IDI- 245 INTRODUCTION THE LITERATURE OF ENGLISH SPEAKING
COUNTRIES
BY PROFESSOR SABINO MORLA
Anglo-Saxon Literature
IDI-245 SITE- http://profmorla.pbworks.com
8.1. General Characteristics
The Old English language, also called Anglo-Saxon, was the
earliest formof English. It is difficult to give exact dates for the rise and
development of anylanguage, because changes in languages do not
occur suddenly. However, OldEnglish was in use from about 600 AD to
about 1100.
Anglo-Saxon(or Old English) literature refers to literature written in
Anglo-Saxon (Old English) during the 600-year Anglo-Saxon period of
Britain,from the mid-5th century AD to the Norman Conquest of 1066.
These worksinclude genres such as epic poetry, hagiography, sermons,
Bible translations, legalworks, chronicles, riddles, and others. In all there
are about 400 survivingmanuscripts from the period, a significant corpus
of both popular interest andspecialist research.
A large number of manuscripts remain from the Anglo-Saxon
period,most of them written during the last 300 years (9th–11th century
1
AD), in both Latinand the vernacular1. Old English literature is among
the oldest vernacularlanguages to be written down, second only to
Gothic. Old English began, in writtenform, as a practical necessity after
the Danish invasions. Church officials wereconcerned that because of
the drop in Latin literacy no one could read their work.Likewise
KingAlfred the Great (849–899 AD), tried to restore English culture,and
lamented the poor state of Latin education. Alfred noted that while very
fewcould read Latin, many could still read Old English. He thus proposed
that studentsbe educated in Old English, and those who excelled would
go on to learn Latin. Inthis way many of the texts that have survived are
typical teaching and student-oriented texts.
Not all of the remaining texts from the Anglo-Saxon period can be
fairlycalled literature, such as lists of names or aborted pen trials.
However there aremany of them that can present a sizable body of work,
such as sermons and saints'lives (the most numerous), biblical
translations; translated Latin works of the earlyChurch Fathers; AngloSaxon chronicles and narrative history works; laws, willsand other legal
works; practical works on grammar, medicine, geography; poetry.Nearly
all the Anglo-Saxon authors remain anonymous, with few exceptions.
Anglo-Saxon literature was divided according to various criteria.
One ofthe generally accepted classification divides it into Old English
Pagan Poetry (449-670 AD); Old English Christian Poetry (671-871 AD);
Old English Prose (871-1100 AD) (Gavriliu: 2000, p. 6).
8.2. Old English Poetry
Old English poetry can be divided into pre-Christian (pagan) heroic
poetry
(of Germanic origin) and Christian poetry. Old English heroic poetry is
the earliest
1 Avern acu l ar language is the standard native language of a country or
locality.
extant in all of Germanic literature. It is thus the nearest we can come to
the oralpagan literature of Germanic culture, and is also of inestimable
value as a source ofknowledge about many aspects of Germanic society.
Old English heroic poetry falls into two categories: those poems
presentingfigures and events of the so-called heroic age and those
describing contemporaryevents. The heroic age is a temporal construct
that features people and tribes of theearly European migration age.
Heroic poems are written in an elegiac tone. Theydescribe grim scenery:
2
cliffs and swamps, grey waves crushing against the rocks,monsters living
in the swamps and forests. A grim imagination, a pessimistic andsad
world view led to the creation of these impressive pictures; we can
recognizethe imprint of a people that lived in a harsh environment. The
sea is admirablydescribed in many heroic or elegiac poems. The AngloSaxon poems have beenoften compared with Homeric poems, as they
also illustrate the features of theheroic age (Maurois: 1970, pp. 70-71).
Old English poetry has survived for the most part in four manuscripts.
The
first manuscript is called the Junius manuscript (also known as
theCaedmon
manuscript), an illustrated poetic anthology. The second is called
the Exeter Book,
also an anthology, located in the Exeter Cathedral since it was donated
there in the11th century. The third manuscript is called the Vercelli Book,
a mix of poetry andprose; how it came to be in Vercelli, Italy, no one
knows, and is a matter of debate.The fourth manuscript is called
the Nowell Codex, and it is also a mixture ofpoetry and prose. The
Nowell Codex is part of the Cotton collection1.
Old English poetry had no known rules or system left to us by the
Anglo-Saxons, and everything we know about it is based on modern
analysis. The firstwidely accepted theory was by Eduard Sievers2 in
which he distinguished fivedistinct alliterative patterns. The theory
of John C. Pope3 uses musical notationswhich has had some
acceptance.
The most popular and well known understanding of Old English poetry
continues to be Sievers’ alliterative verse. The system is based upon
accent,
alliteration4, the quantity of vowels, and patterns of syllabic accentuation.
It
consists of five permutations on a base verse scheme. The system was
inherited
and exists in one form or another in all of the older Germanic languages.
Another common feature of Old English poetry isKennings
(figurativephrases), often formulaic, describing something in terms of
another (e.g. inBeowulf, the sea is called the swan's road). Also
frequently employed areLit ot es,a figure of speech which is dramatically
understated, often with ironic intent and effect.
1 TheCotton or Cottonian library was a library compiled by Sir Robert
Bruce Cotton (1571 - 1631). This
3
collection is the single greatest resource of literature in Old English and
Middle English we have.
2 Eduard Sievers (25 November 1850, Lippoldsberg - 30 March 1932,
Leipzig) was a German philologist, of the
classical and Germanic languages. He developed a theory of the meter
of Anglo-Saxon alliterative verse.
3 John C Pope developed a theory on the rhythm and tempo of Old
English verse during recitation, together with
Andreas Heusler. His system takes the musical concept of the measure
as its basis and states that four isochronous(equally timed) measures
are found in all lines. When a normal enunciation of the syllables in the
half-line does notfill the measure, Pope has suggested that the harp
would be struck to fill in the rest in the verbal music.
4Al li terati on, in Old English poetry, is the repetition of consonant
sounds in stressed or initial syllables. (Gavriliu:
2003, p. 143)
Old English poetry was an oral craft, and our understanding of it in
writtenform is incomplete. For example, we know that the poet, referred
to as aScop1,could be accompanied by a harp. There may be other
audio traditions we are not aware of.
Poetry represents the smallest amount of the surviving Old English
text, butAnglo-Saxon culture had a rich tradition of oral story telling, just
not much waswritten down or survived.
Most Old English poets are anonymous. Twelve of them are
known byname from medieval sources, but only three of those are
known by their works tous today: Caedmon, Aldhelm, and Cynewulf.
Caedmon is the most well known and considered the father of Old
English
poetry. He lived at the abbey of Whitby in Northumbria in the 7th
century.Caedmon adapted the heroic vocabulary of the oldest English
verse and the poetictechnique of traditional Germanic versification to a
Christian purpose. Someparaphrases or altered versions of his poems
on biblical subjects are found in the
Junius manuscript:Genesis (Genesis A contains the first 22 chapters of
the Old
Testament; Genesis B talks of the rebellion of the angels led by
Satan);Exodus (aparaphrase of the crossing of the Red Sea by
Israelites);Judith (the story of aJewish heroine who helped her people
defeat the Assyrians).
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Aldhelm, bishop of Sherborne2 (709 AD), is known thanks to William of
Malmesbury3 who talked of his performance of secular songs. Most of
his Latin prose has survived, but none of his Old English remains.
Cynewulf has proven to be a difficult figure to identify, but recent
research suggests he wrote his works in the early part of the 9th century,
to which a numberof poems are attributed including The Fates of the
Apostles andHelene (bothfound in the Vercelli Book), and Christ
II andJuliana (both found in the Exeter Book).
The Old English poetry which has received the most attention deals with
the Germanic heroic past. The longest (3,182 lines), and most important,
is
Beowulf, which appears in the damaged Nowell Codex from the Cotton
Collection. It tells the story of the legendary Geatish hero Beowulf who is
the title
character. The story is set in Scandinavia, in Sweden and Denmark, and
the talelikewise probably is of Scandinavian origin. The story is
biographical and sets thetone for much of the rest of Old English poetry.
It has achieved national epicstatus, on the same level as the Iliad, and is
of interest to historians,anthropologists, literary critics, and students the
world over.
Other heroic poems include The Fight at Finnsburh, a retelling of
one ofthe battle scenes inBeowulf (although this relation toBeowulf is
much debated),andWaldere, a version of the events of the life of Walter
of Aquitaine, a west
1 AS cop or abard was a highly trained poet, composer, singer, and
harpist who served as oral historian, political
critic, eulogizer, and entertainer.
2S h erb orn e is an affluent market town in North West Dorset, England.
The town was named scir burne by the
Saxon inhabitants, a name meaning clear stream. It became the capital
of Wessex, one of the seven Saxon kingdoms
of England, and King Alfred's elder brothers King Ethelbert and King
Ethelbald were buried in its abbey.
3 William of Malmesbury (c. 1080/1095 AD– c. 1143 AD) was an English
historian of the 12th century, born in
Wiltshire. He spent his whole life in England with his best working years
as a monk at Malmesbury Abbey.
5
Beowulf -SUMMARY
Beowulf (/ˈbeɪ.ɵwʊlf/; in Old
English either [ˈbeːo̯wʊlf] or [ˈbeːəwʊlf])[1] is the conventional title of
an Old English heroic epic poem consisting of 3182 alliterative long lines,
set in Scandinavia, commonly cited as one of the most important works
ofAnglo-Saxon literature. It survives in a single manuscript known as
the Nowell Codex. Its composition by an anonymous Anglo-Saxon poet
is dated between the 8th[2][3]and the early 11th century.[4]
In the poem, Beowulf, a hero of the Geats, battles three
antagonists: Grendel, who has been attacking the resident warriors of
the mead hall of Hroðgar, the king of theDanes; Grendel's mother; and
an unnamed dragon. The last battle takes place later in life, Beowulf now
being king of the Geats. In the final battle, Beowulf is fatally wounded.
After his death his retainers bury him in a tumulus in Geatland.
Story
Further information: Beowulf (hero) and List of characters and objects in
Beowulf
The main protagonist, Beowulf, a hero of the Geats, comes to the aid
of Hrothgar, the king of the Danes (Germanic tribe), whose great
hall,Heorot, is plagued by the monster Grendel. Beowulf kills both
Grendel and Grendel's mother, the latter with a magical sword.
Later in his life, Beowulf is himself king of the Geats, and finds his realm
terrorized by a dragon whose treasure had been stolen from his hoard in
a burial mound. He attacks the dragon with the help of his thegns, but
they do not succeed. Beowulf decides to follow the dragon into its lair,
at Earnanæs, but only his young Swedish relative Wiglaf dares join him.
Beowulf finally slays the dragon, but is mortally wounded. He is buried in
a tumulus by the sea.
[edit]As an epic
Further information: Epic poetry
Beowulf is considered an epic poem in that the main character is a hero
who travels great distances to prove his strength at impossible odds
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against supernatural demons and beasts. The poem also begins in
medias res ("into the middle of affairs") or simply, "in the middle", which
is a characteristic of the epics of antiquity. Although the poem begins
with Beowulf's arrival, Grendel's attacks have been going on for some
time. The poet who composed Beowulf, while objective in telling the tale,
nonetheless utilizes a certain style to maintain excitement and adventure
within the story. An elaborate history of characters and their lineages are
spoken of, as well as their interactions with each other, debts owed and
repaid, and deeds of valor.
Structured by battles
Jane Chance (Professor of English, Rice University) in her 1980 article
"The Structural Unity of Beowulf: The Problem of Grendel's Mother"
argued that there are two standard interpretations of the poem: one view
which suggests a two-part structure (i.e., the poem is divided between
Beowulf's battles with Grendel and with the dragon) and the other, a
three-part structure (this interpretation argues that Beowulf's battle
with Grendel's mother is structurally separate from his battle with
Grendel).[14] Chance stated that, "this view of the structure as two-part
has generally prevailed since its inception in J. R. R. Tolkien's Beowulf:
The Monsters and the Critics in Proceedings of the British Academy
22 (1936)."[14] In contrast, she argued that the three-part structure has
become "increasingly popular."[14]
[edit]First battle: Grendel
7
Beowulf is challenged by a Danish coast guard, Evelyn Paul (1911).
Beowulf begins with the story of King Hroðgar, who built the great
hall Heorot for his people. In it he, his wife Wealhþeow, and his warriors
spend their time singing and celebrating, until Grendel, an outcast from
society who is angered by the singing, attacks the hall and kills and
devours many of Hroðgar's warriors while they sleep. But Grendel dares
not touch the throne of Hroðgar, because he is described as protected by
a powerful god. Hroðgar and his people, helpless against Grendel's
attacks, abandon Heorot.
Beowulf, a young warrior from Geatland, hears of Hroðgar's troubles and
with his king's permission leaves his homeland to help Hroðgar.
Beowulf and his men spend the night in Heorot. After they fall
asleep, Grendel enters the hall and attacks, devouring one of Beowulf's
men. Beowulf, who bears no weapon as this would be an unfair
advantage over the unarmed beast, has been feigning sleep and leaps
up to clench Grendel's hand. The two battle until it seems as though the
hall might collapse. Beowulf's retainers draw their swords and rush to his
aid, but their blades can not pierce Grendel's skin as he is immune to
human weapons. Finally, Beowulf tears Grendel's arm from his body at
the shoulder and Grendel runs to his home in the marshes to die.
[edit]Second battle: Grendel's mother
The next night, after celebrating Grendel's death, Hroðgar and his men
sleep in Heorot. Grendel's mother appears and attacks the hall. She kills
Hroðgar's most trusted warrior, Æschere, in revenge for Grendel's death.
Hroðgar, Beowulf, and their men track Grendel's mother to her lair under
a lake. Beowulf prepares himself for battle; he is presented with a
sword, Hrunting, by a warrior called Unferth. After stipulating a number of
conditions to Hroðgar in case of his death (including the taking in of his
kinsmen and the inheritance by Unferth of Beowulf's estate), Beowulf
dives into the lake. He is swiftly detected and attacked by Grendel's
mother. However, she is unable to harm Beowulf through his armour and
drags him to the bottom of the lake. In a cavern containing Grendel's
8
body and the remains of men that the two have killed, Grendel's mother
and Beowulf engage in fierce combat.
At first, Grendel's mother appears to prevail. Beowulf, finding
that Hrunting cannot harm his foe, discards it in fury. Beowulf is again
saved from his opponent's attack by his armour and, grasping a mighty
sword of the giants from Grendel's mother's armoury (which no other
man could have hefted in battle), Beowulf beheads her. Traveling further
into the lair, Beowulf discovers Grendel's corpse and severs his head.
Beowulf then returns to the surface and to his men at the "ninth hour" (l.
1600, "nōn", about 3pm).[15] He returns to Heorot, where Hroðgar gives
Beowulf many gifts, including the sword Nægling, his family's heirloom.
[edit]Third battle: The dragon
A 1908 depiction of Beowulf fighting the unnamed dragon by J. R.
Skelton.
Beowulf returns home and eventually becomes king of his own people.
One day, late in Beowulf's life, a slave steals a golden cup from the lair of
an unnamed dragon at Earnaness. When thedragon sees that the cup
has been stolen, it leaves its cave in a rage, burning everything in sight.
Beowulf and his warriors come to fight the dragon, but when Beowulf is
wounded by the dragon, his warriors run away in fear. Only one of the
warriors, a brave young man named Wiglaf, stays to help Beowulf. The
two slay the dragon, but Beowulf dies from his wounds.
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After he is cremated, Beowulf is buried in Geatland on a cliff overlooking
the sea, where sailors are able to see his tumulus. The dragon's treasure
is buried with him, in accordance with Beowulf's wishes, rather than
distributed to his people. There is a curse associated with the hoard and
it is also a Germanic and Scandinavian burial practice.
[edit]Structured by funerals
It is widely accepted that there are three funerals in Beowulf. [16] These
funerals help to outline changes in the poem’s story as well as the
audiences’ views on earthly possessions, battle and glory. The funerals
are also paired with the three battles described above.[16] The three
funerals share similarities regarding the offerings for the dead and the
change in theme through the description of each funeral. Gale OwenCrocker (Professor of Anglo-Saxon, University of
BEOWULF
Lines 1-300
10
So. The Spear-Danes in days gone by
and the kings who ruled them had courage and greatness.
The narrator opens the poem with a discussion of Shield Sheafson, a
great king of the ancient Danes and the founder of their royal line. He
began life as a foundling (an infant abandoned by his parents) but
quickly rose to be strong and powerful. All of the clans had to pay him
tribute, and, when he died, he was honored with an elaborate funeral
ceremony. His body was put into a boat, covered with treasures and
armor, and cast off to sea. Shield Sheafson’s life ended as it began, with
him cast adrift on the water.
