntary smile that curled
them; she gave the order, however, and when the first
so class could take in what was required of there, they
obeyed. Leaning a little back on my bench, I could see
the looks and grimaces with which they commented on
this maneuver: it was a pity Mr. Brocklehurst could not
see them too; he would perhaps have felt that, whatever
he might do with the outside of the cup and platter, 5
the inside was further beyond his interference than he
He scrutinized the reverse of these living medals some
five minutes, then pronounced sentence. These words
fell like the knell of doom: 10
"All those topknots must be cut off."
Miss Temple seemed to remonstrate.
"Madam," he pursued, "I have a Master to serve
whose kingdom is not of this world: my mission is to
mortify in these girls the lusts of the flesh; to teach 15
them to clothe themselves with shamefacedness and sobri-
ety, not with braided hair and costly apparel; and each
of the young persons before us has a string of hair
twisted in plaits which vanity itself might have woven:
these, I repeat, must be cut off; think of the time wasted, 20
Mr. Brocklehurst was here interrupted: three other
visitors, ladies, now entered the room. They ought to
have come a little sooner to have heard his lecture on
dress, for they were splendidly attired in velvet, silk, 25
and furs. The two younger of the trio (fine girls of
sixteen and seventeen) had gray beaver hats, then in
fashion, shaded with ostrich plumes, and from under the
brim of this graceful headdress fell a profusion of light
tresses, elaborately curled; the elderly lady was enveloped 30
in a costly velvet shawl, trimmed with ermine, and she
wore a false front of French curls.
These ladies were deferentially received by Miss
Temple as Mrs. and the Misses Brocklehurst, and con-
5 ducted to seats of honor at the top of the room. It
seems they had come in the carriage with their reverend
relative, and had been conducting a rummaging scrutiny
of the rooms upstairs, while he transacted business with
the housekeeper, questioned the laundress, and lectured
10 the superintendent. They now proceeded to address
divers remarks and reproofs to Miss Smith, who was
charged with the care of the linen and the inspection of
the dormitories: but I had no time to listen to what they
said; other matters called off and enchained my attention.
15 This extract is from "Jane Eyre," a novel written by
Charlotte Bront6 and first published in 1847. William
Makepeace Thackeray, to whom the book is dedicated,
pronounced it "the first social regenerator of the day."
Miss Bront6's family was very poor, and she and her sis-
20 ters were educated at a private school in Yorkshire, where
the discipline was of the severest character. The ill usage
which the girls received there, the desolation and unhappi-
ness which they experienced, are described in Jane Eyre "
in a manner which is at once both pleasing and painful.
25 The "Lowood Institution" has been identified with a
school established by the Rev. W. Carus Wilson near Leeds.
The story of "Jane Eyre," although it has lost much of
its early popularity, still ranks among the greatest works
of fiction written in the nineteenth century.
To him who, in the love of Nature, holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language: for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware.
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images 10
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart,
Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around 15
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air -
Comes a still voice : Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears, 20
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 2
To mix forever with the elements, -
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain
Turns with his share and treads upon. The oak
5 Shall send his roots abroad and pierce thy mold.
Yet not to thine eternal resting place
Shalt thou retire alone; nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world, with kings,
10 The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills,
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between,
15 The venerable woods, rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green, and, poured round all,
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,
Are but the solemn decorations all
20 Of the great tomb of man.
The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
25 The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon and hears no sound
Save his own dashings : yet the dead are there;
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep: the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw 5
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take.note of thy departure ? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 10
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employment, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men -
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 1
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man-
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side
By those who in their turn shall follow them.
So live that when thy summons comes to join 20
The innumerable caravan which moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 25
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
William Cullen Bryant.
(Suggested by the portrait of Raphael, at the age of fifteen.)
I shall not soon forget that sight:
The glow of autumn's westering day,
A hazy warmth, a dreamy light,
On Raphael's picture lay.
It was a simple print I saw,
The fair face of a musing boy;
Yet, while I gazed, a sense of awe
Seemed blending with my joy.
A single print, the graceful flow
Of boyhood's soft and wavy hair,
And fresh young lip and cheek, and brow
Unmarked and clear, were there.
Yet, through its sweet and calm repose
I saw the inward spirit shins;
It was as if before me rose
The white veil of a shrine. .
There drooped thy more than mortal face,
0 Mother, beautiful and mild!
Enfolding in one dear embrace
Thy Saviour and thy Child !
The rapt brow of the Desert John;
The awful glory of that day
When all the Father's brightness shone
Through manhood's veil of clay. .
There Fornarina's fair young face
Once more upon her lover shone,
Whose model of an angel's grace
He borrowed from her own.
Slow passed that vision from my view,
But not the lesson which it taught;
The soft, calm shadows which it threw
Still rested on my thought:
The truth that painter, bard, and sage,
Even in earth's cold and changeful clime,
Plant for their deathless heritage
The fruits and flowers of time.
We shape ourselves the joy or fear
Of which the coming life is made,
And fill our Future's atmosphere
With sunshine or with shade.
The tissue of the Life to be
We weave with colors all our own,
And in the field of Destiny
We reap as we have sown. .
-From the poem by John G. Whittier.
sgraved by L C. Butler.
The Sistine Madonna.
~: : ..
From the Painting by Raphael
RIP VAN WINKLE.
A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER.
Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson, must
remember the Kaatskill Mountains. They are a dismem-
bered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are
seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble
height, and lording it over the surrounding country. 6
Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed
every hour of the day, produces some change in the magi-
cal hues and shapes of these mountains; and they are
regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect
barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they to
are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold out-
lines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the
rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood
of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last
rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a 15
crown of glory.
At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may
have described 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 20
green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of
great antiquity, having been founded by some of the
Dutch colonists, in the early times of the province, just
about the beginning of the government of the good Peter
Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there were some 25
of the houses of the original settlers standing within a
few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from
Holland, having latticed windows and gabled fronts,
surmounted with weathercocks.
In that same village, and in one of these very houses
5 (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and
weather-beaten), there lived many years since, while the
country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple,
good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle.
He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so
to gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and
accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He in-
herited, however, but little of the martial character of his
He was a great favorite among all the good wives in
s1 the village. The children, 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 vil-
20 lage, he was surrounded by a troop of them hanging on
his skirts, clambering on his .back, and playing a thou-
sand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would
bark at him throughout the neighborhood.
The great error in Rip's composition was an insuper-
25 able aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could
not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance; for
he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy
as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur,
even though he should not be encouraged by a single
30 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 neigh-
bor, even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man
at all country frolics for husking Indian corn or building 5
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 lo
keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible.
In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his
farm; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground
in the whole country; everything about it went wrong,
and would go wrong in spite of him. His fences were 15
continually falling to pieces; his cow would either go
astray, or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to
grow thicker in his fields than anywhere else; the rain
always made a point of setting in just as he had some
outdoor work to do; so that though his patrimonial20
estate had dwindled away. under his management, acre
by acre, until there was little more left than a mere patch
of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst condi-
tioned farm in the neighborhood.
His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they 25
belonged to nobody. His son Rip, who was the very
likeness of him, 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 galligaskins, which he had so
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
a world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be
got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve
on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he
would have whistled life away in perfect contentment;
but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about
to his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bring-
ing 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
15 of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by fre-
quent 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,
20 and take to the outside of the house. Rip's sole domestic
adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked
as his master; for Dame Van 'Winkle regarded them as
companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with
an evil eye as the cause of his master's going so often
Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle, as
years of matrimony rolled on: a tart temper never mel-
lows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edge tool
that grows keener with constant use. For a long while
30 he used to console himself, when driven from home, by
frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philos-
ophers, and other idle personages of the village, which
held its sessions on a .bench before a small inn, desig-
nated by a rubicund portrait of his majesty George the
Third. Here they used to sit in the shade, of a long, 5
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 10
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 delib- 15
erate upon public events some months after they had
From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at
length routed by his termagant wife, who would sud-
denly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage, 20
and call the members all to naught; nor was that august
personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the dar-
ing tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him out-
right with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness.
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair, and his 25
only alternative to escape from the labor of the, farm and
the 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 so
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
5 wistfully in his master's face, and if dogs can feel pity,
I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his
In a long ramble of the kind, on a fine autumnal day,
Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest
lo parts of the Kaatskill Mountains. He was after his
favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes
had echoed and reechoed with the reports of his gun.
Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the after-
noon, on a green knoll covered with mountain herbage,
15 that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening
between the trees, he could overlook all the lower coun-
try for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a dis-
tance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on
its silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a
20 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 moun-
tain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled
25 with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely
lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For
some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was
gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw their
long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would
30 be dark long before he could reach the village; and lie
BCH. READ. VII. --4
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 Win-
kle!" He looked around, but could see nothing but a 5
crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He
thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned
again to descend, when lie heard the same cry ring
through the still evening air, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip
Van Winkle! "- at the same time Wolf bristled up his to
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 directioil, and perceived a strange
figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the 15
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. 20
On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at the
singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short,
square-built old fellow, with thick, bushy hair and a griz-
zled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion
-a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist-several pair 25
of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated
with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the
knees. He bore on his shoulders 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 dis- 30
trustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his
usual alacrity, and mutually relieving each other, they
clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a
mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and
5 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 thunder-
10 showers which often take place in mountain heights, he
proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a
hollow, like a small amphitheater, surrounded by perpen-
dicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending
trees shot their branches, so that you only caught
s 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 mar-
veled greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg
of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something
20 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 nine-
25 pins. 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
30 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 gentle-
man, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a lace 5
doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and
feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses
in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures
in an old Flemish painting in the parlor of Dominie Van
Schaick, the village parson, and which had been brought to
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 15
he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the still-
ness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, when-
ever 'they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like
rumbling peals of thunder.
As Rip and his companion approached them, they sud- 20
denly desisted from their play, and stared at him with
such a fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth,
lack-luster 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 25
made signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed
with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in pro-
found 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 30
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 pro-
voked another, and he reiterated his visits to the flagon
5 so often, that at length his senses were overpowered, his
eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and
he fell into a deep sleep.
On waking, he found himself on the green knoll from
whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He
10 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
15 he fell asleep. The strange man with the keg of liquor
-the mountain ravine-the wild retreat among the
rocks the woe-begone party at ninepins the flagon
-"Oh! that wicked flagon!" thought Rip- "what
excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?"
20 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 encrusted with rust, the lock falling
off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that
the grave roysterers of the mountain had put a trick upon
25 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
so dog was to be seen.
He determined to revisit the scene of the last even-
ing'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," 5
thought Rip. 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 astonish-
ment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leap-
ing from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling 10
murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its
sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of
biich, sassafras, and witch-hazel; and sometimes tripped
up or entangled by the wild grape vines that twisted
their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a 15
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 20
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 answered only
by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in 25
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 30
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.
5 As he approached the village, he met a number of
people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat sur-
prised 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.
0o They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and
whenever they cast eyes upon him, invariably stroked
their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture in-
duced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his
astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long!
15 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
20 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;
25 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 a day before. There
stood the Kaatskill Mountains--there ran the silver
Hudson at a distance there was every hill and dale
30precisely as it had always been.
It was with some difficulty that he found the way to
his own house, which he approached with silent awe.
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 5
about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled,
showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind
cut indeed. "My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has for-
gotten me! "
He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame 10
Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was
empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This deso-
lateness overcame all his fears -he called loudly for his
wife and children -the lonely chambers rang for a mo-
ment with his voice, and then all again was silence. 15
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 20
Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the
great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch
inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole,
with something on the top that looked like a red night-
cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a 25
singular assemblage of stars and stripes -all this was
strange and incomprehensible. He recognized' on the
sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under
which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe, but even
this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was so
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.
5 There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door,
but none that Rip recollected. The very character of the
people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling,
disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed
phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain
o1 for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double
chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco
smoke, instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the
schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient
newspaper. In place of these, a lean bilious-looking
15 fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was harangu-
ing vehemently about rights of citizens election -
members of Congress.- liberty Bunker's Hill heroes
of seventy-six and other words that were a perfect
Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.
20 The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard,
his rusty. fowling piece, his uncouth dress, and the army
of women and children that had gathered at his heels,
soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians.
They crowded round him, eying him from head to foot,
25 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
30 or Democrat." Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend
the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentle-
man, 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 5
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 ?" 10
"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 15
It was with great difficulty that the self-important man
in the cocked hat restored order; and having assumed a
tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the un-
known culprit, what he came there for, and whom he 20
was seeking. The poor man humbly assured him that
he meant'no harm, but merely came there in search of
some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the
Well- who are they ? name them." 25
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 so
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
6 war; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony
Point-others say he was drowned in a squall, at the
foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know-he never came
"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?"
10 "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 treat-
15 ing 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
20 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 cer-
25 tainly 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?
30 "God knows," exclaimed he at his wit's 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! 5
The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod,
wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their
forehead. There was a whisper, also, about securing
the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mis-
chief; at the very suggestion of which, the self-im- o
portant man with the cocked hat retired with some
precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, comely
woman passed 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, 15
Rip," cried she, "hush; 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.
"Judith Gardenier." 20
"And your father's name ?"
"Ah, poor: man, his name was Rip Van Winkle; it's
twenty years since he went away from home with his
gun, and never has been heard of since-his dog came
home without him; but whether he shot himself, or was 25
carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was
then but a little girl."
Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it
with a faltering voice:
"Where's your mother ?" 30
"Oh, she too had died but a short time since: she
broke a blood vessel in a fit of passion at a New England
-There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelli-
5 gence. The honest man could contain himself no longer.
He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. "I
am your father! cried he -"Young Rip Van Winkle
once old Rip Van Winkle now! Does nobody know
poor Rip Van Winkle! "
10 All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out
from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and
peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed,
"Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle -it is himself.
Welcome home again, old neighbor Why, where have
15 you been these twenty long years ?"
Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years
had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared
when they heard it; some were seen to wink at each
other, and put their tongues in their cheeks; and the
20 self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the
alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down
the corners of his mouth, and shook his head--upon
which there was a general shaking of the head through-
out the assemblage.