Sheafson’s son, the renowned Beow, inherited the kingdom after his
father’s death. In time, Beow too passed away and Halfdane, his son,
became king. After Halfdane, Hrothgar stepped forward to rule the
Danes. Under Hrothgar, the kingdom prospered and enjoyed great
military success, and Hrothgar decided to construct a monument to his
success—a mead-hall where he would distribute booty to his retainers.
The hall was called Heorot, and there the men gathered with their lord to
drink mead, a beerlike beverage, and listen to the songs of the bards.
For a time, the kingdom enjoyed peace and prosperity. But, one night,
Grendel, a demon descended from Cain (who, according to the Bible,
slew his brother Abel), emerged from the swampy lowlands, to listen to
the nightly entertainment at Heorot. The bards’ songs about God’s
creation of the earth angered the monster. Once the men in the meadhall fell asleep, Grendel lumbered inside and slaughtered thirty men.
Hrothgar’s warriors were powerless against him.
The following night, Grendel struck again, and he has continued to wreak
havoc on the Danes for twelve years. He has taken over Heorot, and
Hrothgar and his men remain unable to challenge him. They make
offerings at pagan shrines in hopes of harming Grendel, but their efforts
are fruitless. The Danes endure constant terror, and their suffering is so
extreme that the news of it travels far and wide.
At this time, Beowulf, nephew of the Geatish king Hygelac, is the
greatest hero in the world. He lives in Geatland, a realm not far from
Denmark, in what is now southern Sweden. When Beowulf hears tales of
the destruction wrought by Grendel, he decides to travel to the land of
the Danes and help Hrothgar defeat the demon. He voyages across the
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sea with fourteen of his bravest warriors until he reaches Hrothgar’s
kingdom.
Seeing that the newcomers are dressed in armor and carrying shields
and other equipment for combat, the watchman who guards the Danish
coast stops Beowulf and his crew and demands to know their business.
He admits that he has never seen outsiders come ashore so fearlessly
and guesses that Beowulf is a noble hero. Beowulf explains that he is the
son of Ecgtheow and owes his loyalty to Hygelac. He says that he has
heard about the monster wreaking havoc on the Danes and has come to
help Hrothgar. The watchman gives his consent and tells Beowulf that he
believes his story. He tells the Geats to follow him, mentioning that he
will order one of the Danes to watch Beowulf’s ship for him.
Lines 301-709
Summary
The watchman guides Beowulf and his men from the coast to the meadhall, Heorot, where he takes his leave. A herald named Wulfgar, who is
renowned for his wisdom, stops Beowulf and asks him to state his
business with Hrothgar. Beowulf introduces himself and requests to
speak to the king. Wulfgar, impressed with the group’s appearance and
bearing, takes Beowulf’s message immediately to Hrothgar. Hrothgar
tells Wulfgar that he remembers Beowulf from when he was a young boy
and recalls his friendship with Beowulf’s father, Ecgtheow. He says that
he has heard tales of Beowulf’s great prowess—one story holds that the
Geat has the strength of thirty men in each of his hands—and hopes that
Beowulf has come to help the Danes against Grendel. He orders Wulfgar
to welcome the Geats to Denmark.
Beowulf comes before Hrothgar, whom he greets solemnly. Beowulf
recounts some of his past glories and offers to fight Grendel unarmed.
Hrothgar recounts a feud during which Beowulf’s father killed Heatholaf,
a member of the Wulfing tribe. Hrothgar sent treasure to the Wulfings to
mend the feud, and Beowulf’s father pledged his allegiance to Hrothgar.
Hrothgar then accepts Beowulf’s offer to fight Grendel, though he warns
him that many heroes have died in the mead-hall trying to battle the
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monster. He invites the Geats to sit and enjoy a feast in Heorot with the
Danish warriors.
At the feast, a Dane named Unferth, envious of his kinsmen’s admiration
of Beowulf, begins to taunt the Geat. He claims that Beowulf once lost a
swimming match against Breca and that Beowulf will meet with defeat for
a second time when he faces Grendel in the mead-hall. Unruffled,
Beowulf accuses Unferth of drunkenness and describes his own version
of what happened in the swimming match. Carrying swords to defend
themselves against sea monsters, he and Breca had struggled in icy
waters for five days and five nights when suddenly Beowulf found himself
pulled under by a monster. After slaying the monster and eight other sea
beasts, Beowulf was washed ashore on the coast of Finland. Beowulf
notes that neither Unferth nor Breca could have survived such an
adventure and mocks Unferth by pointing out his obvious helplessness
against Grendel.
Beowulf’s confidence cheers the whole hall, and soon the warriors are
laughing and drinking happily. Wealhtheow, wife of Hrothgar and queen
of the Danes, enters with the ceremonial goblet, which she offers to
everyone in the room. She thanks God for sending Beowulf to fight
Grendel, and Beowulf replies with a formal boast, stating that he will
either distinguish himself with a heroic deed or die in the mead-hall.
Pleased, Wealhtheow takes her seat next to Hrothgar.
When night falls, the Danes leave the hall to Beowulf and his men.
Beowulf lays aside his weapons and removes his armor, restating his
intention to fight Grendel unarmed. He says that he considers himself to
be as dangerous as Grendel. Beowulf lies down to wait, while his fearful
men lie awake, doubting that any of them will live to see morning. In the
dark night outside the hall, Grendel approaches stealthily, creeping
toward the small band of Geats.
Lines 710-1007
Summary
13
Gleefully imagining the destruction that he will wreak, Grendel bursts into
Heorot. He tears the door from its hinges with his bare hands and
immediately devours a Geatish warrior while Beowulf carefully observes.
When Grendel reaches out to snatch up Beowulf, he is stunned to find
his arm gripped with greater strength than he knew possible. Terrified
like a cornered animal, Grendel longs to run back to the safety of the
swamplands. He tries to escape, but Beowulf wrestles him down. The
combatants crash around the hall, rattling the walls and smashing the
mead-benches. Grendel begins to shriek in pain and fear; the sound
terrifies all who hear it. Beowulf’s men heroically hack at the demon as
Beowulf fights with him, but no weapon on earth is capable of harming
Grendel. Beowulf summons even greater strength and rips Grendel’s
arm completely out of its socket. Fatally wounded, Grendel slinks back to
his swampy home to die. Back in the mead-hall, Beowulf holds up his
gory trophy in triumph. He proudly hangs the arm high on the wall of
Heorot as proof of his victory.
The following morning, the Danish warriors are amazed at Beowulf’s
accomplishment. They race around on horseback in celebration,
following the tracks of Grendel’s retreat to the marshes. Beowulf’s
renown begins to spread rapidly. A Danish bard sings Beowulf’s story to
honor him and also recites the story of Sigemund, a great hero who slew
a terrible dragon. The dragon was the guardian of a treasure hoard,
which Sigemund won by slaying the dragon. The bard also sings of, and
14
contrasts Beowulf with, Heremod, an evil Danish king who turned against
his own people.
Hrothgar enters the mead-hall to see the trophy. He thanks God for
finally granting him relief from Grendel. He then praises Beowulf,
promises him lavish rewards, and says that he has adopted the warrior in
his heart as a son. Beowulf receives Hrothgar’s gratitude with modesty,
expressing disappointment that he did not kill Grendel in the hall so that
all could have seen the demon’s corpse. The narrator mentions that the
trophy arm, which seems to be made of “barbed steel,” has disproved
Unferth’s claims of Beowulf’s weakness. Order is restored in Heorot, and
all the Danes begin to repair the great hall, which has been almost
completely destroyed.
Lines 1008-1250
Summary
Hrothgar hosts a great banquet in honor of Beowulf. He bestows upon
him weapons, armor, treasure, and eight of his finest horses. He then
presents Beowulf’s men with rewards and compensates the Geats with
gold for the Geatish warrior that Grendel killed.
After the gifts have been distributed, the king’s scop comes forward to
sing the saga of Finn, which begins with the Danes losing a bloody battle
to Finn, the king of the Frisians, a neighbor tribe to the Danes. The
Danish leader, Hnaef, is killed in the combat. Recognizing their defeat,
the Danes strike a truce with the Frisians and agree to live with them
separately but under common rule and equal treatment. Hildeburh, a
Danish princess who is married to Finn, is doubly grieved by the
outcome of the battle: she orders that the corpses of her brother, the
Danish leader Hnaef, and her son, a Frisian warrior, be burned on the
same bier. The Danes, homesick and bitter, pass a long winter with the
Frisians. When spring comes, they rise against their enemies. Finn is
then defeated and slain, and his widow, Hildeburh, is returned to
Denmark.
When the scop finishes recounting the saga, Wealhtheow enters,
wearing a gold crown, and praises her children, Hrethric and Hrothmund.
She says that when Hrothgar dies, she is certain that the children will be
treated well by their older cousin, Hrothulf, until they come of age. She
15
expresses her hope that Beowulf too will act as a friend to them and offer
them protection and guidance. She presents Beowulf with a torque (a
collar or necklace) of gold and a suit of mail armor, asking again that he
guide her sons and treat them kindly.
That night, the warriors sleep in Heorot, unaware that a new danger lurks
in the darkness outside the hall.
Lines 1251–1491
Summary
Wise sir, do not grieve. It is always better
to avenge dear ones than to indulge in mourning.
(See Important Quotations Explained)
As the warriors sleep in the mead-hall, Grendel’s mother, a horrible
monster in her own right, descends on Heorot in a frenzy of grief and
rage, seeking vengeance for her son’s death. When she falls upon and
seizes a sleeping man, the noise wakes the others. The warriors seize
their swords and rush toward her. The monster panics and flees, still
carrying her victim, Hrothgar’s trusted adviser, Aeschere, in her grasp.
Beowulf, having been given other sleeping quarters, is away from Heorot
when Grendel’s mother makes her raid. By the time he arrives at the hall,
she is gone. The warriors discover that she has stolen Grendel’s arm as
well.
Devastated with grief over the loss of his friend and counselor, Hrothgar
summons Beowulf and explains what has occurred. He entreats Beowulf
to seek out and kill Grendel’s mother, describing the horrible, swampy
wood where she keeps her lair. The place has a magical quality. The
water burns and the bottom of the mere, or lake, has never been
reached. Even the animals seem to be afraid of the water there.
Hrothgar tells Beowulf that he must depend on him a second time to rid
Heorot of a demon. He says that he will give him chests of gold if he
rises to the challenge. Beowulf agrees to the fight, reassuring Hrothgar
that Grendel’s mother won’t get away. The warriors mount up and ride
into the fens, following the tracks of their enemy. When they reach a
cliff’s edge, they discover Aeschere’s head lying on the ground. The
scene below is horrifying: in the murky water, serpents and sea-dragons
writhe and roil. Beowulf slays one beast with an arrow.
16
Beowulf, “indifferent to death,” prepares himself for combat by donning
his armor and girding himself with weapons (1442). Unferth loans him
the great and seasoned sword Hrunting, which has never failed in any
battle. Beowulf speaks, asking Hrothgar to take care of the Geats and
return his property to Hygelac if he, Beowulf, should be killed. He also
bequeaths his own sword to Unferth.
[His helmet] was of beaten gold,
princely headgear hooped and hasped
by a weapon-smith who had worked wonders
Lines 1492–1924
Summary
Choose, dear Beowulf, the better part,
eternal rewards. Do not give way to pride.
(See Important Quotations Explained)
Beowulf swims downward for the better part of a day before he sees the
bottom. As he nears the murky lake floor, Grendel’s mother senses his
approach. She lunges at him and clutches him in her grip, but his armor,
as predicted, prevents her from crushing him. She drags Beowulf to her
court, while a mass of sea-monsters claws and bites at him. Beowulf
wields Hrunting, the sword lent to him by Unferth, and lashes at
Grendel’s mother’s head, but even the celebrated blade of Hrunting is
unable to pierce the monster’s skin. Beowulf tries to fight the sea-witch
using only his bare hands, but she matches him blow for blow. At last, he
notices a sword hanging on the wall, an enormous weapon forged for
giants. Beowulf seizes the huge sword and swings it in a powerful arc.
The blade slices cleanly through the Grendel’s mother’s neck, and she
falls dead to the floor, gushing with blood. The hero is exultant. A light
appears, and Beowulf looks around, his sword held high in readiness. He
spies Grendel’s corpse lying in a corner. Furious at the sight of the fiend,
he decapitates Grendel as a final repayment for all of the lives that
Grendel took.
17
On land, the Danes lose hope when they see blood well up from the
depths. Sure that their champion is lost, they return to Heorot in sorrow.
Only the small band of Geats, Beowulf’s kinsmen, waits on.
Back in the monster’s court, the blade of the giant’s sword begins to
melt, burned by Grendel’s fiery blood. Beowulf seizes its hilt, which
remains solid and, grasping Grendel’s head in his other hand, swims for
the surface. He finds that the waters he passes through are no longer
infested now that the demon has been destroyed. When he breaks the
surface, the Geats are overjoyed as they advance to meet him and
unfasten his armor.
The group returns to Heorot in triumph. Four men impale the heavy head
of Grendel on a spear and lug it between them. When they arrive at the
hall, the Danes gawk at the head in horror and amazement. Beowulf
presents the head and the sword hilt to Hrothgar, assuring him of his
future security. Hrothgar praises Beowulf’s goodness, evenness, and
loyalty, contrasts him with the evil King Heremod, and predicts a great
future for him. He delivers a long speech about how to be a good and
wise ruler by choosing eternal rather than earthly rewards. Hrothgar then
promises to shower Beowulf with treasure the following morning.
Another banquet ensues, with great feasting and revelry. Afterward,
Beowulf retires to get some much-needed rest. In the morning, he has
Hrunting returned to Unferth and tells Hrothgar that he and his men long
to return home to Geatland. Hrothgar praises Beowulf again, saying that
he has united the Geats and the Danes in ties of friendship and loyalty.
He presents Beowulf with twelve treasures. Despite his urgings that
Beowulf return to Denmark soon, Hrothgar knows that he will never see
Beowulf again. The Geats return to the coast, where they grant a reward
to the watchman who has guarded their ship. They then sail back to
Geatland and return to the hall of Hygelac.
Lines 1925–2210
Summary
Beowulf and his men return to the magnificent hall of King Hygelac and
to Queen Hygd, who is beautiful and wise, though very young. The
narrator tells the story of the legendary Queen Modthryth, who
“perpetrated terrible wrongs” against her subjects, torturing and even
18
killing many innocent people who she imagined were offending her.
Modthryth’s behavior improved, we are told, once she was married to the
great king of the Angles, Offa.
Beowulf and his men approach the hall, where the Geats, who have
heard that their hero has returned, are preparing for his arrival. Hygelac
extends a formal greeting while Hygd pours mead for the warriors.
Hygelac asks Beowulf how he fared in the land of Hrothgar, recalling that
he had known that Beowulf’s task would be a fearsome one and that he
had advised Beowulf not to face such a dangerous foe.
Beowulf begins his tale by describing the courteous treatment that he
received from Hrothgar and Wealhtheow. He then prophesies an
unhappy outcome to the peace-weaving engagement of Freawaru,
Hrothgar’s daughter, to Ingeld the Heathobard. He predicts that the sight
of the ancestral possessions of each worn by the kin of the other (the
result of many years of warring and plundering) will cause memories of
the deep and lengthy feud between the Danes and the Heathobards to
surface, so that they will not be able to keep themselves from continuing
to fight.
Beowulf then tells the story of his encounter with Grendel. He particularly
emphasizes the monster’s ferocity and the rewards that he received from
Hrothgar. He relates the battle with Grendel’s mother as well. He then
presents his king with a large part of the treasure given to him by
Hrothgar, including suits of armor and four of the great horses. He gives
Hygd a priceless necklace—the torque given him by Wealhtheow—and
three horses. Beowulf is praised throughout Geatland for his valorous
deeds and courteousness. Hygelac gives him a great deal of treasure
and land of his own to rule.
In time, Hygelac is killed in battle with the Shylfings, and the kingdom
falls to Beowulf. For fifty years he rules the Geats, becoming a great and
wise king.
19
Lines 2211–2515
Summary
Soon it is Geatland’s turn to face terror. A great dragon lurks beneath the
earth, jealously guarding its treasure, until one day a thief manages to
infiltrate the barrow, or mound, where the treasure lies. The thief steals a
gem-covered goblet, arousing the wrath of the dragon. The intruder, a
slave on the run from a hard-handed master, intends no harm by his theft
and flees in a panic with the goblet.
The poet relates that many centuries earlier, the last survivor of an
ancient race buried the treasure in the barrow when he realized that the
treasure would be of no use to him because he, like his ancestors, was
destined to die. He carefully buried the precious objects, lamenting all
the while his lonely state. The defeat of his people had left the treasures
to deteriorate. The dragon chanced upon the hoard and has been
guarding it for the past three hundred years.