25 It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old
Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up
the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that
name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the prov-
ince. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the vil-
30 lage, and well versed in all the wonderful events and
traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at
once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory
manner. He assured the company that it was a fact,
handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the
Kaatskill Mountains had always been haunted by strange 5
beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick
Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country,
kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his
crew of the "Half-moon," being permitted in this way to
revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian 10
eye upon the river and the great city called by his name.
That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch
dresses playing at ninepins in a hollow of the mountain;
and that he, himself, had heard, .one summer afternoon,
the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder. 15
To make a long story short, the company broke up, and
returned to the more important concerns of the election.
Rip's daughter took him home to live with her; she had
a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer
for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins 20
that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and
heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against
the tree, he was employed to work on the farm, but
evinced a hereditary disposition to attend to anything
else but his business. Rip now resumed his old walks 25
and habits. He soon found many of his former cronies,
though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time;
and so he preferred making friends among the rising gen-
eration, with whom he soon grew into great favor. .
HYMN TO DIANA.
Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep. -A .i
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.
Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear when day did clos,-:
Bless us then with wished sight, Ben Jonson.
Goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever:
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.
Her house is all of Echo made
Where never dies the sound;
And as her brows the clouds invade,
Her feet do strike the ground.
Ben Jon fon.
THE VISION OF MIRZAH.
When I was at Grand Cairo I picked up several Ori-
ental manuscripts, which I have still by me. Among
others I met with one entitled, The Vision of Mirzah,"
which I have read over with great pleasure. I intend
to give it to the public when I 5
ih.ve no other entertainment for
them; and shall begin with the
t first vision, which I have trans-
lated word for word as fol-
lows :- 0
On the fifth day of the moon,
\_ which according to the custom
I F\ of my forefathers I always keep
holy, after having washed my-
self, and offered up my morn- 15
ing devotions, I ascended the
high hills of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day
in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing my-
self on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound
contemplation on the vanity of human life; and passing 20
from one thought to another, "Surely," said I, "man is but
a shadow and life a dream." Whilst I was thus musing,
I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that was not
far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a
shepherd, with a little musical instrument in his hand. 25
As I looked upon him he applied it to his lips, and began
to play upon it. The sound of it was exceeding sweet,
and wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressi-
bly melodious, and altogether different from anything I
had ever heard. They put me in mind of those heavenly
airs that are played to the departed souls of good men
5 upon their first arrival in Paradise, to wear out the im-
pressions of the last agonies, and qualify them for the
pleasures of that happy place. My heart melted away in
I had been often told that the rock before me was the
10 haunt of a Genius; and that several had been entertained
with music who had passed by it, but never heard that
the musician had before made himself visible. When he
had raised my thoughts by those transporting airs which
he played, to taste the pleasures of his conversation, as
15 I looked upon him like one astonished, he beckoned to
me, and by the waving of his hand directed me to ap-
proach the place where he sat. I drew near with that
reverence which is due to a superior nature; and as my
heart was entirely subdued by the captivating strains I
20 had heard, I fell down at his feet and wept. The Genius
smiled upon me with a look of compassion and affability
that familiarized him to my imagination, and at once dis-
pelled all the fears and apprehensions with which I ap-
25 He lifted me from the ground, and taking me by the
hand, "Mirzah," said he, "I have heard thee in thy
soliloquies; follow me."
He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and
placing me on the top of it, "Cast thy eyes eastward,"
30 said he, and tell me what thou seest."
SCH. READ. VIII. -5
"I see," said I, a huge valley, and a prodigious tide
of water rolling through it."
The valley that thou seest," said he, "is the Vale of
Misery, and the tide of water that thou seest is part of
the great Tide of Eternity." 5
What is the reason," said I, "that the tide I see rises
out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a
thick mist at the other ? "'
"What thou seest," said he, "is that portion of eternity
which is called time, measured out by the sun, and reaching 10
from the beginning of the world to its consummation. Ex-
amine now," said he, "this sea that is bounded with dark-
ness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it."
"I see a bridge," said I, "standing in the midst of the
"The bridge thou seest," said he, "is human life; con-
sider it attentively."
Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it con-
sisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with several
broken arches, which, added to those that were entire, 20
made up the number about an hundred. As I was count-
ing the arches, the Genius told me that this bridge con-
sisted at first of a thousand arches; but that a great flood
swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous
condition I now beheld it. 25
"But tell me further," said he, "what thou discoverest
"I see multitudes of people passing over it," said I,
and a black cloud hanging on each end of it."
As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the pas- so
sengers dropping through the bridge, into the great tide
that flowed underneath it; and upon farther examination,
perceived there were innumerable trapdoors that lay con-
cealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod
5 upon, but they fell through them into the tide and imme-
diately disappeared. These hidden pitfalls were set very
thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that the throngs of
people no sooner broke through the cloud, but many of
them fell into them. They grew thinner towards the
10 middle, but multiplied and lay closer together towards
the end of the arches that were entire. There were
indeed some persons, but their number was very small,
that continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken
arches, but fell through one after another, being quite
is tired and spent with so long a walk.
I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonder-
ful structure, and the great variety of objects which it
presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy
to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth
20 and jollity, and catching at everything that stood by them
to save themselves. Some were looking up towards the
heavens in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a
speculation stumbled, and fell out of sight. Multitudes
were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in
25 their eyes and danced before them ; but often when they
thought themselves within the reach of them their footing
failed, and down they sunk. In this confusion of objects,
I observed some with scimeters in their hands, who ran
to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on
30 trapdoors which did not seem to have been laid for them,
and which they might have escaped had they not been
forced upon them.
The Genius seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy
prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it: "Take
thine eyes off the bridge," said he, "and tell me if thou 5
yet seest anything thou dost not comprehend."
Upon looking up, "What mean," said I, "those great
flights of birds that are perpetually hovering about the
bridge, and settling upon it from time to time? I see
vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and among many o1
other feathered creatures several little winged boys, that
perch in great numbers upon the middle arches."
"These," said the Genius, are Envy, Avarice, Super-
stition, Despair, Love, with the like cares and passions
that infest human life." 15
I here fetched a deep sigh. "Alas," said I, "man was
made in vain How is he given away to misery and mor-
tality tortured in life, and swallowed up in death "
The Genius being moved with compassion towards me,
bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. "Look no 20
more," said he, "on man in the first stage of his existence,
in his setting out for eternity; but cast thine eye on that
thick mist into which the tide bears the several genera-
tions of mortals that fall into it."
I directed my sight as I was ordered, and saw the val- 25
ley opening at the farther end, and spreading forth into
an immense ocean, that had a huge rock running through
the midst of it, and dividing it into two equal parts. The
clouds still rested on one half of it, insomuch that I could
discover nothing in it; but the other appeared to me a so
vast ocean planted with innumerable islands, that were
covered with fruits and flowers, and interwoven with a
thousand little shining seas that ran among them. I could
see persons dressed in glorious habits with garlands upon
5 their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the
side of fountains, or resting on beds of flowers; and could
hear a confused harmony of singing birds, falling waters,
human voices, and musical instruments. Gladness grew
in me upon the discovery of so delightful a scene. I
10 wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away
to those happy seats; but the Genius told me there was
no passage to them, except through the gates of death
that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. The
islands," said he, "that lie so fresh and green before thee,
15 and with which the whole face of the ocean appears
spotted as far as thou canst see, are more in number than
the sands on the seashore; there are myriads of islands
behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching further
than thine eye, or even thine imagination can extend
20 itself. These are the mansions of good men after death,
who, according to the degree and kinds of virtue in which
they excelled, are distributed among these several islands,
which abound with pleasures of different kinds and de-
grees, suitable to the relishes and perfections of those
25 who are settled in them; every island is a paradise accom-
modated to its respective inhabitants. Does life appear
miserable, that gives thee opportunities of earning such a
reward? Is death to be feared, that will convey thee to
so happy an existence? Think not man was made in vain,
30 who has such an eternity reserved for him."
I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on these happy
islands. At length I said, Show me now, I beseech thee,
the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds which
cover the ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant."
The Genius making me no answer, I turned about to 5
address myself to him a second time, but I found that he
had left me; I then turned again to the vision which I
had been so long contemplating; but instead of the roll-
ing tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw
nothing but the long hollow valley of Bagdat, with oxen, lo
sheep, and camels grazing upon the sides of it.
-Joseph Addison in The Spectator" (1711).
Michelangelo Buonarotti, the most celebrated of the
great sculptors of modern times, was born in Florence,
Italy, in 1475. Among the many noble and beautiful
works which still exist to attest his wonderful skill, none is
is more famous than his statue of Moses on the tomb of
Pope Julius II. in the church of San Pietro in Vincoli
at Rome. As originally planned, the monument to Pope
Julius was to be on a magnificent scale. It was to con-
sist of a great quadrilateral structure, two courses high, 20
projecting from the church wall and decorated with
statues. On the upper course was to be placed the figure
of the pope, with prophetic and allegoric characters at
either side and at the angles sixteen figures in all. The
lower course was to be enriched with twenty-four figures 25
Statue of Moses,
In the Church of San Pietro in Vincoli, Rome.
in niches and on pedestals. This design, however, was
never completed. The Moses, originally intended for
one of the angles of the upper course, is now placed at
the level of the eye in the center of the principal face
of the monument as it was at last finished in a deplorably 5
reduced state by Michelangelo in his old age. "This
statue dwells amidst the masterpieces of ancient and
modern sculpture, an event without parallel, the repre-
sentative, if not wholly faultless, still the most perfect,
of an art unknown before. The Moses of Michelangelo io
has seen God, has listened to his voice like thunder,
has preserved the terrible impression of that meeting
upon Sinai; his unfathomable gaze is searching into the
mysteries which he sees in his prophetic vision."
Who is this man who, carved in this huge stone,
Sits giant, all renowned things of art
'Transcending ? he whose living lips, that start,
Speak eager words ? I hear, and take their tone.
He sure is Moses. That the chin hath shown
By its dense honor, the brows' beam bipart:
'Tis Moses, when he left the Mount, with part,
A great part, of God's glory round him thrown.
Such was the prophet when those sounding vast
Waters he held suspense about him; such
When he the sea barred, made it 'gulf his foe,
And you his tribes, a vile calf did you cast !
Why not an idol worth like this so much?
To worship that had wrought you lesser woe.
-From the Italian; translated by John A ddington Symonds.
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
I. THE STORY.
Shakespeare's comedy of "The Merchant of Venice"
is founded upon three separate stories, the origin of
which is unknown. These stories, each independent of
the other, had been told again and again by various
5 persons in various ways for hundreds of years before
Shakespeare was born. One story related how a young
man, hard pressed for money, had borrowed that which he
needed and given a bond whereby he agreed to forfeit a
pound of his own flesh in case he should fail to repay it.
to Another told how a prince won the lady whom he loved
by choosing the right one of several caskets. A third
recounted the elopement of the daughter of an avaricious
money lender, and the subsequent discomfiture of her
father. It was for Shakespeare to take these various
15 tales and to weave them into one harmonious drama, to
give the breath of life to the actors of each, and to
clothe the entire narrative with those elements of beauty
and strength which have made it a thing of joy to every
one who hears or reads it. Charles and Mary Lamb have
20 turned the story, as related in Shakespeare's play, into
the following brief prose narrative, which one may well
read before attempting the study of the comedy itself.
Shylock, the Jew, lived at Venice; he was a usurer,
who had amassed an immense fortune by lending money
25 at great interest to Christian merchants. Shylock, being
a hard-hearted man, exacted the payment of the money
he lent with such severity, that he was much disliked by
all good men, and particularly by Antonio, a young mer-
chant of Venice; and Shylock as much hated Antonio,
because he used to lend money to people in distress, and
would never take any interest for the money he lent; 5
therefore there was great enmity between this covetous
Jew and the generous merchant Antonio. Whenever
Antonio met Shylock on the Rialto (or Exchange), he
used to reproach him with his usuries and hard dealings;
which the Jew would bear with seeming patience, while io
he secretly meditated revenge.
Antonio was the kindest man that lived, the best con-
ditioned, and had the most unwearied spirit in doing
courtesies; indeed he was one in whom the ancient
Roman honor more appeared than in any that drew 15
breath in Italy. He was greatly beloved by all his
fellow-citizens; but the friend who was nearest and
dearest to his heart was Bassanio, a noble Venetian, who,
having but a small patrimony, had nearly exhausted his
little fortune by living in too expensive a manner for his 20
slender means, as young men of high rank with small
fortunes are too apt to do. Whenever Bassanio wanted
money, Antonio assisted him; and it seemed as if they
had but one heart and one purse between them.
One day Bassanio came to Antonio, and told him that 25
he wished to repair his fortune by a wealthy marriage
with a lady whom he dearly loved, whose father, that
was lately dead, had left her sole heiress to a large
estate; and that in her father's lifetime he used to visit
at her house, when he thought he had observed this lady 30
-- --- L I
had sometimes from her eyes sent speechless messages,
that seemed to say he would be no unwelcome suitor;
but not having money to furnish himself with an appear-
ance befitting the lover of so rich an heiress, he besought
5 Antonio to add to the many favors he had shown him by
lending him three thousand ducats.
Antonio had no money by him at that time to lend
his friend; but expecting soon to have some ships come
home laden with merchandise, he said he would go to
10 Shylock, the rich money lender, and borrow the money
upon the credit of those ships.
Antonio and Bassanio went together to Shylock, and
Antonio asked the Jew to lend him three thousand ducats
upon an interest he should require, to be paid out of
15 the merchandise contained in his ships at sea. On this,
Shylock thought within himself, "If I can once catch him
on the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him;
he hates our Jewish nation; he lends out money gratis;
and among the merchants he rails at me and my well-
20 earned bargains, which he calls interest. Cursed be my
tribe if I forgive him! Antonio finding he was mus-
ing within himself and did not answer, and being impa-
tient for money, said, "Shylock, do you hear? will you
lend the money ?" To this question the Jew replied,
25 Signior Antonio, on the Rialto many a time and often.
you have railed at me about my moneys and my usuries,
and I have borne it with a patient shrug, for sufferance is
the badge of all our tribe ; and then you have called me
unbeliever, cut-throat dog, and spit upon my Jewish
30 garments, and spurned at me with your foot, as if I
were a cur. Well then, it now appears you need my
help; and you come to me, and say, Shylock, lend me
moneys. Has a dog money ? Is it possible a cur should
lend three thousand ducats? Shall I bend low and say,
Fair sir, you spat upon me on Wednesday last, another 5
time you called me dog, and for these courtesies I am to
lend you moneys ? Antonio replied, "I am as like to
call you so again, to spit on you again, and spurn you
too. If you will lend me this money, lend it not to me
as to a friend, but rather lend it to me as to an enemy, to
that, if I break, you may with better face exact the
penalty." "Why, look you," said Shylock, "how you
storm I would be friends with you, and have your
love. I will forget the shames you have put upon me.