Waking up to find the goblet stolen, the dragon bursts forth from the
barrow to hunt the thief, scorching the earth as it travels. Not finding the
offender, the dragon goes on a rampage, breathing fire and incinerating
homes and villages. It begins to emerge nightly from its barrow to
torment the countryside, still seething with rage at the theft.
Soon, Beowulf’s own throne-hall becomes the target of the dragon’s fiery
breath, and it is burned to the ground. Now an old king, Beowulf grieves
and wonders what he might have done to deserve such punishment from
20
God. He begins to plot his revenge. He commissions a mighty shield
from the iron-smith, one that he hopes will stand up against the breath of
flame. He is too proud to assemble a huge army for the fight, and,
remembering how he defeated Grendel single-handedly in his youth,
feels no fear of the dragon.
The poet recounts the death of King Hygelac in combat in Friesland.
Hygelac fell while Beowulf survived thanks to his great strength and
swimming ability. Upon returning home, Beowulf was offered the throne
by the widowed Hygd, who knew that her own son was too young and
inexperienced to be an effective ruler. Beowulf declined, however, not
wanting to disturb the order of succession. Instead, he acted as protector
and guardian to the prince and supported his rule. Only when Hygelac’s
son met his end in a skirmish against the Swedes did Beowulf ascend
the throne. Under Beowulf’s reign, the feuding with Sweden eventually
ceased when Beowulf avenged Hygelac’s death.
Now, ready to face one last adversary, Beowulf gathers eleven men to
investigate the area. They discover the thief who stole the dragon’s
goblet and press him to take them to the barrow. They wish each other
luck in the fight that will follow, and Beowulf has a premonition of his own
death. On the cliff outside the barrow, Beowulf speaks to his men,
recounting his youth as a ward in King Hrethel’s court. He tells of the
accidental killing of one of Hrethel’s sons by another and attempts to
characterize the king’s great grief. He describes the wars between the
Geats and the Swedes after Hrethel’s death, recalling his proud days as
a warrior in the service of Hygelac. He then makes his final boast: he
vows to fight the dragon, if only it will abandon its barrow and face him
on open ground.
Lines 2516–2820
Summary
Beowulf bids farewell to his men and sets off wearing a mail-shirt and a
helmet to fight the dragon. He shouts a challenge to his opponent, who
emerges from the earth. Man and dragon grapple and wrestle amid
sheets of fire. Beowulf hacks with his sword against the dragon’s thick
scales, but his strength is clearly not what it once was. As the flames
billow, Beowulf’s companions run in terror. Only one, Wiglaf, feels
21
enough loyalty to come to the aid of his king. Wiglaf chides the other
warriors, reminding them of their oaths of loyal service to Beowulf. Now
the time has come when their loyalty will be tested, Wiglaf declares, and
he goes by himself to assist his lord.
Beowulf strikes the dragon in the head with his great sword Naegling, but
the sword snaps and breaks. The dragon lands a bite on Beowulf’s neck,
and blood begins to flow. Wiglaf rushes to Beowulf’s aid, stabbing the
dragon in the belly, and the dragon scorches Wiglaf’s hand. In
desperation Beowulf pulls a knife from his belt and stabs it deep into the
dragon’s flank. The blow is fatal, and the writhing serpent withers. But no
sooner has Beowulf triumphed than the wound on his neck begins to
burn and swell. He realizes that the dragon bite is venomous and that he
is dying. He sends Wiglaf to inspect the dragon’s treasure and bring him
a portion of it, saying that death will be easier if he sees the hoard that
he has liberated. Wiglaf descends into the barrow and quickly returns to
Beowulf with an armload of treasure. The old king, dying, thanks God for
the treasure that he has won for his people. He tells Wiglaf that he must
now look after the Geats and order his troop to build him a barrow that
people will call “Beowulf’s Barrow.” After giving Wiglaf the collar from his
own neck, Beowulf dies.
Lines 2821–3182
Summary
Beowulf lies dead, and Wiglaf is bowed down with grief at the loss of his
lord. The dragon, too, lies slain on the ground. The poet briefly
commemorates the beast’s end. Slowly, the Geatish warriors who had
fled from the battle straggle back to the barrow to find Wiglaf still vainly
trying to revive their fallen leader. The men are ashamed, and Wiglaf
rebukes them bitterly, declaring that all of Beowulf’s generosity has been
wasted on them. The cost of their cowardice, he predicts, will be greater
than just the life of a great ruler. He suggests that foreign warlords will be
sure to attack the Geats now that Beowulf can no longer protect them.
Wiglaf sends a messenger with tidings to the Geats, who wait nervously
for news of the outcome of the battle. The messenger tells them of
Beowulf’s death and warns them that the hostile Franks and the Frisians
22
will most certainly attack them. He expresses concern about the Swedes
as well, who have a long-held grudge against the Geats; he relates the
history of their feud and tells how the Geats secured the last victory.
Without Beowulf to protect them, the messenger predicts, the Geats risk
invasion by Swedes. The poet confirms that many of the messenger’s
predictions will prove true.
The Geats then rise and go to Beowulf’s body. They discover also the
fearsome, fifty-foot-long corpse of the dragon. It is revealed that the
hoard had been under a spell, so that no person could open it except by
the will of God. Wiglaf recounts Beowulf’s last requests and readies the
people to build his funeral pyre. With seven of the greatest Geatish
thanes, Wiglaf returns to the dragon’s bier to collect the treasure that
Beowulf bought with his life. They hurl the dragon’s body into the water.
The pyre is built high and decked with armor, according to Beowulf’s
wishes. The body is laid in and the fire is lit—its roar competes with the
sound of weeping. A Geatish woman laments Beowulf’s death and
grieves about the war-torn future that she foresees for her people. The
Geats place Beowulf’s remains on a cliff high above the sea in a barrow
that will be visible to all passing ships. Sorrowfully, they recount that their
king was kind and generous to his people, fair-minded, and eager to earn
praise.
BEOWUFL STUDY GUIDES AT http://www.gradesaver.com/beowulf/
READING CHECK- QUIZ ONE- 10 POINTS
23
MIDDLE ENGLISH PERIOD
http://www.wwnorton.com/college/english/nael/middleages/welcome.htm
The Middle Ages is like no other period in The Norton Anthology of
English Literature in terms of the time span it covers. Caedmon's Hymn,
the earliest English poem to survive as a text (NAEL 8, 1.25-27), belongs
to the latter part of the seventh century. The morality play, Everyman, is
dated "after 1485" and probably belongs to the early-sixteenth century. In
addition, for the Middle Ages, there is no one central movement or event
such as the English Reformation, the Civil War, or the Restoration
around which to organize a historical approach to the period.
When did "English Literature" begin? Any answer to that question must
be problematic, for the very concept of English literature is a construction
of literary history, a concept that changed over time. There are no
24
"English" characters in Beowulf, and English scholars and authors had
no knowledge of the poem before it was discovered and edited in the
nineteenth century. Although written in the language called "AngloSaxon," the poem was claimed by Danish and German scholars as their
earliest national epic before it came to be thought of as an "Old English"
poem. One of the results of the Norman Conquest was that the structure
and vocabulary of the English language changed to such an extent that
Chaucer, even if he had come across a manuscript of Old English
poetry, would have experienced far more difficulty construing the
language than with medieval Latin, French, or Italian. If a King Arthur had
actually lived, he would have spoken a Celtic language possibly still
intelligible to native speakers of Middle Welsh but not to Middle English
speakers.
The literary culture of the Middle Ages was far more international than
national and was divided more by lines of class and audience than by
language. Latin was the language of the Church and of learning. After
the eleventh century, French became the dominant language of secular
European literary culture. Edward, the Prince of Wales, who took the
king of France prisoner at the battle of Poitiers in 1356, had culturally
more in common with his royal captive than with the common people of
England. And the legendary King Arthur was an international figure.
Stories about him and his knights originated in Celtic poems and tales
and were adapted and greatly expanded in Latin chronicles and French
romances even before Arthur became an English hero.
Chaucer was certainly familiar with poetry that had its roots in the Old
English period. He read popular romances in Middle English, most of
which derive from more sophisticated French and Italian sources. But
when he began writing in the 1360s and 1370s, he turned directly to
French and Italian models as well as to classical poets (especially Ovid).
English poets in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries looked upon
Chaucer and his contemporary John Gower as founders
ofEnglish literature, as those who made English a language fit for
cultivated readers. In the Renaissance, Chaucer was referred to as the
"English Homer." Spenser called him the "well of English undefiled."
Nevertheless, Chaucer and his contemporaries Gower, William
Langland, and theGawain poet — all writing in the latter third of the
fourteenth century — are heirs to classical and medieval cultures that
25
had been evolving for many centuries. Culturesis put in the plural
deliberately, for there is a tendency, even on the part of medievalists, to
think of the Middle Ages as a single culture epitomized by the Great
Gothic cathedrals in which architecture, art, music, and liturgy seem to
join in magnificent expressions of a unified faith — an approach one
recent scholar has referred to as "cathedralism." Such a view overlooks
the diversity of medieval cultures and the social, political, religious,
economic, and technological changes that took place over this vastly
long period.
The texts included here from "The Middle Ages" attempt to convey that
diversity. They date from the sixth to the late- fifteenth century. Eight
were originally in Old French, six in Latin, five in English, two in Old
Saxon, two in Old Icelandic, and one each in Catalan, Hebrew, Greek,
and Arabic.
"The Linguistic and Literary Contexts of Beowulf" demonstrates the
kinship of the Anglo-Saxon poem with the versification and literature of
other early branches of the Germanic language group. An Anglo-Saxon
poet who was writing an epic based on the book of Genesis was able to
insert into his work the episodes of the fall of the angels and the fall of
man that he adapted with relatively minor changes from an Old Saxon
poem thought to have been lost until a fragment from it was found late in
the nineteenth century in the Vatican Library. Germanic mythology and
legend preserved in Old Icelandic literature centuries later
than Beowulf provide us with better insights into stories known to the
poet than anything in ancient Greek and Roman epic poetry.
"Estates and Orders" samples ideas about medieval society and some of
its members and institutions. Particular attention is given to religious
orders and to the ascetic ideals that were supposed to rule the lives of
men and women living in religious communities (such as Chaucer's
Prioress, Monk, and Friar, who honor those rules more in the breach
than in the observance) and anchorites (such as Julian of Norwich) living
apart. The Rule of Saint Benedict, written for a sixth-century religious
community, can serve the modern reader as a guidebook to the ideals
and daily practices of monastic life. The mutual influence of those ideals
and new aristocratic ideals of chivalry is evident in the selection from
the Ancrene Riwle(Rule for Anchoresses, NAEL 8, [1.157–159]) and The
Book of the Order of Chivalry. Though medieval social theory has little to
26
say about women, women were sometimes treated satirically as if they
constituted their own estate and profession in rebellion against the
divinely ordained rule of men. An outstanding instance is the "Old
Woman" from the Romance of the Rose, whom Chaucer reinvented as
the Wife of Bath. The tenth-century English Benedictine monk Aelfric
gives one of the earliest formulations of the theory of three estates —
clergy, nobles, and commoners — working harmoniously together. But
the deep- seated resentment between the upper and lower estates flared
up dramatically in the Uprising of 1381 and is revealed by the slogans of
the rebels, which are cited here in selections from the chronicles of
Henry Knighton and Thomas Walsingham, and by the attack of the poet
John Gower on the rebels in his Vox Clamantis. In the late-medieval
genre of estates satire, all three estates are portrayed as selfishly
corrupting and disrupting a mythical social order believed to have
prevailed in a past happier age.
The selections under "Arthur and Gawain" trace how French writers in
the twelfth and thirteenth centuries transformed the Legendary Histories
of Britain (NAEL 8 , 1.117–128) into the narrative genre that we now call
"romance." The works of Chrétien de Troyes focus on the adventures of
individual knights of the Round Table and how those adventures impinge
upon the cult of chivalry. Such adventures often take the form of a quest
to achieve honor or what Sir Thomas Malory often refers to as "worship."
But in romance the adventurous quest is often entangled, for better or for
worse, with personal fulfillment of love for a lady — achieving her love,
protecting her honor, and, in rare cases such as Sir Gawain and the
Green Knight, resisting a lady's advances. In the thirteenth century,
clerics turned the sagas of Arthur and his knights — especially Sir
Lancelot — into immensely long prose romances that disparaged worldly
chivalry and the love of women and advocated spiritual chivalry and
sexual purity. These were the "French books" that Malory, as his editor
and printer William Caxton tells us, "abridged into English," and gave
them the definitive form from which Arthurian literature has survived in
poetry, prose, art, and film into modern times.
"The First Crusade," launched in 1096, was the first in a series of holy
wars that profoundly affected the ideology and culture of Christian
Europe. Preached by Pope Urban II, the aim of the crusade was to unite
warring Christian factions in the common goal of liberating the Holy Land
from its Moslem rulers. The chronicle of Robert the Monk is one of
27
several versions of Urban's address. The Hebrew chronicle of Eliezer bar
Nathan gives a moving account of attacks made by some of the
crusaders on Jewish communities in the Rhineland — the beginnings of
the persecution of European Jews in the later Middle Ages. In the
biography of her father, the Byzantine emperor Alexius I, the princess
Anna Comnena provides us with still another perspective of the leaders
of the First Crusade whom she met on their passage through
Constantinople en route to the Holy Land. The taking of Jerusalem by
the crusaders came to be celebrated by European writers of history and
epic poetry as one of the greatest heroic achievements of all times. The
accounts by the Arab historian Ibn Al-Athir and by William of Tyre tell us
what happened after the crusaders breached the walls of Jerusalem from
complementary but very different points of view.
About The Canterbury Tales:
Geoffrey Chaucer wrote The Canterbury Tales, a collection of stories in a
frame story, between 1387 and 1400. It is the story of a group of thirty
people who travel as pilgrims to Canterbury (England). The pilgrims, who
come from all layers of society, tell stories to each other to kill time while
they travel to Canterbury.
If we trust the General Prologue, Chaucer intended that each pilgrim
should tell two tales on the way to Canterbury and two tales on the way
back. He never finished his enormous project and even the completed
tales were not finally revised. Scholars are uncertain about the order of
the tales. As the printing press had yet to be invented when Chaucer
wrote his works, The Canterbury Tales has been passed down in several
handwritten manuscripts.
The Knight's Tale
Whilom, as olde stories tellen us,
28
5
10
15
20
25
Ther was
a duc that highte Theseus;
Of Atthenes he was lord and
governour,
And in his tyme swich a
conquerour,
That gretter was ther noon under
the sonne.
Ful many a riche contree hadde
he wonne,
What with his wysdom and
his chivalrie;
He conquered al
the regne of Femenye,
That whilom was ycleped Scithia,
And weddede the queene
Ypolita,
And broghte hir hoom with hym
in his contree,
With muchel glorie and
greet solempnytee,
And eek hir
yonge suster Emelye.
And thus with victorie and with
melodye
Lete I this noble duc to Atthenes
ryde,
And al his hoost, in armes hym
bisyde.
And certes, if it nere to long to heere,
I wolde have toold yow fully the manere
How wonnen was the regne of Femenye
By Theseus, and by his chivalrye,
And of the grete bataille for the nones
Bitwixen Atthenes and Amazones,
And how asseged was Ypolita
The faire hardy queene of Scithia,
And of the feste that was at hir weddynge,
And of the tempest at hir hoom-comynge;
But al the thyng I moot as now forbere,
29
30
35
40
45
50
55
60
65
I have, God woot, a large feeld to ere,
And wayke been the oxen in my plough,
The remenant of the tale is long ynough.
I wol nat letten eek noon of this route,
Lat every felawe telle his tale aboute,
And lat se now who shal the soper wynne;And ther I lefte, I wol ayeyn bigynne.
This duc of whom I make mencioun,
Whan he was come almoost unto the toun,
In al his wele and in his mooste pride,
He was war, as he caste his eye aside,
Where that ther kneled in the hye weye
A compaignye of ladyes, tweye and tweye,
Ech after oother, clad in clothes blake;
But swich a cry and swich a wo they make,
That in this world nys creature lyvynge
That herde swich another waymentynge;
And of this cry they nolde nevere stenten,
Til they the reynes of his brydel henten.
"What folk been ye, that at myn hom-comynge
Perturben so my feste with criynge?"
Quod Theseus. "Have ye so greet envye
Of myn honour, that thus compleyne and crye?
Or who hath yow mysboden or offended?
And telleth me if it may been amended,
And why that ye been clothed thus in blak?"
The eldeste lady of hem alle spakWhan she hadde swowned with a deedly cheere,
That it was routhe for to seen and heereAnd seyde, "Lord, to whom Fortune hath yiven
Victorie, and as a conqueror to lyven,
Nat greveth us youre glorie and youre honour,
But we biseken mercy and socour.