I will supply your wants, and take no interest for my 15
money." This seemingly kind offer greatly surprised
Antonio; and then Shylock, still pretending kindness,
and that all he did was to gain Antonio's love, again
said he would lend him the three thousand ducats, and
take no interest for his money; only Antonio should go 20
with him to a lawyer, and there sign in merry sport a
bond, that if he did not repay the money by a certain
day, he would forfeit a pound of flesh, to be cut off from
any part of his body that Shylock pleased.
"Content," said Antonio: "I will sign to this bond, 25
and say there is much kindness in the. Jew."
Bassanio said Antonio should not sign to such a bond
for him ; and still Antonio insisted that he would sign it,
for that before the day of payment came his ships would
return laden with many times the value of the money. so
Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed, "O father
Abraham, what suspicious people these Christians are !
Their own hard dealings teach them to suspect the
thoughts of others. I pray you tell me this, Bassanio :
5 if he should break this day, what should I gain by the
execution of the forfeiture? A pound of man's flesh,
taken from a man, is not so estimable, nor profitable
neither, as the flesh of mutton or of beef. I say, to buy
his favor I offer this friendship : if he will take it, so; if
10 not, adieu."
At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, notwith-
standing all the Jew had said of his kind intentions, did
not like his friend should run the hazard of this shocking
penalty for his sake, Antonio signed the bond, thinking
15 it really was (as the Jew said) merely in sport.
The rich heiress that Bassanio wished to marry lived
near Venice, at a place called Belmont: her name was
Portia, and in the graces of her person and her mind she'
was nothing inferior to that Portia, of whom we read,
o0 who was Cato's daughter, and the wife of Brutus.
Bassanio being so kindly supplied with money by his
friend Antonio, at the hazard of his life, set out for
Belmont with a splendid train, and attended by a gentle-
man of the name of Gratiano.
25 Bassanio proving successful in his suit, Portia in a
short time consented to accept him'for a husband.
Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no fortune,
and that his high birth and noble ancestry was all that
he could boast of; she, who loved him for his worthy
30 qualities, and had riches enough not to regard wealth
in a husband, answered with a graceful modesty, that
she would wish herself a thousand times more fair, and
ten thousand times more rich, to be more worthy of him;
and then the accomplished Portia prettily dispraised her-
self, and said she was an unlessoned girl, unschooled, 5
unpractised, yet not so old but that she could learn, and
that she would commit her gentle spirit to be directed
and governed by him in all things; and she said, Myself
and what is mine, to you and yours is now converted.
But yesterday, Bassanio, I was the lady of this fair lo
mansion, queen of myself, and mistress over these ser-
vants; and now this house, these servants, and myself,
are yours, my lord; I give them with this ring:" pre-
senting a ring to Bassanio.
Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude and won- 15
der at the gracious manner in which the rich and noble
Portia accepted a man of his humble fortunes, that he
,could not express his joy and reverence to the dear lady
who so honored him, by anything but broken words of
love and thankfulness; and taking the ring, he vowed 20
never to part with it.
Gratiano, and Nerissa, Portia's waiting maid, were in
attendance upon their lord and lady when Portia so
gracefully promised to become the obedient wife of Bas-
sanio; and Gratiano, wishing Bassanio and the generous 25
lady joy, desired permission to be married at the same
With all my heart, Gratiano," said Bassanio, "if you
can get a wife."
Gratiano then said that he loved the lady Portia's 30
fair waiting gentlewoman, Nerissa, and that she had
promised to be his wife, if her lady married Bassanio.
Portia asked Nerissa if this was true. Nerissa replied,
"Madam, it is so, if you approve of it." Portia willingly
5 consenting, Bassanio pleasantly said, "Then our wedding
feast shall be much honored by your marriage, Gratiano."
The happiness of these lovers was sadly crossed at this
moment by the entrance of a messenger, who brought
a letter from Antonio containing fearful tidings. When
10 Bassanio read Antonio's letter, Portia feared it was to
tell him of the death of some dear friend, he looked so
pale; and inquiring what was the news which had so dis-
tressed him, he said, sweet Portia, here are a few of
the unpleasantest words that ever blotted paper: gentle
la lady, when I first imparted my love to you, I freely told
you all the wealth I had ran in my veins; but I should
have told you that I had less than nothing, being in
debt." Bassanio then told Portia what has been here
related, of his borrowing the money of Antonio, and of
20 Antonio's procuring it of Shylock the Jew, and of the
bond by which Antonio had engaged to forfeit a pound
of flesh, if it was not repaid by a certain day; and then
Bassanio read Antonio's letter; the words of which were,
"Sweet Bassanio, my ships are all lost, my bond to the Jew
25 is forfeited, and since in paying it is impossible I should
live, I could wish to see you at my death; notwithstanding,
use your pleasure; if your love for me do not persuade you
to come, let not my letter." "O my dear love," said
Portia, "dispatch the business and be gone; you shall
30 have gold to pay the money twenty times over, before
this kind friend shall lose a hair by my Bassanio's fault;
and as you are so dearly bought, I will dearly love you."
Portia then said she would be married to Bassanio before
he set out, to give him a legal right to her money; and
that same day they were married, and Gratiano was also 5
married to Nerissa; and Bassanio and Gratiano, the in-
stant they were married, set out in great haste for Venice,
where Bassanio found Antonio in prison.
The day of payment being past, the cruel Jew would
not accept of the money which Bassanio offered him, but 0o
insisted upon having a pound of Antonio's flesh. A day
was appointed to try this shocking cause before the duke
of Venice, and Bassanio awaited in dreadful suspense the
event of the trial.
When Portia parted with her husband, she spoke cheer- 15
ingly to him, and bade him bring his dear friend along
with him when he returned; yet she feared it would go
hard with Antonio, and when she was left alone, she
began to think and consider within herself, if she could
by any means be instrumental in saving the life of her 20
dear Bassanio's friend; and notwithstanding, when she
wished to honor her Bassanio, she had said to him with
such a meek and wifelike grace, that she would submit
in all things to be governed by his superior wisdom, yet
being now called forth into action by the peril of her 25
honored husband's friend, she did nothing doubt her own
powers, and by the sole guidance of her owli true and
perfect judgment, at once resolved to go herself to Venice,
and speak in Antonio's defense.
Portia had a relation who was a counselor in the law; 30
to this gentleman, whose name was Bellario, she wrote,
and stating the case to him, desired his opinion, and that
with his advice he would also send her the dress worn by
a counselor. When the messenger returned, he brought
5 letters from Bellario of advice how to proceed, and also
everything necessary for her equipment.
Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa in men's
apparel, and putting on the robes of a counselor, she
took Nerissa along with her as her clerk; and setting
to out immediately, they arrived at Venice on the very day
of the trial. The cause was just going to be heard before
the duke and senators of Venice in the senate house, when
Portia entered this high court of justice, and presented
a letter from Bellario, in which that learned counselor
15 wrote to the duke, saying he would have come himself
to plead for Antonio, but that he was prevented by sick-
ness, and he requested that the learned young doctor
Balthasar (so he called Portia) might be permitted to
plead in his stead. This the duke granted, much won-
20 during at the youthful appearance of the stranger, who
was prettily disguised by her counselor's robes and her
And now began this important trial. Portia looked
around her, and saw the merciless Jew, and she saw Bas-
25 sanio, but he knew her not in her disguise. He was
standing beside Antonio, in an agony of distress and fear
for his friend.
The importance of the arduous task Portia had engaged
in gave this tender lady courage, and she boldly proceeded
30 in the duty she had undertaken to perform; and first of
SCH. READ. VIII.-6
all she addressed herself to Shylock; and allowing that
he had a right by the Venetian law to have the forfeit
expressed in the bond, she spoke so sweetly of the noble
quality of mercy as would have softened any heart but
the unfeeling Shylock's; saying, that it dropped as the 5
gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath; and
how mercy was a double blessing, it blessed him that
gave, and him that received it; and how it became mon-
archs better than their crowns, being an attribute of God
himself ; and that earthly power came nearest to God's in 10
proportion as mercy tempered justice : and she bade Shy-
lock remember that as we all pray for mercy, that same
prayer should teach us to show mercy. Shylock only
answered her by desiring to have the penalty forfeited in
the bond. "Is he not able to pay the money?" asked 15
Portia. Bassanio then offered the Jew the payment of
the three thousand ducats as many times over as he
should desire; which Shylock refusing, and still insist-
ing upon having a pound of Antonio's flesh, Bassanio
begged the learned young counselor would endeavor to 20
wrest the law a little, to save Antonio's life. But Portia
gravely answered, that laws once established must never
-be altered. Shylock hearing Portia say that the law
might not be altered, it seemed to him that she was plead-
ing in his favor, and he said, A Daniel is come to judg- 25
ment! O wise young judge, how I do honor you! How
much elder are you than your looks!"
Portia now desired Shylock to let her look at the bond;
and when she had read it, she said, "This bond is for-
feited, and by this the Jew may lawfully claim a pound 30
of flesh, to be by him cut off nearest Antonio's heart."
Then she said to Shylock, "Be merciful; take the money,
and bid me tear the bond." But no mercy would the
cruel Shylock show: and he said, By my soul I swear
5 there is no power in the tongue of man to alter me."
Why then, Antonio," said Portia, "you must prepare
your bosom for the knife;" and while Shylock was sharp-
ening a long knife with great eagerness to cut off the
pound of flesh, Portia said to Antonio, "Have you any-
10 thing to say?" Antonio with a calm resignation replied,
that he had but little to say, for he had prepared his
mind for death. Then he said to Bassanio, "Give me
your hand, Bassanio! Fare you well! Grieve not that
I am fallen into this misfortune for you. Commend
1i me to your honorable wife, and tell her how I have
loved you!" Bassanio in the deepest affliction replied,
"Antonio, I am married to a wife who is as dear to
me as life itself; but life itself, my wife, -and all the
world, are not esteemed with me above your life: I
20 would lose all, I would sacrifice all to this devil here, to
Portia hearing this, though the kind-hearted lady was
not at all offended with her husband for expressing the
love he owed to so true a friend as Antonio in these
25 strong terms, yet could not help answering, Your wife
would give you little thanks if she were present to hear
you make this offer." And then Gratiano, who loved to
copy what his lord did, thought he must make a speech
like Bassanio's, and he said, in Nerissa's hearing, who was
30 writing in her clerk's dress by the side of Portia, "I
have a wife, whom I protest I love; I wish she were in
heaven, if she could but entreat some power there to
change the cruel temper of this currish Jew." "It is
well you wish this behind her back, else you would have
but an unquiet house," said Nerissa. 5
Shylock now cried out impatiently, "We trifle time;
I pray pronounce the sentence." And now all was awful
expectation in the court, and every heart was full of grief
Portia asked if the scales were ready to weigh the io
flesh; and she said to the Jew, "Shylock, you must have
some surgeon by, lest he bleed to death." Shylock, whose
whole intent was that Antonio should bleed to death,
said, "It is not so named in the bond." Portia replied,
"It is not so named in the bond, but what of that? It 15
were good you did so much for charity." To this all the
answer Shylock would make was, "I can not find it; it is
not in the bond." "Then," said Portia, "a pound of
Antonio's flesh is thine. The law allows it, and the
court awards it. And you may cut this flesh from off 20
his breast. The law allows it, and the court awards
it." Again Shylock exclaimed, "O wise and upright
judge! A Daniel is come to judgment!" And then
he sharpened his long knife again, and looking eagerly
on Antonio, he said, Come, prepare !" 25
Tarry a little, Jew," said Portia; "there is something
else. This bond here gives you no drop of blood; the
words expressly are, a pound of flesh.' If in the cutting
off the pound of flesh you shed one drop of Christian
blood, your land and goods are by the law to be con- so
fiscated to the state of Venice." Now as it was utterly
impossible for Shylock to cut off the pound of flesh with-
out shedding some of Antonio's blood, this wise dis-
covery of Portia's, that it was flesh and not blood that
5 was named in the bond, saved the life of Antonio; and
all admiring the wonderful sagacity of the young coun-
selor who had so happily thought of this expedient,
plaudits resounded from every part of the senate house;
and Gratiano exclaimed, in the words which Shylock had
10 used, O wise and upright judge mark, Jew, a Daniel is
come to judgment! "
Shylock, finding himself defeated in his cruel intent,
said with a disappointed look, that he would take the
money; and Bassanio, rejoiced beyond measure at An-
15 tonio's unexpected deliverance, cried out, "Here is the
money !" But Portia stopped him, saying, "Softly;
there is no haste; the Jew shall have nothing but the
penalty: therefore prepare, Shylock, to cut off the flesh;
but mind you shed no blood; nor do not cut off more nor
20 less than just a pound; be it more or less by one poor
scruple, nay, if the scale turn but by the weight of a
single hair, you are condemned by the laws of Venice
to die, and all your wealth is forfeited to the state."
"Give me my money, and let me go," said Shylock. "I
25 have it ready," said Bassanio : here it is."
Shylock was going to take the money, when Portia
again stopped him, saying, "Tarry, Jew; I have yet
another hold upon you. By the laws of Venice, your
wealth is forfeited to the state, for having conspired
30 against the life of one of its citizens, and your life lies
at the mercy of the duke; therefore down on your knees,
and ask him to pardon you."
The duke then said to Shylock, "That you may see
the difference of our Christian spirit, I pardon you your
life before you ask it: half your wealth belongs to An- s
tonio, the other half comes to the state."
The generous Antonio then said that he would give up
his share of Shylock's wealth, if Shylock would sign a
deed to make it over at his death to his daughter and her
husband; for Antonio knew that the Jew had an only lo
daughter, who. had lately married against his consent
to a young Christian, named Lorenzo, a friend of An-
tonio's, which had so offended Shylock that he had dis-
The Jew agreed to this : and being thus disappointed 15
in his revenge, and despoiled of his riches, he said, "I am
ill. Let me go home : send the deed after me, and I will
sign over half my riches to my daughter." "Get thee
gone then," said the duke, "and sign it; and if you
repent your cruelty and turn Christian, the state will for- 20
give you the fine of the other half of your riches."
The duke now released Antonio, and dismissed the
court. He then highly praised the wisdom and ingenuity
of the young counselor, and invited him home to dinner.
Portia, who meant to return to Belmont before her hus- 25
band, replied, "I humbly thank your grace, but I must
away directly." The duke said he was sorry he had not
leisure to stay and dine with him; and turning to Antonio,
he added, Reward this gentleman; for in my mind you
are much indebted to him." 30
The duke and his senators left the court; and then
Bassanio said to Portia, "Most worthy gentleman, I and
my friend Antonio have by your wisdom been this day
acquitted of grievous penalties, and I beg you will accept
5 of three thousand ducats due unto the Jew." "And
we shall stand indebted to you over and above," said
Antonio, "in love and service evermore."
Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept the money;
but upon Bassanio still pressing her to accept of some
10 reward, she said, "Give me your gloves; I will wear
them for your sake; and then Bassanio taking off his
gloves, she espied the ring which she had given him upon
his finger; now it was the ring the wily lady wanted to
get from him, to make a merry jest when she saw Bassanio
15 again, that made her ask him for his gloves; and she said,
when she saw the ring, "And for your love I will take
this ring from you." Bassanio was sadly distressed that
the counselor should ask him for the only thing he could
not part with, and he replied in great confusion, that he
20 could not give him that ring, because it was his wife's
gift, and he had vowed never to part with it; but that he
would give him the most valuable ring in Venice, and
find it out by proclamation. On this Portia affected to
be affronted, and left the court, saying, "You teach me,
25 sir, how a beggar should be answered."
"Dear Bassanio," said Antonio, "let him have the ring;
let my love and the great service he has done for me
be valued against your wife's displeasure." Bassanio,
ashamed to appear so ungrateful, yielded, and sent Gra-
so tiano after Portia with the ring; and then the clerk
Nerissa, who had also given Gratiano a ring, she begged
his ring, and Gratiano (not choosing to be outdone in
generosity by his lord) gave it to her. And there was
laughing among these ladies, to think, when they got
home, how they would tax their husbands with giving 5
away their rings, and swear that they had given them as
a present to some woman.
Portia, when she returned, was in that happy temper
of mind which never fails to attend the consciousness of
having performed a good action; her cheerful spirit 1o
enjoyed everything she saw: the moon never seemed to
shine so bright before; and when that pleasant moon was
hid behind a cloud, then a light which she saw from her
house at Belmont as well pleased her charmed fancy, and
she said to Nerissa, "That light we see is burning in my 15
hall; how far that little candle throws its beams, so shines
a good deed in a naughty world: and hearing the sound
of music from her house, she said, Methinks that music
sounds much sweeter than by day."
And now Portia and Nerissa entered the house, and 20
dressing themselves in their own apparel they awaited the
arrival of their husbands, who soon followed them with
Antonio; and Bassanio presenting his dear friend to the
lady Portia, the congratulations and welcomings of that
lady were hardly over, when they perceived Nerissa and 25
her husband quarreling in a corner of the room. "A
quarrel already? said Portia. "What is the matter?"
Gratiano replied, "Lady, it is about a paltry gilt ring that
Nerissa gave me, with words upon it like the poetry on a
cutler's knife : Love me, and leave me not." 30
"What does the poetry or the value of the ring sig-
nify ?" said Nerissa. "You swore to me, when I gave it
to you, that you would keep it till the hour of death; and
now you say you gave it to the lawyer's clerk. I know
5 you gave it to a woman." "By this hand," replied Gra-
tiano, I gave it to a youth, a kind of boy, a little scrubbed
boy no higher than yourself; he was clerk to the young
counselor that by his wise pleading saved Antonio's life:
this prating boy begged it for a fee, and I could not for
10 my life deny him." Portia said, "You were to blame,
Gratiano, to part with your wife's first gift. I gave my
lord Bassanio a ring, and I am sure he would not part
with it for all the world." Gratiano in excuse for his
fault now said, "My lord Bassanio gave his ring away to
15 the counselor, and then the boy, his clerk, that took some
pains in writing, he begged my ring."
Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and reproached
Bassanio for giving away her ring; and she said that she
knew some woman had it. Bassanio was very unhappy to
20 have so offended his dear lady, and he said with great
earnestness, "No, by my honor, no woman has it, but a
civil doctor, who refused three thousand ducats of me, and
begged the ring, which when I denied him he went dis-
pleased away. What could I do, sweet Portia? I was
25 so beset with shame for my seeming ingratitude, that I
was forced to send the ring after him. Pardon me, good
lady; had you been there, I think you would have begged
the ring of me to give the worthy doctor."
Ah! said Antonio, I am the unhappy cause of these
Portia bade Antonio not to grieve at that, for that he
was welcome notwithstanding; and then Antonio said,
"I once did lend my body for Bassanio's sake; and but
for him to whom your husband gave the ring, I should
have now been dead. I dare be bound again, my soul 5
upon the forfeit, your lord will never more break his faith
with you." "Then you shall be his surety," said Portia;
"give him this ring, and bid him keep it better than the
When Bassanio looked at this ring, he was strangely to
surprised to find it was the same he gave away; and then
Portia told him how she was the young counselor, and
Nerissa was her clerk; and Bassanio found, to his un-
speakable wonder and delight, that it was by the noble
courage and wisdom of his wife that Antonio's life was 15
And Portia again welcomed Antonio, and gave him
letters which by some chance had fallen into her hands,
which contained an account of Antonio's ships, that were
supposed lost, being safely arrived in the harbor. So these 20
tragical beginnings of this rich merchant's story were all
forgotten in the unexpected good fortune which ensued;
and there was leisure to laugh at the comical adventure of
the rings, and the husbands that did not know their own
wives : Gratiano merrily declaring, in a sort of rhyming 25
-- while he lived, he'd fear no other thing,
So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa's ring.
From Tales from Shakespeare," by Charles and Mary Lamb.
II. THE TRIAL SCENE.
SCENE I. Venice. A Court of Justice.
Enter the DUKE ; the Magnificoes; ANTONIO, BASSANIO,
GRATIANO, SALARINO, SOLANIO, and Others.
Duke. What, is Antonio here?
Antonio. Ready, so please your Grace.
Duke. I'm sorry for thee: thou art come to answer
A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch
5 Uncapable of pity, void and empty
From any dram of mercy.
Antonio. I have heard
SYour Grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify
His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate,
And that no lawful means can carry me
to Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose
My patience to his fury, and am armed
To suffer, with a quietness of spirit,
The very tyranny and rage of his.
Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into court.