Have mercy on oure wo and oure distresse,
Som drope of pitee thurgh thy gentillesse
Upon us wrecched wommen lat thou falle;
For certes, lord, ther is noon of us alle,
That she ne hath been a duchesse or a queene.
Now be we caytyves, as it is wel seene,
Thanked be Fortune, and hir false wheel,
30
70
75
80
85
90
95
100
105
That noon estaat assureth to be weel.
And certes, lord, to abyden youre presence,
Heere in the temple of the goddesse Clemence
We han ben waitynge al this fourtenyght;
Now help us, lord, sith it is in thy myght!
I wrecche, which that wepe and waille thus,
Was whilom wyf to kyng Cappaneus,
That starf at Thebes -cursed be that day!And alle we that been in this array
And maken al this lamentacioun,
We losten alle oure housbondes at that toun,
Whil that the seege theraboute lay.
And yet now the olde Creon, weylaway!
That lord is now of Thebes the Citee,
Fulfild of ire and of iniquitee,
He, for despit and for his tirannye,
To do the dede bodyes vileynye,
Of alle oure lordes, whiche that been slawe,
Hath alle the bodyes on an heep ydrawe,
And wol nat suffren hem, by noon assent,
Neither to been yburyed nor ybrent,
But maketh houndes ete hem in despit."
And with that word, withouten moore respit,
They fillen gruf, and criden pitously,
"Have on us wrecched wommen som mercy
And lat oure sorwe synken in thyn herte."
This gentil duc doun from his courser sterte
With herte pitous, whan he herde hem speke;
Hym thoughte that his herte wolde breke,
Whan he saugh hem so pitous and so maat,
That whilom weren of so greet estaat.
And in his armes he hem alle up hente,
And hem conforteth in ful good entente,
And swoor his ooth, as he was trewe knyght,
He wolde doon so ferforthly his myght
Upon the tiraunt Creon hem to wreke,
That all the peple of Grece sholde speke
How Creon was of Theseus yserved,
As he that hadde his deeth ful wel deserved.
And right anoon, withouten moore abood,
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His baner he desplayeth, and forth rood
To Thebes-ward, and al his hoost biside,
No neer Atthenes wolde he go ne ride,
Ne take his ese fully half a day,
But onward on his wey that nyght he lay,
And sente anon Ypolita the queene,
And Emelye, hir yonge suster sheene,
Unto the toun of Atthenes to dwelle,
And forth he rit; ther is namoore to telle.
The rede statue of Mars, with spere and targe,
So shyneth, in his white baner large,
That alle the feeldes gliteren up and doun,
And by his baner gorn is his penoun
Of gold ful riche, in which ther was ybete
The Mynotaur which that he slough in Crete.
Thus rit this duc, thus rit this conquerour,
And in his hoost of chivalrie the flour,
Til that he cam to Thebes, and alighte
Faire in a feeld, ther as he thoughte to fighte.
But shortly for to speken of this thyng,
With Creon, which that was of Thebes kyng,
He faught, and slough hym manly as a knyght
In pleyn bataille, and putte the folk to flyght;
And by assaut he wan the citee after,
And rente adoun bothe wall, and sparre, and rafter.
And to the ladyes he sestored agayn
The bones of hir freendes that weren slayn,
To doon obsequies as was tho the gyse.
But it were al to longe for to devyse
The grete clamour and the waymentynge
That the ladyes made at the brennynge
Of the bodies, and the grete honour
That Theseus, the noble conquerour,
Dooth to the ladyes, whan they from hym wente;
But shortly for to telle is myn entente.
Whan that his worthy duc, this Theseus,
Hath Creon slayn, and wonne Thebes thus,
Stille in that feeld he took al nyght his reste,
And dide with al the contree as hym leste.
To ransake in the taas of bodyes dede,
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Hem for to strepe of harneys and of wede,
The pilours diden bisynesse and cure,
After the bataille and disconfiture;
And so bifel, that in the taas they founde
Thurgh-girt with many a grevous blody wounde,
Two yonge knyghtes liggynge by and by,
Bothe in oon armes, wroght ful richely,
Of whiche two Arcita highte that oon,
And that oother knyght highte Palamon.
Nat fully quyke, ne fully dede they were,
But by here cote-armures and by hir gere,
The heraudes knewe hem best in special
As they that weren of the blood roial
Of Thebes, and of sustren two yborn.
Out of the taas the pilours han hem torn,
And had hem caried softe unto the tente
Of Theseus, and he ful soone hem sente
To Atthenes to dwellen in prisoun
Perpetuelly, he nolde no raunsoun.
And whan this worthy duc hath thus ydon,
He took his hoost, and hoom he rit anon,
With laurer crowned, as a conquerour;
And ther he lyveth in joye and in honour
Terme of his lyve; what nedeth wordes mo?
And in a tour, in angwissh and in wo,
Dwellen this Palamon and eek Arcite
For evermoore, ther may no gold hem quite.
This passeth yeer by yeer, and day by day,
Till it fil ones, in a morwe of May,
That Emelye, that fairer was to sene
Than is the lylie upon his stalke grene,
And fressher than the May with floures neweFor with the rose colour stroof hir hewe,
I noot which was the fairer of hem twoEr it were day, as was hir wone to do,
She was arisen, and al redy dightFor May wole have no slogardie a-nyght;
The sesoun priketh every gentil herte,
And maketh hym out of his slepe to sterte,
And seith, "Arys and do thyn observaunce."
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This maked Emelye have remembraunce
To doon honour to May, and for to ryse.
Yclothed was she fressh, for to devyse,
Hir yelow heer was broyded in a tresse,
Bihynde hir bak, a yerde long, I gesse,
And in the gardyn, at the sonne upriste,
She walketh up and doun, and as hir liste
She gadereth floures, party white and rede,
To make a subtil gerland for hir hede,
And as an aungel hevenysshly she soong.
The grete tour, that was so thikke and stroong,
Which of the castel was the chief dongeoun,
(Ther as the knyghtes weren in prisoun,
Of whiche I tolde yow, and tellen shal)
Was evene joynant to the gardyn wal
Ther as this Emelye hadde hir pleyynge.
Bright was the sonne, and cleer that morwenynge,
And Palamoun, this woful prisoner,
As was his wone, by leve of his gayler,
Was risen, and romed in a chambre on heigh,
In which he al the noble citee seigh,
And eek the gardyn, ful of braunches grene,
Ther as this fresshe Emelye the shene
Was in hire walk, and romed up and doun.
This sorweful prisoner, this Palamoun,
Goth in the chambre romynge to and fro,
And to hym-self compleynynge of his wo.
That he was born, ful ofte he seyde, "allas!"
And so bifel, by aventure or cas,
That thurgh a wyndow, thikke of many a barre
Of iren greet, and square as any sparre,
He cast his eye upon Emelya,
And therwithal he bleynte, and cryede "A!"
As though he stongen were unto the herte.
And with that cry Arcite anon up sterte
And seyde, "Cosyn myn, what eyleth thee,
That art so pale and deedly on to see?
Why cridestow? who hath thee doon offence?
For Goddess love, taak al in pacience
Oure prisoun, for it may noon oother be;
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Fortune hath yeven us this adversitee.
Som wikke aspect or disposicioun
Of Saturne, by sum constellacioun
Hath yeven us this, al though we hadde it sworn;
So stood the hevene, whan that we were born.
We moste endure it, this the short and playn."
This Palamon answerde and seyde agayn:
"Cosyn, for sothe, of this opinioun
Thow hast a veyn ymaginacioun.
This prison caused me nat for to crye,
But I was hurt right now thurgh-out myn ye
Into myn herte, that wol my bane be.
The fairnesse of that lady, that I see
Yond in the gardyn romen to and fro,
Is cause of al my criyng and my wo.
I noot wher she be womman or goddesse,
But Venus is it, soothly as I gesse."
And therwithal, on knees doun he fil,
And seyde, "Venus, if it be thy wil,
Yow in this gardyn thus to transfigure
Bifore me, sorweful wrecched creature,
Out of this prisoun helpe that we may scapen!
And if so be my destynee be shapen
By eterne word to dyen in prisoun,
Of oure lynage have som compassioun,
That is so lowe ybroght by tirannye."
And with that word Arcite gan espye
Wher-as this lady romed to and fro,
And with that sighte hir beautee hurte hym so,
That, if that Palamon was wounded sore,
Arcite is hurt as moche as he, or moore.
And with a sigh he seyde pitously:
"The fresshe beautee sleeth me sodeynly
Of hire, that rometh in the yonder place,
And but I have hir mercy and hir grace
That I may seen hir atte leeste weye,
I nam but deed, ther is namoore to seye."
This Palamon, whan he tho wordes herde,
Dispitously he looked and answerde,
"Wheither seistow this in ernest or in pley?"
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"Nay," quod Arcite, "in ernest by my fey,
God helpe me so, me list ful yvele pleye."
This Palamon gan knytte his browes tweye;
"It nere," quod he, "to thee no greet honour
For to be fals, ne for to be traitour
To me, that am thy cosyn and thy brother,
Ysworn ful depe, and ech of us til oother,
That nevere for to dyen in the peyne,
Til that the deeth departe shal us tweyne,
Neither of us in love to hyndre other,
Ne in noon oother cas, my leeve brother,
But that thou sholdest trewely forthren me
In every cas, as I shal forthren thee, This was thyn ooth, and myn also certeyn,
I woot right wel thou darst it nat withseyn.
Thus artow of my conseil, out of doute;
And now thou woldest falsly been aboute
To love my lady, whom I love and serve
And evere shal, til that myn herte sterve.
Nay, certes, false Arcite, thow shalt nat so!
I loved hire first, and tolde thee my wo
As to my conseil, and to my brother sworn,
To forthre me as I have toold biforn,
For which thou art ybounden as a knyght
To helpen me, if it lay in thy myght,
Or elles artow fals, I dar wel seyn."
This Arcite ful proudly spak ageyn,
"Thow shalt," quod he, "be rather fals than I.
But thou art fals, I telle thee outrely,
For paramour I loved hir first er thow.
What, wiltow seyn thou wistest nat yet now
Wheither she be a womman or goddesse?
Thyn is affeccioun of hoolynesse,
And myn is love, as to a creature;
For which I tolde thee myn aventure
As to my cosyn and my brother sworn.
I pose, that thow lovedest hir biforn;
Wostow nat wel the olde clerkes sawe
That `who shal yeve a lovere any lawe?'
Love is a gretter lawe, by my pan,
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Than may be yeve of any erthely man.
And therfore positif lawe and swich decree
Is broken al day for love in ech degree.
A man moot nedes love, maugree his heed,
He may nat fleen it, thogh he sholde be deed,
Al be she mayde, or wydwe, or elles wyf.
And eek it is nat likly, al thy lyf,
To stonden in hir grace, namoore shal I,
For wel thou woost thyselven, verraily,
That thou and I be dampned to prisoun
Perpetuelly, us gayneth no raunsoun.
We stryven as dide the houndes for the boon,
They foughte al day, and yet hir part was noon.
Ther cam a kyte, whil they weren so wrothe,
And baar awey the boon bitwixe hem bothe.
And therfore at the kynges court, my brother,
Ech man for hymself, ther is noon oother.
Love if thee list, for I love, and ay shal;
And soothly, leeve brother, this is al.
Heere in this prisoun moote we endure,
And everich of us take his aventure."
Greet was the strif and long bitwix hem tweye,
If that I hadde leyser for to seye.
But to th'effect; it happed on a day,
To telle it yow as shortly as I may,
A worthy duc, that highte Perotheus,
That felawe was unto duc Theseus
Syn thilke day that they were children lite,
Was come to Atthenes his felawe to visite,
And for to pleye as he was wont to doFor in this world he loved no man so,
And he loved hym als tendrely agayn.
So wel they lovede, as olde bookes sayn,
That whan that oon was deed, soothly to telle,
His felawe wente and soughte hym doun in helle.
But of that storie list me nat to write;
Duc Perotheus loved wel Arcite,
And hadde hym knowe at Thebes yeer by yere,
And finally, at requeste and preyere
Of Perotheus, withouten any raunsoun,
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Duc Theseus hym leet out of prisoun
Frely to goon, wher that hym liste overal,
In swich a gyse as I you tellen shal.
This was the forward, pleynly for t'endite,
Bitwixen Theseus and hym Arcite,
That if so were that Arcite were yfounde
Evere in his lif, by day or nyght or stounde,
In any contree of this Theseus,
And he were caught, it was acorded thus,
That with a swerd he sholde lese his heed;
Ther nas noon oother remedie ne reed,
But taketh his leve and homward he him spedde;
Lat hym be war! His nekke lith to wedde!
How greet a sorwe suffreth now Arcite!
The deeth he feeleth thurgh his herte smyte,
He wepeth, wayleth, crieth pitously,
To sleen hymself he waiteth prively.
He seyde, "Allas, that day that he was born!
Now is my prisoun worse than biforn;
Now is me shape eternally to dwelle
Nat in purgatorie, but in helle.
Allas, that evere knew I Perotheus!
For elles hadde I dwelled with Theseus,
Yfetered in his prisoun evermo;
Thanne hadde I been in blisse, and nat in wo.
Oonly the sighte of hire whom that I serve,
Though that I nevere hir grace may deserve,
Wolde han suffised right ynough for me.
O deere cosyn Palamon," quod he,
"Thyn is the victorie of this aventure.
Ful blisfully in prison maistow dure.In prisoun? certes, nay, but in paradys!
Wel hath Fortune yturned thee the dys,
That hast the sighte of hir, and I th'absence;
For possible is, syn thou hast hir presence,
And art a knyght, a worthy and an able,
That by som cas, syn Fortune is chaungeable,
Thow maist to thy desir som tyme atteyne.
But I, that am exiled and bareyne
Of alle grace, and in so greet dispeir
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That ther nys erthe, water, fir, ne eir,
Ne creature, that of hem maked is,
That may me helpe or doon confort in this,
Wel oughte I sterve in wanhope and distresse,
Farwel, my lif, my lust, and my gladnesse!
Allas, why pleynen folk so in commune
On purveiaunce of God or of Fortune,
That yeveth hem ful ofte in many a gyse
Wel bettre than they kan hemself devyse?
Som man desireth for to han richesse,
That cause is of his mordre of greet siknesse.
And som man wolde out of his prisoun fayn,
That in his hous is of his meynee slayn.
Infinite harmes been in this mateere,
We witen nat what thing we preyen heere.
We faren as he that dronke is as a mous;
A dronke man woot wel he hath an hous,
But he noot which the righte wey is thider,
And to a dronke man the wey is slider.
And certes, in this world so faren we;
We seken faste after felicitee,
But we goon wrong ful often trewely.
Thus may we seyen alle, and namely I,
That wende and hadde a greet opinioun
That if I myghte escapen from prisoun,
Thanne hadde I been in joye and perfit heele,
Ther now I am exiled fro my wele.
Syn that I may nat seen you, Emelye,
I nam but deed, ther nys no remedye."
Upon that oother syde, Palamon,
Whan that he wiste Arcite was agon,
Swich sorwe he maketh that the grete tour
Resouneth of his youlyng and clamour.
The pure fettres on his shynes grete
Weren of his bittre salte teeres wete.
"Allas," quod he, "Arcite, cosyn myn!
Of al oure strif, God woot, the fruyt is thyn.
Thow walkest now in Thebes at thy large,
And of my wo thow yevest litel charge.
Thou mayst, syn thou hast wysdom and manhede,
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Assemblen alle the folk of oure kynrede,
And make a werre so sharp on this citee,
That by som aventure, or som tretee,
Thow mayst have hir to lady and to wyf,
For whom that I moste nedes lese my lyf.
For as by wey of possibilitee,
Sith thou art at thy large, of prisoun free,
And art a lord, greet is thyn avauntage
Moore than is myn, that sterve here in a cage.
For I moot wepe and wayle, whil I lyve,
With al the wo that prison may me yeve,
And eek with peyne that love me yeveth also,
That doubleth al my torment and my wo."
Therwith the fyr of jalousie up-sterte
Withinne his brest, and hente him by the herte
So woodly, that he lyk was to biholde
The boxtree, or the asshen dede and colde.
Thanne seyde he, "O cruel Goddes, that governe
This world with byndyng of youre word eterne,
And writen in the table of atthamaunt
Youre parlement and youre eterne graunt,
What is mankynde moore unto you holde
Than is the sheep that rouketh in the folde?
For slayn is man right as another beest,
And dwelleth eek in prison and arreest,
And hath siknesse, and greet adversitee,
And ofte tymes giltelees, pardee.
What governance is in this prescience
That giltelees tormenteth innocence?