15 Solanio. He is ready at the door : he comes, my lord,
Duke. Make room, and let him stand before our face.--
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,
That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice
To the last hour of act; and then 'tis thought
20 Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse, more strange
Than is thy strange apparent cruelty;
And where thou now exact'st the penalty,
Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh,
Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture,
But, touch'd with human gentleness and love,
Forgive a moiety of the principal; 5
Glancing an eye of pity on his losses,
That have of late so huddled on his back,
Enow to press a royal merchant down
And pluck commiseration of his state
From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint, 10
From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train'd
To offices of tender courtesy.
We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.
Shylock. I have possess'd your Grace of what I purpose,
And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn 15
To have the due and forfeit of my bond.
If you deny it, let the danger light
Upon your charter and your city's freedom.
You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have
A weight of carrion flesh than to receive 20
Three thousand ducats. I'll not answer that;
But, say it is my humor: is it answered ?
What if my house be troubled with a rat,
And I be pleas'd to give ten thousand ducats
To have it baned? What, are you answered yet ? 25
Some men there are love not a gaping pig;
Some, that are mad if they behold a cat;
Some, when they hear the bagpipe : for affection,
Master of passion, sways it to the mood
Of what it likes or loathes. Now, for your answer : 30
As there is no firm reason to be render'd,
Why he can not abide a gaping pig;
Why he, a harmless necessary cat;
Why he, a woolen bagpipe ; but of force
5 Must yield to such inevitable shame
As to offends himself being offended;
So can I give no reason, nor I will not,
More than a lodg'd hate and a certain loathing
I bear Antonio, that I follow thus
10 A losing suit against him. Are you answered?
Bassanio. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man,
To excuse the current of thy cruelty.
Shylock. I am not bound to please thee with my answer.
Bassanio. Do all men kill the things they do not love?
15 Shylock. Hates any man the thing he would not kill?
Bassanio. Every offense is not a hate at first.
Shylock. What! wouldst thou have a serpent sting
thee twice ?
Antonio. I pray you, think you question with the Jew :
You may as well go stand upon the beach
20 And bid the main flood bate his usual height;
You may as well use question with the wolf,
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb;
You may as well forbid the mountain pines
To wag their high tops and to make no noise,
25 When they are fretten with the gusts of heaven;
You may as well do anything most hard,
As seek to soften that than which what's harder ? -
His Jewish heart. Therefore, I do beseech you,
Make no more offers, use no farther means,
But with all brief and plain conveniency
Let me have judgment and the Jew his will.
Bassanio. For thy three thousand ducats here is six.
Shylock. If every ducat in six thousand ducats
Were in six parts and every part a ducat, a
I would not draw them: I would have my bond.
Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rend'ring none?
Shylock. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong ?
The pound of flesh, which I demand of him,
Is dearly bought ; 'tis mine and I will have it. 10
If you deny me, fie upon your law !
There is no force in the decrees of Venice.
I stand for judgment : answer ; shall I have it?
Duke. Upon my power I may dismiss this court,
Unless Bellario, a learned Doctor, 15
Whom I have sent for to determine this,
Come here to-day.
Solanio. My lord, here stays without
A messenger with letters from the Doctor,
New come from Padua.
Duke. Bring us the letters; call the messenger. 20
Enter NERISSA, dressed like a lawyer's clerk.
Duke. Came you from Padua, from Bellario?
Nerissa. From both, my lord. Bellario greets your Grace.
[Presenting a letter.
Bassanio. Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly?
Shylock. To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there.
Gratiano. Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew,
Thou mak'st thy knife keen; but no metal can,
No, not the hangman's ax, bear half the keenness
Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee?
5 Shylock. No, none that thou hast wit enough to make.
Duke. This letter from Bellario doth commend
A young and learned Doctor to our court.
Where is he?
Nerissa. He attendeth here hard by,
To know your answer, whether you'll admit him.
10 Duke. With all my heart. Some three or four of you
Go give him courteous conduct to this place.
Meantime the court shall hear Bellario's letter.
[Clerk reads.] Your Grace shall understand, that at the
receipt of your letter I am very sick; but, in the instant that
15 your messenger came, in loving visitation was with me a young
doctor of Rome; his name is Balthazar. I acquainted him
with the cause in controversy between the Jew and Antonio
the merchant: we turned o'er many books together : he is fur-
nished with my opinion; which, better'd with his own learn-
20 ing, the greatness whereof I can not enough commend, comes
with him, at my importunity, to fill up your Grace's request
in my stead. I beseech you, let his lack of years be no im-
pediment to let him lack a reverend estimation; for I never
knew so young a body with so old a head. I leave him to
25 your gracious acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his
Duke. .-You hear the learned Bellario, what he writes:
And here, I take it, is the Doctor come. -
Enter PORTIA, dressed like a Doctor of Laws.
Give me your hand: came you from old Bellario?
Portia. I did, my lord.
Duke. You are welcome: take your place.
Are you acquainted with the difference
That holds this present question in. the court?
Portia. I am informed throughly of the cause. -
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?
Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.
Portia. Is your name Shylock?
Shylock. Shylock is my name.
Portia. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow;
Yet in such rule, that the Venetian law
Cannot impugn you as you do proceed.-
[To ANToNIo.] You stand within his danger, do you not?
Antonio. Ay, so he says.
Portia. Do you confess the bond?
Antonio. I do.
Portia. Then must the Jew be merciful.
Shylock. On what compulsion must I? tell me that.
Portia. The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath : it is twice bless'd;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His scepter shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptered sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
5 When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,-
That in the course of justice none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
to The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much,
To mitigate the justice of thy plea,
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence againstt the merchant there.
Shylock. My deeds upon my head. I crave the law,
15 The penalty and forfeit of my bond.
Portia. Is he not able to discharge the money?
Bassanio. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court;
Yea, thrice the sum: if that will not suffice,
I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er,
20 On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart:
If this will not suffice, it must appear
That malice bears down truth: and, I beseech you,
Wrest once the law to your authority:
To do a great right, do a little wrong;
25 And curb this cruel devil of his will.
Portia. It must not be; there is no power in Venice
Can alter a decree established :
'Twill be recorded for a precedent;
And many an error, by the same example,
so Will rush into the State. It can not be.
SCH. READ. VIII. -7
Shylock. A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel:-
O wise young judge, how I do honor thee !
Portia. I pray you, let me look upon the bond.
Shylock. Here 'tis, most reverend Doctor; here it is.
Portia. Shylock, there's thrice thy money offered thee. 5
Shylock. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven.
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?
No, not for Venice.
Portia. Why, this bond is forfeit;
And lawfully by this the Jew may claim
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off 10
Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful:
Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.
Shylock. When it is paid according to the tenor. -
It doth appear you are a worthy judge;
You know the law, your exposition 15
Hath been most sound: I charge you by the law,
Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar,
Proceed to judgment. By my soul I swear
There is no power in the tongue of man
To alter me: I stay here on my bond. 20
Antonio. Most heartily I do beseech the court
To give the judgment.
Portia. Why, then, thus it is : -
You must prepare your bosom for his knife.
Shylock. 0 noble judge! 0 excellent young man!
Portia. For the intent and purpose of the law 25
Hath full relation to the penalty
Which here appeareth due upon the bond.
Shylock. 'Tis very true: O wise and upright judge I