And yet encresseth this al my penaunce,
That man is bounden to his observaunce,
For Goddes sake, to letten of his wille,
Ther as a beest may al his lust fulfille.
And whan a beest is deed, he hath no peyne,
But man after his deeth moot wepe and pleyne,
Though in this world he have care and wo.
Withouten doute it may stonden so.
The answere of this lete I to dyvynys,
But well I woot, that in this world greet pyne ys.
Allas, I se a serpent or a theef,
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That many a trewe man hath doon mescheef,
Goon at his large, and where hym list may turne!
But I moot been in prisoun thurgh Saturne,
And eek thurgh Juno, jalous and eek wood,
That hath destroyed wel ny al the blood
Of Thebes with hise waste walles wyde.
And Venus sleeth me on that oother syde
For jalousie and fere of hym Arcite."
Now wol I stynte of Palamon a lite,
And lete hym in his prisoun stille dwelle,
And of Arcita forth I wol yow telle.
The somer passeth, and the nyghtes longe
Encressen double wise the peynes stronge
Bothe of the lovere and the prisoner;
I noot which hath the wofuller mester.
For shortly for to seyn, this Palamoun
Perpetuelly is dampned to prisoun
In cheynes and in fettres to been deed,
And Arcite is exiled upon his heed
For evere mo as out of that contree,
Ne nevere mo he shal his lady see.
Yow loveres axe I now this questioun,
Who hath the worse, Arcite or Palamoun?
That oon may seen his lady day by day,
But in prison he moot dwelle alway;
That oother wher hym list may ride or go,
But seen his lady shal he nevere mo.
Now demeth as yow liste ye that kan,
For I wol telle forth, as I bigan.
PART II
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Whan that Arcite to Thebes comen was,
Ful ofte a day he swelte and seyde `Allas,'
For seen his lady shal he nevere mo;
And shortly to concluden al his wo,
So muche sorwe hadde nevere creature,
That is, or shal whil that the world may dure.
His slep, his mete, his drynke is hym biraft,
That lene he wex and drye as is a shaft.
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Hise eyen holwe and grisly to biholde,
His hewe falow and pale as asshen colde;
And solitarie he was and evere allone
And waillynge al the nyght, makynge his mone.
And if he herde song or instrument,
Thanne wolde he wepe, he myghte nat be stent.
So feble eek were hise spiritz, and so lowe,
And chaunged so, that no man koude knowe
His speche nor his voys, though men it herde.
And in his geere for al the world he ferde
Nat oonly lik the loveris maladye
Of Hereos, but rather lyk manye
Engendred of humour malencolik
Biforen in his celle fantastik,
And shortly turned was al up so doun
Bothe habit and eek disposicioun
Of hym, this woful lovere daun Arcite.
What sholde I al day of his wo endite?
Whan he endured hadde a yeer or two
This crueel torment, and this peyne and wo,
At Thebes in his contree, as I seyde,
Upon a nyght in sleep as he hym leyde,
Hym thoughte how that the wynged god Mercurie
Biforn hym stood, and bad hym to be murie.
His slepy yerde in hond he bar uprighte,
An hat he werede upon hise heris brighte.
Arrayed was this god, as he took keep,
As he was whan that Argus took his sleep;
And seyde hym thus, "To Atthenes shaltou wende,
Ther is thee shapen of thy wo an ende."
And with that word Arcite wook and sterte.
"Now trewely, how soore that me smerte,"
Quod he, "to Atthenes right now wol I fare,
Ne for the drede of deeth shal I nat spare
To se my lady that I love and serve,
In hire presence I recche nat to sterve."
And with that word he caughte a greet mirour,
And saugh that chaunged was al his colour,
And saugh his visage al in another kynde.
And right anon it ran hym in his mynde,
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That sith his face was so disfigured
Of maladye, the which he hadde endured,
He myghte wel, if that he bar hym lowe,
Lyve in Atthenes, everemoore unknowe,
And seen his lady wel ny day by day.
And right anon he chaunged his array,
And cladde hym as a povre laborer,
And al allone, save oonly a squier
That knew his privetee and al his cas,
Which was disgised povrely, as he was,
To Atthenes is he goon, the nexte way.
And to the court he wente, upon a day,
And at the gate he profreth his servyse,
To drugge and drawe, what so men wol devyse.
And shortly of this matere for to seyn,
He fil in office with a chamberleyn,
The which that dwellynge was with Emelye,
For he was wys and koude soone espye
Of every servant which that serveth here.
Wel koude he hewen wode, and water bere,
For he was yong and myghty for the nones,
And therto he was strong and big of bones
To doon that any wight kan hym devyse.
A yeer or two he was in this servyse
Page of the chambre of Emelye the brighte;
And Philostrate he seyde that he highte.
But half so wel biloved a man as he
Ne was ther nevere in court, of his degree;
He was so gentil of condicioun
That thurghout al the court was his renoun.
They seyden, that it were a charitee,
That Theseus wolde enhauncen his degree,
And putten hym in worshipful servyse
Ther as he myghte his vertu exercise.
And thus withinne a while his name is spronge
Bothe of hise dedes and his goode tonge,
That Theseus hath taken hym so neer,
That of his chambre he made hym a squier,
And gaf hym gold to mayntene his degree.
And eek men broghte hym out of his contree
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From yeer to yeer, ful pryvely, his rente.
But honestly and slyly he it spente,
That no man wondred how that he it hadde.
And thre yeer in this wise his lif he ladde,
And bar hym so in pees, and eek in werre,
Ther was no man that Theseus hath derre.
And in this blisse lete I now Arcite,
And speke I wole of Palamon a lite.
In derknesse and horrible and strong prisoun
Thise seven yeer hath seten Palamoun,
Forpyned, what for wo and for distresse.
Who feeleth double soor and hevynesse
But Palamon, that love destreyneth so,
That wood out of his wit he goth for wo?
And eek therto he is a prisoner,
Perpetuelly, noght oonly for a yer.
Who koude ryme in Englyssh proprely
His martirdom? For sothe it am nat I,
Therfore I passe as lightly as I may.
It fel that in the seventhe yer, in May,
The thridde nyght, (as olde bookes seyn,
That al this storie tellen moore pleyn)
Were it by aventure or destynee As, whan a thyng is shapen, it shal be That soone after the mydnyght Palamoun
By helpyng of a freend, brak his prisoun
And fleeth the citee faste as he may go;
For he hade yeve his gayler drynke so
Of a clarree maad of a certeyn wyn,
With nercotikes and opie of Thebes fyn,
That al that nyght, thogh that men wolde him shake,
The gayler sleep, he myghte nat awake.
And thus he fleeth as faste as evere he may;
The nyght was short and faste by the day,
That nedes-cost he moot hymselven hyde;
And til a grove, faste ther bisyde,
With dredeful foot thanne stalketh Palamoun.
For shortly, this was his opinioun,
That in that grove he wolde hym hyde al day,
And in the nyght thanne wolde he take his way
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To Thebes-ward, his freendes for to preye
On Theseus to helpe hym to werreye;
And shortly, outher he wolde lese his lif,
Or wynnen Emelye unto his wyf;
This is th'effect and his entente pleyn.
Now wol I turne to Arcite ageyn,
That litel wiste how ny that was his care,
Til that Fortune had broght him in the snare.
The bisy larke, messager of day,
Salueth in hir song the morwe gray,
And firy Phebus riseth up so brighte
That al the orient laugheth of the light,
And with hise stremes dryeth in the greves
The silver dropes hangynge on the leves.
And Arcita, that is in the court roial
With Theseus, his squier principal,
Is risen, and looketh on the myrie day.
And for to doon his observaunce of May,
Remembrynge on the poynt of his desir
He on a courser startlynge as the fir
Is riden into the feeldes, hym to pleye,
Out of the court, were it a myle or tweye.
And to the grove of which that I yow tolde
By aventure his wey he gan to holde,
To maken hym a gerland of the greves,
Were it of wodebynde or hawethorn leves.
And loude he song ayeyn the sonne shene,
"May, with alle thy floures and thy grene,
Welcome be thou, faire fresshe May,
In hope that I som grene gete may."
And from his courser, with a lusty herte,
Into a grove ful hastily he sterte,
And in a path he rometh up and doun
Ther as by aventure this Palamoun
Was in a bussh, that no man myghte hym se;
For soore afered of his deeth was he.
No thyng ne knew he that it was Arcite,
God woot, he wolde have trowed it ful lite.
But sooth is seyd, go sithen many yeres,
That "feeld hath eyen and the wode hath eres."
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It is ful fair a man to bere hym evene,
For al day meeteth men at unset stevene.
Ful litel woot Arcite of his felawe,
That was so ny to herknen al his sawe,
For in the bussh he sitteth now ful stille.
Whan that Arcite hadde romed al his fille
And songen al the roundel lustily,
Into a studie he fil al sodeynly,
As doon thise loveres in hir queynte geres,
Now in the croppe, now doun in the breres,
Now up, now doun as boket in a welle.
Right as the Friday, soothly for to telle,
Now it shyneth, now it reyneth faste,
Right so kan geery Venus overcaste
The hertes of hir folk; right as hir day
Is gereful, right so chaungeth she array.
Selde is the Friday al the wowke ylike.
Whan that Arcite had songe, he gan to sike,
And sette hym doun withouten any moore;
"Allas," quod he, "that day that I was bore!
How longe, Juno, thurgh thy crueltee
Woltow werreyen Thebes the Citee?
Allas, ybroght is to confusioun
The blood roial of Cadme and Amphioun, Of Cadmus, which that was the firste man
That Thebes bulte, or first the toun bigan,
And of the citee first was crouned kyng,
Of his lynage am I, and his ofspryng,
By verray ligne, as of the stok roial,
And now I am so caytyf and so thral
That he that is my mortal enemy
I serve hym as his squier povrely.
And yet dooth Juno me wel moore shame,
For I dar noght biknowe myn owene name,
But theras I was wont to highte Arcite,
Now highte I Philostrate, noght worth a myte.
Allas, thou felle Mars! allas, Juno!
Thus hath youre ire oure lynage al fordo,
Save oonly me, and wrecched Palamoun
That Theseus martireth in prisoun.
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And over al this, to sleen me outrely,
Love hath his firy dart so brennyngly
Ystiked thurgh my trewe careful herte,
That shapen was my deeth erst than my sherte.
Ye sleen me with youre eyen, Emelye!
Ye been the cause wherfore that I dye.
Of al the remenant of myn oother care
Ne sette I nat the montance of a tare,
So that I koude doon aught to youre plesaunce."
And with that word he fil doun in a traunce
A longe tyme, and after he upsterte.
This Palamoun, that thoughte that thurgh his herte
He felte a coold swerd sodeynliche glyde,
For ire he quook, no lenger wolde he byde.
And whan that he had herd Arcites tale,
As he were wood, with face deed and pale,
He stirte hym up out of the buskes thikke,
And seide, "Arcite, false traytour wikke!
Now artow hent that lovest my lady so,
For whom that I have al this peyne and wo,
And art my blood, and to my conseil sworn,
As I ful ofte ofte have seyd thee heerbiforn,
And hast byjaped heere duc Theseus,
And falsly chaunged hast thy name thus.
I wol be deed, or elles thou shalt dye;
Thou shalt nat love my lady Emelye,
But I wol love hire oonly, and namo,
For I am Palamon, thy mortal foo!
And though that I no wepene have in this place,
But out of prison am astert by grace,
I drede noght that outher thow shalt dye,
Or thow ne shalt nat loven Emelye.
Chees which thou wolt, for thou shalt nat asterte!"
This Arcite, with ful despitous herte,
Whan he hym knew, and hadde his tale herd,
As fiers as leoun pulled out his swerd,
And seyde thus: "By God that sit above,
Nere it that thou art sik and wood for love,
And eek that thow no wepne hast in this place,
Thou sholdest nevere out of this grove pace,
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That thou ne sholdest dyen of myn hond.
For I defye the seurete and the bond
Which that thou seist that I have maad to thee.
What, verray fool, thynk wel that love is free,
And I wol love hir, maugree al thy myght!
But for as muche thou art a worthy knyght,
And wilnest to darreyne hire by bataille,
Have heer my trouthe; tomorwe I wol nat faille
Withoute wityng of any oother wight
That heere I wol be founden as a knyght,
And bryngen harneys right ynough for thee,
And ches the beste, and leef the worste for me.
And mete and drynke this nyght wol I brynge
Ynough for thee, and clothes for thy beddynge;
And if so be that thou my lady wynne,
And sle me in this wode ther I am inne,
Thow mayst wel have thy lady as for me."
This Palamon answerde, "I graunte it thee."
And thus they been departed til amorwe,
Whan ech of hem had leyd his feith to borwe.
O Cupide, out of alle charitee!
O regne, that wolt no felawe have with thee!
Ful sooth is seyd that love ne lordshipe
Wol noght, hir thankes, have no felaweshipe.
Wel fynden that Arcite and Palamoun.
Arcite is riden anon unto the toun,
And on the morwe, er it were dayes light,
Ful prively two harneys hath he dight,
Bothe suffisaunt and mete to darreyne
The bataille in the feeld bitwix hem tweyne.
And on his hors, allone as he was born,
He carieth al this harneys hym biforn,
And in the grove, at tyme and place yset,
This Arcite and this Palamon ben met.
To chaungen gan the colour in hir face
Right as the hunters in the regne of Trace,
That stondeth at the gappe with a spere,
Whan hunted is the leoun and the bere,
And hereth hym come russhyng in the greves,
And breketh bothe bowes and the leves,
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And thynketh, "Heere cometh my mortal enemy,
Withoute faille he moot be deed or I,
For outher I moot sleen hym at the gappe,
Or he moot sleen me, if that me myshappe"So ferden they in chaungyng of hir hewe,
As fer as everich of hem oother knewe.
Ther nas no good day ne no saluyng,
But streight, withouten word or rehersyng,
Everich of hem heelp for to armen oother,
As freendly as he were his owene brother.
And after that with sharpe speres stronge
They foynen ech at oother wonder longe.
Thou myghtest wene that this Palamoun
In his fightyng were a wood leon,
And as a crueel tigre was Arcite.
As wilde bores gonne they to smyte,
That frothen white as foom for ire wood.
Up to the ancle foghte they in hir blood.
And in this wise I lete hem fightyng dwelle,
And forth I wole of Theseus yow telle.
The destinee, ministre general,
That executeth in the world overal
The purveiaunce that God hath seyn biforn,
So strong it is, that though the world had sworn
The contrarie of a thyng, by ye or nay,
Yet somtyme it shal fallen on a day
That falleth nat eft withinne a thousand yeere.
For certeinly, oure appetites heere,
Be it of werre, or pees, or hate, or love,
Al is this reuled by the sighte above.
This mene I now by myghty Theseus,
That for to hunten is so desirus
And namely at the grete hert in May,
That in his bed ther daweth hym no day
That he nys clad, and redy for to ryde
With hunte and horn, and houndes hym bisyde
For in his huntyng hath he swich delit
That it is al his joye and appetit
To been hymself the grete hertes baneFor after Mars he serveth now Dyane.
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Cleer was the day, as I have toold er this,
And Theseus, with alle joye and blis,
With his Ypolita, the faire quene,
And Emelye, clothed al in grene,
On huntyng be they riden roially,
And to the grove, that stood ful faste by,
In which ther was an hert, as men hym tolde,
Duc Theseus the streighte wey hath holde,
And to the launde he rideth hym ful right,
For thider was the hert wont have his flight,
And over a brook, and so forth in his weye.
This duc wol han a cours at hym, or tweye,
With houndes swiche as that hym list comaunde.
And whan this duc was come unto the launde,
Under the sonne he looketh, and anon
He was war of Arcite and Palamon,
That foughten breme, as it were bores two;
The brighte swerdes wenten to and fro
So hidously, that with the leeste strook
It semed as it wolde felle an ook;
But what they were, nothyng he ne woot.
This duc his courser with his spores smoot,
And at a stert he was bitwix hem two,
And pulled out a swerd, and cride, "Hoo!
Namoore, up peyne of lesynge of youre heed!
By myghty Mars, he shal anon be deed
That smyteth any strook, that I may seen.
But telleth me what myster men ye been,
That been so hardy for to fighten heere
Withouten juge or oother officere,
As it were in a lystes roially?"
This Palamon answerde hastily,
And seyde, "Sire, what nedeth wordes mo?
We have the deeth disserved, bothe two.
Two woful wrecches been we, two caytyves,
That been encombred of oure owene lyves,
And as thou art a fightful lord and juge,
Ne yeve us neither mercy ne refuge,
But sle me first for seinte charitee!
But sle my felawe eek as wel as me50
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Or sle hym first, for, though thow knowest it lite,
This is thy mortal foo, this is Arcite,
That fro thy lond is banysshed on his heed,
For which he hath deserved to be deed.
For this is he, that cam unto thy gate,
And seyde that he highte Philostrate.
Thus hath he japed thee ful many a yer,
And thou hast maked hym thy chief Squier,
And this is he that loveth Emelye.
For sith the day is come that I shal dye,
I make pleynly my confessioun
That I am thilke woful Palamoun,
That hath thy prisoun broken wikkedly.
I am thy mortal foo, and it am I
That loveth so hoote Emelye the brighte,
That I wol dye present in hir sighte;
Wherfore I axe deeth and my juwiseBut sle my felawe in the same wise
For bothe han we deserved to be slayn."
This worthy duc answered anon agayn,
And seyde, "This is a short conclusioun,
Youre owene mouth, by your confessioun,
Hath dampned yow, and I wol it recorde.
It nedeth noght to pyne yow with the corde,
Ye shal be deed, by myghty Mars the rede!"
The queene anon, for verray wommanhede,
Gan for to wepe, and so dide Emelye,
And alle the ladyes in the compaignye.
Greet pitee was it, as it thoughte hem alle,
That evere swich a chaunce sholde falle.
For gentil men they were of greet estaat,
And no thyng but for love was this debaat,
And saugh hir blody woundes wyde and soore,
And alle crieden, both lasse and moore,
"Have mercy, lord, upon us wommen alle!"
And on hir bare knees adoun they falle,
And wolde have kist his feet ther as he stood;
Til at the laste aslaked was his mood,
For pitee renneth soone in gentil herte.
And though he first for ire quook and sterte,
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He hath considered shortly in a clause
The trespas of hem bothe, and eek the cause,
And although that his ire hir gilt accused,
Yet in his resoun he hem bothe excused.
As thus: he thoghte wel, that every man
Wol helpe hymself in love, if that he kan,
And eek delivere hym-self out of prisoun;
And eek his herte hadde compassioun
Of wommen, for they wepen evere in oon.
And in his gentil herte he thoughte anon,
And softe unto hymself he seyde, "Fy
Upon a lord that wol have no mercy,
But been a leon, bothe in word and dede,
To hem that been in repentaunce and drede,
As wel as to a proud despitous man,
That wol maynteyne that he first bigan.
That lord hath litel of discrecioun
That in swich cas kan no divisioun,
But weyeth pride and humblesse after oon."
And shortly, whan his ire is thus agoon,
He gan to looken up with eyen lighte,
And spak thise same wordes al on highte:
"The God of love, a benedicite!
How myghty and how greet a lord is he!
Ayeyns his myght ther gayneth none obstacles,
He may be cleped a god for his myracles,
For he kan maken at his owene gyse
Of everich herte as that hym list divyse.
Lo heere, this Arcite and this Palamoun
That quitly weren out of my prisoun,
And myghte han lyved in Thebes roially,
And witen I am hir mortal enemy,
And that hir deth lith in my myght also;
And yet hath love, maugree hir eyen two,
Ybroght hem hyder bothe for to dye.
Now looketh, is nat that an heigh folye?
Who may been a fole, but if he love?
Bihoold, for Goddes sake that sit above,
Se how they blede! Be they noght wel arrayed?
Thus hath hir lord, the God of Love, ypayed
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Hir wages and hir fees for hir servyse!
And yet they wenen for to been ful wyse,
That serven love, for aught that may bifalle!
But this is yet the beste game of alle,
That she, for whom they han this jolitee,
Kan hem therfore as muche thank, as me!
She woot namoore of al this hoote fare,
By God, than woot a cokkow or an hare!
But all moot ben assayed, hoot and coold;
A man moot ben a fool, or yong or oold;
I woot it by myself ful yore agon,
For in my tyme a servant was I oon.
And therfore, syn I knowe of loves peyne,
And woot how soore it kan a man distreyne,
As he that hath ben caught ofte in his laas,
I yow foryeve al hoolly this trespaas,
At requeste of the queene that kneleth heere,
And eek of Emelye, my suster deere.
And ye shul bothe anon unto me swere,
That nevere mo ye shal my contree dere,
Ne make werre upon me, nyght ne day,
But been my freendes in al that ye may,
I yow foryeve this trespas, every deel."
And they hym sworen his axyng, faire and weel,
And hym of lordship and of mercy preyde,
And he hem graunteth grace, and thus he seyde:
"To speke of roial lynage and richesse,
Though that she were a queene or a princesse,
Ech of you bothe is worthy doutelees
To wedden whan tyme is, but nathelees
I speke as for my suster Emelye,
For whom ye have this strif and jalousye:
Ye woot yourself, she may nat wedden two
Atones, though ye fighten everemo.
That oon of you, al be hym looth or lief,
He moot go pipen in an yvy leefThis is to seyn, she may nat now han bothe,
Al be ye never so jalouse, ne so wrothe.
And forthy, I yow putte in this degree;
That ech of yow shal have his destynee
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As hym is shape, and herkneth in what wyse;
Lo, heere your ende of that I shal devyse.
My wyl is this, for plat conclusioun,
Withouten any repplicacioun, If that you liketh, take it for the beste,
That everich of you shal goon where hym leste,
Frely, withouten raunson, or daunger,
And this day fifty wykes fer ne ner,
Everich of you shal brynge an hundred knyghtes
Armed for lystes up at alle rightes,
Al redy to darreyne hire by bataille.
And this bihote I yow withouten faille,
Upon my trouthe, and as I am a knyght,
That wheither of yow bothe that hath myght,
This is to seyn, that wheither he, or thow
May with his hundred, as I spak of now,
Sleen his contrarie, or out of lystes dryve,
Thanne shal I yeve Emelya to wyve
To whom that Fortune yeveth so fair a grace.
Tho lystes shal I maken in this place,
And God so wisly on my soule rewe,
As I shal evene juge been, and trewe.
Ye shul noon oother ende with me maken,
That oon of yow ne shal be deed or taken.
And if yow thynketh this is weel ysayd,
Seyeth youre avys and holdeth you apayd;
This is youre ende and youre conclusioun."
Who looketh lightly now but Palamoun?
Who spryngeth up for joye but Arcite?
Who kouthe tellen, or who kouthe endite
The joye that is maked in the place,
Whan Theseus hath doon so fair a grace?
But doun on knees wente every maner wight,
And thonken hym with al hir herte and myght,
And namely the Thebans, often sithe.
And thus with good hope and with herte blithe
They taken hir leve, and homward gonne they ride
To Thebes with hise olde walles wyde.
54
THE XVITH CENTURY
Literary works in sixteenth-century England were
rarely if ever created in isolation from other currents in
the social and cultural world. The boundaries that
divided the texts we now regard as aesthetic from
other texts were porous and constantly shifting. It is
perfectly acceptable, of course, for the purposes of
reading to redraw these boundaries more decisively,
treating Renaissance texts as if they were islands of
the autonomous literary imagination. One of the
greatest writers of the period, Sir Philip Sidney,
defended poetry in just such terms; the poet, Sidney writes in The
Defence of Poetry (NAEL 8, 1.953–74), is not constrained by nature or
history but freely ranges "only within the zodiac of his own wit." But
Sidney knew well, and from painful personal experience, how much this
vision of golden autonomy was contracted by the pressures, perils, and
longings of the brazen world. And only a few pages after he imagines the
poet orbiting entirely within the constellations of his own intellect, he
advances a very different vision, one in which the poet's words not only
imitate reality but also actively change it.
We have no way of knowing to what extent, if at all, this dream of literary
power was ever realized in the world. We do know that many sixteenthcentury artists, such as Christopher Marlowe, Edmund Spenser, and
William Shakespeare, brooded on the magical, transforming power of art.
This power could be associated with civility and virtue, as Sidney claims,
but it could also have the demonic qualities manifested by the "pleasing
words" of Spenser's enchanter, Archimago (NAEL 8, 1.714–902), or by
the incantations of Marlowe's Doctor Faustus (NAEL 8, 1.1022–1057). It
is significant that Marlowe's great play was written at a time in which the
possibility of sorcery was not merely a theatrical fantasy but a widely
shared fear, a fear upon which the state could act — as the case of
Doctor Fian vividly shows — with horrendous ferocity. Marlowe was
himself the object of suspicion and hostility, as indicated by the strange
report filed by a secret agent, Richard Baines, professing to list
55
Marlowe's wildly heretical opinions, and by the gleeful (and factually
inaccurate) report by the Puritan Thomas Beard of Marlowe's death.
Marlowe's tragedy emerges not only from a culture in
which bargains with the devil are imaginable as real
events but also from a world in which many of the most
fundamental assumptions about spiritual life were being
called into question by the movement known as the
Reformation. Catholic and Protestant voices struggled to
articulate the precise beliefs and practices thought
necessary for the soul's salvation. One key site of
conflict was the Bible, with Catholic authorities trying
unsuccessfully to stop the circulation of the unauthorized
Protestant translation of Scripture by William Tyndale, a translation in
which doctrines and institutional structures central to the Roman Catholic
church were directly challenged. Those doctrines and structures, above
all the interpretation of the central ritual of the eucharist, or Lord's
Supper, were contested with murderous ferocity, as the fates of the
Protestant martyr Anne Askew and the Catholic martyr Robert Aske
make painfully clear. The Reformation is closely linked to many of the
texts printed in the sixteenth-century section of the Norton Anthology:
Book 1 of Spenser's Faerie Queene (NAEL 8, 1.719–856), for example,
in which a staunchly Protestant knight of Holiness struggles against the
satanic forces of Roman Catholicism, or the
Protestant propagandist Foxe's account of
Lady Jane Grey's execution (NAEL 8, 1.67475), or the Catholic Robert Southwell's moving
religious lyric, "The Burning Babe" (NAEL 8,
1.640-41)If these windows on the Reformation
offer a revealing glimpse of the inner lives of
men and women in Tudor England, the
subsection entitled "The Wider World"
provides a glimpse of the huge world that lay
beyond the boundaries of the kingdom, a
world that the English were feverishly attempting to explore and exploit.
Ruthless military expeditions and English settlers (including the poet
Edmund Spenser) struggled to subdue and colonize nearby Ireland, but
with very limited success. Farther afield, merchants from cities such as
London and Bristol established profitable trading links to markets in
North Africa, Turkey, and Russia. And daring seamen such as Drake and
56
Cavendish commanded voyages to still more distant lands. The texts
collected here, which supplement the selections from Ralegh'sDiscoverie
of Guiana (NAEL 8, 1.923-26) and Hariot's Brief and True
Report (NAEL1.938-43) in the Norton Anthology, are fascinating,
disturbing records of intense human curiosity, greed, fear, wonder, and
intelligence. And lest we imagine that the English were only the
observers of the world and never the observed, "The Wider World"
includes a sample of a foreign tourist's description of London. The tourist,
Thomas Platter, had the good sense to go to the theater and to see, as
so many thousands of visitors to England have done since, a play by
Shakespeare.
RESEARCH PROJECT- Biography of Elizabeth I, Queen of England and
William Shakespeare
THE DOUBT OF FUTURE FOES.
by Elizabeth I, Queen of England
The doubt of future foes exiles my present joy,
And wit me warns to shun such snares as threaten mine annoy;
For falsehood now doth flow, and subjects' faith doth ebb,
Which should not be if reason ruled or wisdom weaved the web.
But clouds of joys untried do cloak aspiring minds,
Which turn to rain of late repent by changèd course of winds.
The top of hope supposed, the root of rue shall be,
And fruitless all their grafted guile, as shortly ye shall see.
The dazzled eyes with pride, which great ambition blinds,
Shall be unsealed by worthy wights whose foresight falsehood finds.
The daughter of debate that discord aye doth sow
Shall reap no gain where former rule still peace hath taught to know.
No foreign banished wight shall anchor in this port;
Our realm brooks not seditious sects, let them elsewhere resort.
My rusty sword through rest shall first his edge employ
To poll their tops that seek such change or gape for future joy
57
SHAKESPEARE’S SONNETS
XVIII
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
CXXX
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks,
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound.
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare
58
XVII CENTURY
The earlier seventeenth century, and especially the period of the English
Revolution (1640–60), was a time of intense ferment in all areas of life —
religion, science, politics, domestic relations, culture. That ferment was
reflected in the literature of the era, which also registered a heightened
focus on and analysis of the self and the personal life. However, little of
this seems in evidence in the elaborate frontispiece to Michael Drayton's
long "chorographical" poem on the landscape, regions, and local history
of Great Britain (1612), which appeared in the first years of the reign of
the Stuart king James I (1603–1625). The frontispiece appears to
represent a peaceful, prosperous, triumphant Britain, with England,
Scotland, and Wales united, patriarchy and monarchy firmly established,
and the nation serving as the great theme for lofty literary celebration.
Albion (the Roman name for Britain) is a young and beautiful virgin
wearing as cloak a map featuring rivers, trees, mountains, churches,
towns; she carries a scepter and holds a cornucopia, symbol of plenty.
Ships on the horizon signify exploration, trade, and garnering the riches
of the sea. In the four corners stand four conquerors whose descendants
ruled over Britain: the legendary Brutus, Julius Caesar, Hengist the
Saxon, and the Norman William the Conqueror, "whose line yet rules," as
Drayton's introductory poem states.
Yet this frontispiece also registers some of the tensions, conflicts, and
redefinitions evident in the literature of the period and explored more
directly in the topics and texts in this portion of the NTO Web site. It is
Albion herself, not King James, who is seated in the center holding the
emblems of sovereignty; her male conquerors stand to the side, and their
smaller size and their number suggest something unstable in monarchy
and patriarchy. Albion's robe with its multiplicity of regional features, as
well as the "Poly" of the title, suggests forces pulling against national
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unity. Also, Poly-Olbion had no successors: instead of a celebration of
the nation in the vein of Spenser's Faerie Queene or Poly-Olbion itself,
the great seventeenth-century heroic poem, Paradise Lost, treats the Fall
of Man and its tragic consequences, "all our woe."
The first topic here, "Gender, Family, Household: Seventeenth-Century
Norms and Controversies," provides important religious, legal, and
domestic advice texts through which to explore cultural assumptions
about gender roles and the patriarchal family. It also invites attention to
how those assumptions are modified or challenged in the practices of
actual families and households; in tracts on transgressive subjects
(cross-dressing, women speaking in church, divorce); in women's texts
asserting women's worth, talents, and rights; and especially in the
upheavals of the English Revolution.
"Paradise Lost in Context," the second topic for this
period, surrounds that radically revisionist epic with
texts that invite readers to examine how it engages
with the interpretative traditions surrounding the
Genesis story, how it uses classical myth, how it
challenges orthodox notions of Edenic innocence, and
how it is positioned within but also against the epic
tradition from Homer to Virgil to Du Bartas. The
protagonists here are not martial heroes but a
domestic couple who must, both before and after their
Fall, deal with questions hotly contested in the seventeenth century but
also perennial: how to build a good marital relationship; how to think
about science, astronomy, and the nature of things; what constitutes
tyranny, servitude, and liberty; what history teaches; how to meet the
daily challenges of love, work, education, change, temptation, and
deceptive rhetoric; how to reconcile free will and divine providence; and
how to understand and respond to God's ways.
The third topic, "Civil Wars of Ideas:
Seventeenth-Century Politics, Religion, and
Culture," provides an opportunity to explore,
through political and polemical treatises and
striking images, some of the issues and conflicts
that led to civil war and the overthrow of
monarchical government (1642–60). These
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include royal absolutism vs. parliamentary or popular sovereignty,
monarchy vs. republicanism, Puritanism vs. Anglicanism, church ritual
and ornament vs. iconoclasm, toleration vs. religious uniformity, and
controversies over court masques and Sunday sports. The climax to all
this was the highly dramatic trial and execution of King Charles I
(January 1649), a cataclysmic event that sent shock waves through
courts, hierarchical institutions, and traditionalists everywhere; this event
is presented here through contemporary accounts and graphic images.
PROJECT- BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN MILTON/ ANALYSIS OF
PARADISE LOST
PARADISE LOST- JOHN MILTON
Milton's great epic (1667) is built upon the stories and myths — in the
Bible and in the classical tradition — through which Western men and
women have sought to understand the meaning of their experience of
life. Attention to some of these materials and to the ways in which Milton
draws upon, and departs from, other versions and interpretations of
those stories will enrich the reading of his poem.
The foundation story, of course, is the Genesis account of the Creation
of the world and of Adam and Eve, culminating in the drama of their
temptation and Fall. By Milton's time, the seventeenth century, that story
had been reformulated in many translations in many languages and had
accumulated many centuries of interpretive commentary, Jewish and
Christian. Milton, in undertaking an imaginative, poetic re-creation of that
story, had necessarily to accept, revise, or counter the views offered by
such influential commentators as Saint Augustine and the Reformation
theologian John Calvin. He probably did not know Rachel Speght's
commentary, A Muzzle for Melastomus (NAEL 8, 1.1546-49) , or Aemilia
Lanyer's poem Eve's Apology in Defense of Women (NAEL 8, 1.1317–
19), but these texts provide the first examples of women turning Genesis
commentary to feminist account. The various commentators' views —
about Adam and Eve, about the Edenic garden, about prelapsarian
conditions of life, about the Tree of Knowledge, about the nature of man
and woman as created, about marriage as first instituted, and about the
causes of the Fall — can be usefully compared to Milton's own analyses
in his theological tract Christian Doctrine, which remained unpublished
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until the nineteenth century, as well as his poetic representations of such
matters inParadise Lost.
During his tour of Italy in 1638–39, Milton probably saw some of the
numerous representations of aspects of the Genesis story in
Renaissance paintings and tapestries. We do not know which ones he
saw, but certain remarkable images may have stimulated his
imagination. A representative sample is included here:
Veronese's Creation of Eve, Cranach's Adam and Eve, Dürer's The Fall,
two of the Medici tapestries presenting The Fall and The Judgement of
Adam and Eve, and Masaccio's The Expulsion.
Milton's poem also draws on such repositories
of classical myth as
Ovid'sMetamorphoses (NAEL 8, 1.704-05) and
other literary analogues. Ovid's narrative of the
myth of Narcissus resonates throughout the
story told by Milton's Eve about her first coming
to consciousness (NAEL 8, 1.1897). Two
allegorical interpretations of the Narcissus myth — by Milton's
contemporary George Sandys, the translator of Ovid, and by Sigmund
Freud — may highlight how Milton reworks that myth. The poetic version
of the Fall story in Guillaume Du Bartas's hexameral poem The Divine
Weeks and Works provides another kind of literary analogue. In Joshua
Sylvester's translation that work was extremely popular, and Milton
certainly knew it. Finally, the epic tradition itself was a major literary
resource for Milton: it is sampled here through the opening passages —
propositions and invocations — of four epics central to Milton's idea of
that genre: Homer's Iliad and Odyssey, Virgil'sAeneid, and Torquato
Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered. Milton's epic proposition and invocation
(NAEL 8, 1.1832-33) may be compared to these, and also Milton's
defense of his better kind of tragic epic (NAEL 8, 1.1973–74). Homer and
Virgil did not use rhyme, and Milton scorned it in heroic poems as a
"troublesome and modern bondage"; accordingly, the classical epics are
represented here by modern unrhymed translations. Tasso did employ
rhyme, as did his Elizabethan translator Edward Fairfax.
The first important criticism of Milton's epic was provided by his good
friend the poet Andrew Marvell, in a commendatory poem published in
1674 along with the second edition of Paradise Lost. It invites
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comparison with later prose criticism by Addison (NAEL 8, 1.2485) and
Samuel Johnson (NAEL 8, 1.2769).
Responding visually to Paradise Lost are a set of engravings by John
Baptist Medina that were included in the elaborate folio edition
of Paradise Lost in 1688. Several of the Medina images, notably those
included here, provide their own interesting interpretations of crucial
scenes in the poem.
Not surprisingly, the Genesis text and its interpretive tradition resonate in
many literary texts, among them Ben Jonson's To Penshurst (NAEL 8,
1.1434), Lanyer'sDescription of Cooke-ham (NAEL 8, 1.1319),
Marvell's Bermudas and The Garden(NAEL 8, 1.1698, 1710). Many later
texts, among them Denham's Cooper's Hill, Pope's Rape of the
Lock and Essay on Man (NAEL 8, 1.2513, 2540), Blake's Songs of
Innocence, Songs of Experience, Thel, and Marriage of Heaven and
Hell (NAEL8, 2.81, 87, 97, 110), Wordsworth's Ode: Intimations of
Immortality and The Prelude(NAEL 8, 2.306, 322), and Yeats's Adam's
Curse (NAEL 8, 2.2028), respond not only to the Genesis story but also
to Milton's poetic development of it.
The period between 1660 and 1785 was a time of amazing expansion for
England — or for "Great Britain," as the nation came to be called after an
Act of Union in 1707 joined Scotland to England and Wales. Britain
became a world power, an empire on which the sun never set. But it also
changed internally. The world seemed different in 1785. A sense of new,
expanding possibilities — as well as modern problems — transformed
the daily life of the British people, and offered them fresh ways of
thinking about their relations to nature and to each other. Hence
literature had to adapt to circumstances for which there was no
precedent. The topics in this Restoration and Eighteenth Century section
of Norton Topics Online review crucial departures from the past —
alterations that have helped to shape our own world.
One lasting change was a shift in population from
the country to the town. "A Day in EighteenthCentury London" shows the variety of diversions
available to city-dwellers. At the same time, it
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reveals how far the life of the city, where every daily newspaper brought
new sources of interest, had moved from traditional values. Formerly the
tastes of the court had dominated the arts. In the film Shakespeare in
Love, when Queen Elizabeth's nod decides by itself the issue of what
can be allowed on the stage, the exaggeration reflects an underlying
truth: the monarch stands for the nation. But the eighteenth century
witnessed a turn from palaces to pleasure gardens that were open to
anyone with the price of admission. New standards of taste were set by
what the people of London wanted, and art joined with commerce to
satisfy those desires. Artist William Hogarth made his living not, as
earlier painters had done, through portraits of royal and noble patrons,
but by selling his prints to a large and appreciative public. London itself
— its beauty and horror, its ever-changing moods — became a favorite
subject of writers.
The sense that everything was changing was also
sparked by a revolution in science. In earlier periods, the
universe had often seemed a small place, less than six
thousand years old, where a single sun moved about the
earth, the center of the cosmos. Now time and space
exploded, the microscope and telescope opened new
fields of vision, and the "plurality of worlds," as this topic
is called, became a doctrine endlessly repeated. The
authority of Aristotle and Ptolemy was broken; their
systems could not explain what Galileo and Kepler saw in
the heavens or what Hooke and Leeuwenhoek saw in the eye of a fly. As
discoveries multiplied, it became clear that the moderns knew things of
which the ancients had been ignorant. This challenge to received opinion
was thrilling as well as disturbing. In Paradise Lost, Book 8, the angel
Raphael warns Adam to think about what concerns him, not to dream
about other worlds. Yet, despite the warning voiced by Milton through
Raphael, many later writers found the new science inspiring. It gave
them new images to conjure with and new possibilities of fact and fiction
to explore.
Meanwhile, other explorers roamed the earth, where
they discovered hitherto unknown countries and ways of
life. These encounters with other peoples often proved
vicious. The trade and conquests that made European
powers like Spain and Portugal immensely rich also
64
brought the scourge of racism and colonial exploitation. In the eighteenth
century, Britain's expansion into an empire was fueled by slavery and the
slave trade, a source of profit that belied the national self-image as a
haven of liberty and turned British people against one another. Rising
prosperity at home had been built on inhumanity across the seas. This
topic, "Slavery and the Slave Trade in Britain," looks at the experiences
of African slaves as well as at British reactions to their suffering and cries
for freedom. At the end of the eighteenth century, as many writers joined
the abolitionist campaign, a new humanitarian ideal was forged. The
modern world invented by the eighteenth century brought suffering along
with progress. We still live with its legacies today.
ROMANTIC PERIOD
In a letter to Byron in 1816, Percy Shelley declared that the French
Revolution was "the master theme of the epoch in which we live" — a
judgment with which many of Shelley's contemporaries concurred. As
one of this period's topics, "The French Revolution: Apocalyptic
Expectations," demonstrates, intellectuals of the age were obsessed with
the concept of violent and inclusive change in the human condition, and
the writings of those we now consider the major Romantic poets cannot
be understood, historically, without an awareness of the extent to which
their distinctive concepts, plots, forms, and imagery were shaped first by
the promise, then by the tragedy, of the great events in neighboring
France. And for the young poets in the early years of 1789–93, the
enthusiasm for the Revolution had the impetus and high excitement of a
religious awakening, because they interpreted the events in France in
accordance with the apocalyptic prophecies in the Hebrew and Christian
Scriptures; that is, they viewed these events as fulfilling the promise,
guaranteed by an infallible text, that a short period of retributive and
cleansing violence would usher in an age of universal peace and
blessedness that would be the equivalent of a restored Paradise. Even
after what they considered to be the failure of the revolutionary promise,
these poets did not surrender their hope for a radical reformation of
humankind and its social and political world; instead, they transferred the
basis of that hope from violent political revolution to a quiet but drastic
revolution in the moral and imaginative nature of the human race.
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"The Gothic," another topic for this period, is also a
prominent and distinctive element in the writings of the
Romantic Age. The mode had originated in novels of
the mid-eighteenth century that, in radical opposition to
the Enlightenment ideals of order, decorum, and
rational control, had opened to literary exploration the
realm of nightmarish terror, violence, aberrant
psychological states, and sexual rapacity. In the first
Gothic novel, Horace Walpole's The Castle of
Otranto (1764), the ominous hero-villain had embodied aspects of Satan,
the fallen archangel in Milton's Paradise Lost. This satanic strain was
developed by later writers and achieved its apotheosis in the creation of
a new and important cultural phenomenon, the compulsive, grandiose,
heaven-and-hell-defying Byronic hero. In many of its literary products,
the Gothic mode manifested the standard setting and events, creaky
contrivances, and genteel aim of provoking no more than a pleasurable
shudder — a convention Jane Austen satirized in Northanger Abbey.
Literary Gothicism also, however, produced enduring classics that
featured such demonic, driven, and imaginatively compelling
protagonists as Byron's Manfred (NAEL 8, 2.636–68), Frankenstein's
Creature in Mary Shelley's novel, Heathcliff in Emily Brontë's Wuthering
Heights, and, in America, Captain Ahab in
Melville's Moby-Dick.
The topic "Tintern Abbey, Tourism, and Romantic
Landscape" represents a very different mode, but one
that is equally prominent in the remarkably diverse
spectrum of Romantic literature. Tintern Abbey, written in
1798, is Wordsworth's initial attempt, in the short
compass of a lyric poem, at a form he later expanded
into the epic-length narrative of The Prelude. That is, it is
a poem on the growth of the poet's mind, told primarily in
terms of an evolving encounter between subject and object, mind and
nature, which turns on an anguished spiritual crisis (identified in The
Prelude as occasioned by the failure of the French Revolution) and
culminates in the achievement of an integral and assured maturity
(specified in The Prelude as the recognition by Wordsworth of his
vocation as a poet for his crisis-ridden era). In this aspect,Tintern
Abbey can be considered the succinct precursor, in English literature, of
the genre known by the German term Bildungsgeschichte — the
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development of an individual from infancy through psychological stresses
and breaks to a coherent maturity. This genre came to include such
major achievements as Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Aurora Leigh in
verse (NAEL 8, 2.1092–1106) and James Joyce'sPortrait of the Artist as
a Young Man in prose.
However innovative, in historical
retrospect, the content and organization
of Tintern Abbey may be, a contemporary
reader would have approached it as
simply one of a great number of
descriptive poems that, in the 1790s,
undertook to record a tour of picturesque
scenes and ruins. There is good evidence,
in fact, that, on the walking tour of the Wye valley during which
Wordsworth composed Tintern Abbey, the poet and his sister carried
with them William Gilpin's best-selling tour guide, Observations on the
River Wye . . . Relative Chiefly to Picturesque Beauty. As Gilpin and
other travelers point out, the ruined abbey, however picturesque, served
as a habitat for beggars and the wretchedly poor; also the Wye, in the
tidal portion downstream from the abbey, had noisy and smoky ironsmelting furnaces along its banks, while in some places the water was
oozy and discolored. These facts, together with the observation that
Wordsworth dated his poem July 13, 1798, one day before the
anniversary of the Fall of the Bastille, have generated vigorous
controversy about Tintern Abbey. Some critics read it as a great and
moving meditation on the human condition and its inescapable
experience of aging, loss, and suffering. (Keats read it this way — as a
wrestling with "the Burden of the Mystery," an attempt to develop a
rationale for the fact that "the World is full of Misery and Heartbreak,
Pain, Sickness and oppression"; see NAEL 8, 2.945–47.) Others,
however, contend that in the poem, Wordsworth suppresses any
reference to his earlier enthusiasm for the French Revolution, and also
that — by locating his vantage point in the pristine upper reaches of the
Wye and out of sight of the abbey — he avoids acknowledging the
spoliation of the environment by industry, and evades a concern with the
social realities of unemployment, homelessness, and destitution.
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"The Satanic and Byronic Hero," another topic for this period, considers a
cast of characters whose titanic ambition and outcast state made them
important to the Romantic Age's thinking about individualism, revolution,
the relationship of the author—the author of genius especially—to
society, and the relationship of poetical power to political power. The
fallen archangel Satan, as depicted in Milton'sParadise Lost; Napoleon
Bonaparte, self-anointed Emperor of the French, Europe's "greatest
man" or perhaps, as Coleridge insisted, "the greatest proficient in human
destruction that has ever lived"; Lord Byron, or at least Lord Byron in the
disguised form in which he presented himself in Childe Harold's
Pilgrimage, Manfred, and his Orientalist romances; these figures were
consistently grouped together in the public imagination of the Romantic
Age. Prompted by radical changes in their systems of political authority
and by their experience of a long, drawn-out war in which many of the
victories felt like pyrrhic ones, British people during this period felt
compelled to rethink the nature of heroism. One way that they pursued
this project was to ponder the powers of fascination exerted by these
figures whose self-assertion and love of power could appear both
demonic and heroic, and who managed both to incite beholders' hatred
and horror and to prompt their intense identifications. In the
representations surveyed by this topic the ground is laid, as well, for the
satanic strain of nineteenth-century literature and so for some of literary
history's most compelling protagonists, from Mary Shelley's creature
inFrankenstein to Emily Brontë's Heathcliff, to Herman Melville's Captain
Ahab.
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PROJECT- BIOGRAPHY OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE AND
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
KUBLA KHAN-SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
5
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
10
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
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As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
15
20
25
“The World is Too Much With Us”
William Wordsworth
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Seat that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton Blow his wreathed horn.
a
b
b
a
a
b
b
a
c
d
e
c
d
70
In 1897 Mark Twain was visiting London during the Diamond Jubilee
celebrations honoring the sixtieth anniversary of Queen Victoria's coming
to the throne. "British history is two thousand years old," Twain observed,
"and yet in a good many ways the world has moved farther ahead since
the Queen was born than it moved in all the rest of the two thousand put
together." Twain's comment captures the sense of dizzying change that
characterized the Victorian period. Perhaps most important was the shift
from a way of life based on ownership of land to a modern urban
economy based on trade and manufacturing. By the beginning of the
Victorian period, the Industrial Revolution, as this shift was called, had
created profound economic and social changes, including a mass
migration of workers to industrial towns, where they lived in new urban
slums. But the changes arising out of the Industrial Revolution were just
one subset of the radical changes taking place in mid- and latenineteenth-century Britain — among others were the democratization
resulting from extension of the franchise; challenges to religious faith, in
part based on the advances of scientific knowledge, particularly of
evolution; and changes in the role of women.
All of these issues, and the controversies
attending them, informed Victorian literature. In
part because of the expansion of newspapers
and the periodical press, debate about political
and social issues played an important role in the
experience of the reading public. The Victorian
novel, with its emphasis on the realistic portrayal
of social life, represented many Victorian issues in the stories of its
characters. Moreover, debates about political representation involved in
expansion both of the franchise and of the rights of women affected
literary representation, as writers gave voice to those who had been
voiceless.
The section in The Norton Anthology of English
Literature entitled "Victorian Issues" (NAEL 8,
2.1538–1606) contains texts dealing with four
controversies that concerned the Victorians:
evolution, industrialism, what the Victorians
called "The Woman Question", and Great
Britain's identity as an imperial power. Norton
Topics Online provides further texts on three of these topics: the debate
71
about the benefits and evils of the Industrial Revolution, the debate about
the nature and role of women, and the myriad issues that arose as
British forces worked to expand their global influence. The debates on
both industrialization and women's roles in society reflected profound
social change: the formation of a new class of workers — men, women,
and children — who had migrated to cities, particularly in the industrial
North, in huge numbers, to take jobs in factories, and the growing
demand for expanded liberties for women. The changes were related;
the hardships that the Industrial Revolution and all its attendant social
developments created put women into roles that challenged traditional
ideas about women's nature. Moreover, the rate of change the Victorians
experienced, caused to a large degree by advances in manufacturing,
created new opportunities and challenges for women. They became
writers, teachers, and social reformers, and they claimed an expanded
set of rights.
In the debates about industrialism and about
theWoman Question, voices came into print that had
not been heard before. Not only did women writers
play a major role in shaping the terms of the debate
about the Woman Question, but also women from
the working classes found opportunities to describe
the conditions of their lives. Similarly, factory
workers described their working and living
conditions, in reports to parliamentary commissions,
in the encyclopedic set of interviews journalist Henry
Mayhew later collected as London Labor and the London Poor, and in
letters to the editor that workers themselves wrote. The world of print
became more inclusive and democratic. At the same time, novelists and
even poets sought ways of representing these new voices. The novelist
Elizabeth Gaskell wrote her first novel, Mary Barton, in order to give
voice to Manchester's poor, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning tried to find
ways in poetry of giving voice to the poor and oppressed.
The third section of this Web site, "The Painterly Image in Victorian
Poetry," investigates the rich connection in the Victorian period between
visual art and literature. Much Victorian aesthetic theory makes the eye
the most authoritative sense and the clearest indicator of truth. Victorian
poetry and the Victorian novel both value visual description as a way of
portraying their subjects. This emphasis on the visual creates a
72
particularly close connection between poetry and painting. Books of
fiction and poetry were illustrated, and the illustrations amplified and
intensified the effects of the text. The texts, engravings, and paintings
collected here provide insight into the connection between the verbal and
the visual so central to Victorian aesthetics.
Britain’s identity as an imperial power with considerable global influence
is explored more comprehensively in the fourth topic section. For Britain,
the Victorian period witnessed a renewed interest in the empire’s
overseas holdings. British opinions on the methods and justification of
imperialist missions overseas varied, with some like author Joseph
Conrad throwing into sharp relief the brutal tactics and cold calculations
involved in these missions, while others like politician Joseph
Chamberlain considered the British to be the “great governing race” with
a moral obligation to expand its influence around the globe. Social
evolutionists, such asBenjamin Kidd, likewise supported the British
dominion through their beliefs about the inherent developmental
inferiority of the subject peoples, thus suggesting that Europeans had a
greater capacity for ruling—a suggestion that many took as complete
justification of British actions overseas. Regardless of dissenting voices,
British expansion pushed forward at an unprecedented rate, ushering in
a new era of cultural exchange that irreversibly altered the British
worldview.
The Industrial Revolution — the changes in the making of goods that
resulted from substituting machines for hand labor — began with a set of
inventions for spinning and weaving developed in England in the
eighteenth century. At first this new machinery was operated by workers
in their homes, but in the 1780s the introduction of the steam engine to
drive the machines led manufacturers to install them in large buildings
called at first mills and later factories. Mill towns quickly grew in central
and northern England; the population of the city of Manchester, for
example, increased by ten times in the years between
1760 and 1830.
By the beginning of the Victorian period, the Industrial
Revolution had created profound economic and social
changes. Hundreds of thousands of workers had
migrated to industrial towns, where they made up a new
73
kind of working class. Wages were extremely low, hours very long —
fourteen a day, or even more. Employers often preferred to hire women
and children, who worked for even less then men. Families lived in
horribly crowded, unsanitary housing. Moved by the terrible suffering
resulting from a severe economic depression in the early 1840s, writers
and men in government drew increasingly urgent attention to the
condition of the working class. In her poem The Cry of the Children,
Elizabeth Barrett Browning portrays the suffering of children in mines and
factories. In The Condition of the Working Class (NAEL 8, 2.1564),
Friedrich Engels describes the conclusions he drew during the twenty
months he spent observing industrial conditions in Manchester. His 1845
book prepared the ground for his work with Karl Marx on The Communist
Manifesto (1848), which asserts that revolution is the necessary
response to the inequity of industrial capitalist society. Elizabeth Gaskell,
wife of a Manchester minister, was inspired to begin her writing career
with the novel Mary Barton (1848) in order to portray the suffering of the
working class. In Hard Times (1854), Charles Dickens created the
fictional city of Coketown (NAEL 8, 2.1573–74) to depict the harshness
of existence in the industrial towns of central and northern England.
During the 1830s and 1840s a number of parliamentary committees and
commissions introduced testimony about the conditions in mines and
factories that led to the beginning of government regulation and
inspection, particularly of the working conditions of
women and children.
Other voices also testified powerfully to the
extremities of working-class existence in industrial
England. Poverty Knock, a nineteenth-century British
folk song, catalogs the hardships of the weaver's job.
Correspondent Henry Mayhew's interviews with
London's poor portray the miseries of life on the
streets. Drawing an analogy from popular travel
writings, reformer William Booth's In Darkest
England compares the dense and gloomy urban
slums to the equatorial forests of Africa. Especially dramatic are the
contrasting accounts of C. Duncan Lucas, who writes in 1901 about the
pleasant "beehive of activity" that he sees as the typical London factory,
and crusader Annie Besant, who passionately analyzes the economic
exploitation of workers by wealthy capitalists. Ada Nield Chew's letter
about conditions in a factory in Crewe states strongly the case for
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improving wages for the tailoresses who "ceaselessly work" six days of
the week. These sharply different perspectives define an important
argument in the debate over industrialism: Was the machine age a
blessing or a curse? Did it make humanity happier or more wretched?
PROJECT- BIOGRAPHY OF CHARLES DICKENS AND OSCAR WILDE
READ A TALE OF TWO CITIES ( by Charles Dickens)
AT online-literature.com
XXTH CENTURY
Global war is one of the defining features of twentieth-century
experience, and the first global war is the subject of one of this period’s
topics, “Representing the Great War.” Masses of dead bodies strewn
upon the ground, plumes of poison gas drifting through the air, hundreds
of miles of trenches infested with rats—these are but some of the
indelible images that have come to be associated with World War I
(1914-18). It was a war that unleashed death, loss, and suffering on an
unprecedented scale. How did recruiting posters, paintings, memoirs,
and memorials represent the war? Was it a heroic occasion, comparable
to a sporting event, eliciting displays of manly valor and courage? Or was
it an ignominious waste of human life, with little gain to show on either
side of the conflict, deserving bitterly ironic treatment? What were the
differences between how civilians and soldiers, men and women,
painters and poets represented the war? How effective or inadequate
were memorials, poems, or memoirs in conveying the enormous scale
and horror of the war? These are among the issues explored in this topic
about the challenge to writers and artists of representing the
unrepresentable.
Another of the twentieth century’s defining features is
radical artistic experiment. The boundary-breaking art,
literature, and music of the first decades of the century
are the subject of the topic “Modernist Experiment.”
Among the leading aesthetic
innovators of this era were the
composer Igor Stravinsky, the
cubist Pablo Picasso, and the
futurist F. T. Marinetti. The waves
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of artistic energy in the avant-garde European arts soon crossed the
English Channel, as instanced by the abstraction and dynamism of Red
Stone Dancer (1913-14) by the London-basedvorticist sculptor Henri
Gaudier-Brzeska. Other vorticists and modernists include such Englishlanguage writers as Ezra Pound, Wyndham Lewis, and Mina Loy, who
also responded to the stimulus and challenge of the European avantgarde with manifestos, poems, plays, and other writings. This topic
explores the links between Continental experiment and the modernist
innovations of English-language poets and writers during a period of
extraordinary ferment in literature and the arts.
Another of the defining features of the twentieth
century was the emergence of new nations out
of European colonial rule. Among these nations,
Ireland was the oldest of Britain’s colonies and
the first in modern times to fight for
independence. The topic “Imagining Ireland”
explores how twentieth-century Irish writers
fashioned new ideas about the Irish nation. It
focuses on two periods of crisis, when the violent struggle for
independence put the greatest pressure on literary attempts to imagine
the nation: in the aftermath of the Easter Rising of 1916 and the later
outbreaks of sectarian violence from 1969 (known as the Troubles) in
Northern Ireland. How do poems, plays, memoirs, short stories, and
other literary works represent the bloodshed and yet the potential
benefits of these violent political upheavals? Do they honor or lament,
idealize or criticize, these political acts? And how do these literary
representations compare with political speeches and treaties that bear
on these defining moments in modern Irish history? “Imagining Ireland”
considers these and other questions about literature and the making of
Irish nationality, which continue to preoccupy contemporary writers of
Ireland, Northern Ireland, and the Irish diaspora.
Today we know it as World War I, but those who lived through it called it
the Great War. At first, the war was predicted to last only a few months
and to result in a resounding success for the British Empire and its allies.
But as the years passed and the casualties mounted into the millions, it
became clear that this conflict was quite different from its predecessors.
With nearly nine million soldiers killed (one in five of those who fought)
and survivors afflicted with prolonged physical and mental suffering, the
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war marked a sea-change in the course of military and political history. It
also represented a challenge to anyone wishing to give meaning to the
enormity of the death toll and the futility of trench warfare. Soldiers living
in rat-infested and water-saturated trenches fired machine-guns at
unseen soldiers in other trenches; when they went “over the top” into noman’s-land, they became completely vulnerable. The use of the term
“Great War” suggests the challenge of representing something so new
and awful, so vast and traumatic.
Once it became clear that both sides had settled into
their trenches, which stretched from Switzerland to the
North Sea, people naturally wondered what had gone
wrong. Patriotic poems and songs from previous wars,
such as Henry Newbolt’s “Vitaï Lampada” (1897-98),
linked the British soldier’s fighting prowess with his
moral superiority, fairness, and skill. World War I also
elicited representations that blurred the line between
war and athletics, such as Jessie Pope’s jingoistic
poem “The Call” (1915) and the recruiting poster “The
Army Isn’t All Work.” But as soldiers’ expectations of
a just, valorous, sporting war gave way to hideous, anonymous carnage,
characteristic expressions of irony emerged. For soldier poets such as
Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen, irony proved a useful means of
representing the gulf between expectation and reality, the murderous war
and the unsuspecting nation, the soldier’s comrades in the trenches and
the unseen enemy across no-man’s-land. Bitterly ironic statements such
as Siegfried Sassoon’s “A Soldier’s Declaration” helped call attention to
the rage and bewilderment of the trench soldier; but their chilly reception
by an equally bewildered reading public reinforced cultural divisions.
Some readers at home condemned the war poets’ attacks as unpatriotic,
and opinion remained divided between those who had fought and knew,
and those who preferred not to know.
Some poets also disliked the soldier poets’ graphic and caustically ironic
depictions of the war. In the words of W. B. Yeats in his 1936 preface
to The Oxford Book of Modern Verse, the bitterness of war poets was an
unconstructive “passive suffering.” Yeats refused to include in his
anthology combatant poets such as Owen and Sassoon. He preferred in
poetry a more active heroism, such as that he invented for the speaker of
“An Irish Airman Foresees His Death.”
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As casualties from both the Allied and Central Powers
ran into the millions, military tactics became
increasingly desperate. These included the
deployment of mustard gas, submarine attacks on
shipping lines, and howitzer shelling and zeppelin
bombings of cities miles behind the front lines. Such
tactics signaled a breakdown of the rules of warfare in
favor of indiscriminate killing of both the soldiers and
the civilians they protected. Civilian artists now found
they had an authentic, lived experience of war they
could express. The involvement of millions of women in the war effort,
such as those depicted in the poster “We Need you, Redcross,” eroded
the distinction between civilian women and the men who went off to save
the country. Munitions, factory, and textile jobs were vacated by enlistees
and quickly filled by women for whom the war represented an economic
opportunity. Although recruiting posters such as “Women of Britain say—
GO!” associated women with the English countryside
that valiant soldiers ought to defend, poems such as
Jessie Pope’s “War Girls” represent women as
empowered by the challenge of their wartime
jobs. Frustrated by the war’s length and carnage,
some poets, such as Sassoon and Ezra Pound, allude
disparagingly to the women and the civilization
soldiers were supposedly protecting. Pound’s Hugh
Selwyn Mauberley, for example, refers to Britain as
“an old bitch gone in the teeth.”
Because of its massive scale and controversial impetus, monuments to
the war often indicate the difficulty of representing it. Commemorative
physical structures tend to look like a mixture of massiveness and
stripped-down, minimalist gestures, as if trying to speak volumes and
remain silent at the same time. The Menin Gate and the Cenotaph of
Whitehall both stand in mute remembrance of a massive loss that can
barely be imagined, much less represented. The spareness of the
Cenotaph, meanwhile, allowed two contemporaries to draw different
conclusions about its significance: Henry
Morton’sHeart of London records his impression
of the monument as a symbol of unity and
communal reverence, while Charlotte Mew
cannot help but notice, in her poem “Cenotaph,”
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how incongruous this great static symbol of grief appears in the middle of
a degraded mercantile hub. Like the divergences between jingoists and
satirists, soldiers and civilians, feminists and antifeminists, these
differences over war memorials reflect competing views over how to
represent a war that ultimately defies representation.
ELEMENTS OF LITERATURE- TECHNIQUE I
ELEMENTS OF LITERATURE III-SOAPSTONE ANALYSIS
For many students, the creation of a piece of writing is a mysterious
process. It is a laborious, academic exercise, required by teachers and
limited to the classroom. They do not see it as a way of ordering the
mind, explaining their thoughts and feelings, or achieving a personal
voice.
One of the problems for these students is that they have no conscious
plan that will enable them to begin the process and then to organize and
develop their ideas. Without a strategy, particularly if they are under time
constraints, they simply begin to write, and the quality of their
compositions is often erratic.
Students need to recognize that any good composition, whether written,
spoken, or drawn, is carefully planned. This composition has integral
parts that work together in a complex and subtle arrangement to produce
meaning. Originally conceived as a method for dissecting the work of
professional writers, SOAPSTone provides a concrete strategy to help
students identify and use these central components as a basis for their
own writing.
SOAPSTone (Speaker, Occasion, Audience, Purpose, Subject, Tone) is
an acronym for a series of questions that students must first ask
themselves, and then answer, as they begin to plan their compositions.
Who is the Speaker?
The voice that tells the story. Before students begin to write, they must
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decide whose voice is going to be heard. Whether this voice belongs to a
fictional character or to the writers themselves, students should
determine how to insert and develop those attributes of the speaker that
will influence the perceived meaning of the piece.
What is the Occasion?
The time and the place of the piece; the context that prompted the
writing. Writing does not occur in a vacuum. All writers are influenced by
the larger occasion: an environment of ideas, attitudes, and emotions
that swirl around a broad issue. Then there is the immediate occasion:
an event or situation that catches the writer's attention and triggers a
response.
Who is the Audience?
The group of readers to whom this piece is directed. As they begin to
write, students must determine who the audience is that they intend to
address. It may be one person or a specific group. This choice of
audience will affect how and why students write a particular text.
What is the Purpose?
The reason behind the text. Students need to consider the purpose of
the text in order to develop the thesis or the argument and its logic. They
should ask themselves, "What do I want my audience to think or do as a
result of reading my text?"
What is the Subject?
Students should be able to state the subject in a few words or
phrases. This step helps them to focus on the intended task throughout
the writing process.
What is the Tone?
The attitude of the author. The spoken word can convey the speaker's
attitude and thus help to impart meaning through tone of voice. With the
written word, it is tone that extends meaning beyond the literal, and
students must learn to convey this tone in their diction (choice of words),
syntax (sentence construction), and imagery (metaphors, similes, and
other types of figurative language). The ability to manage tone is one of
the best indicators of a sophisticated writer.
In an effort to introduce this strategy into the classroom, the College
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Board created a one-day professional development workshop for
language arts teachers in grades 6-12. Pre-AP: Strategies in English -Writing Tactics Using SOAPSTone addresses three types of writing:
narrative, persuasive, and analytical, using material in a sequence that
reflects the degree of difficulty in thinking and composition associated
with each. The general format of this workshop is first to take participants
through the same process students would use in analyzing examples of
texts by professional writers and then in discovering and discussing the
elements peculiar to each type.
Then, after dissecting each model, students are given a prompt for a
composition of their own. Before they begin, however, they must
complete a SOAPSTone. The following example -- in essence, simply a
slightly blunter and swifter application of the SOAPSTone category
descriptions given above -- precedes the persuasive essay assignment:
Who is the Speaker?
(Who are you? What details will you reveal? Why is it important that the
audience know who you are?)
What is the Occasion?
(How does your knowledge of the larger occasion and the immediate
occasion affect what you are writing about?)
Who is the Audience?
(What are the characteristics of this group? How are they related to you?
Why are you addressing them?)
What is the Purpose?
(Explain to yourself what you hope to accomplish by this expression of
opinion. How would you like your audience to respond?)
What is the Subject?
(Just a few words. What are you talking about?)
What is the Tone?)
(What attitude[s] do you want your audience to feel? How will your
attitude[s] enhance the effectiveness of your piece? Choose a few words
or phrases that will reflect a particular attitude.)
Now, before you begin to write your persuasive essay, whether it be a
letter or an editorial, look back at your responses to the SOAPSTone
questions. Starting with Speaker and continuing in order to Tone, write a
statement that contains all of these responses, beginning with: I am . . .
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The SOAPSTone strategy may appear to be somewhat formulaic and
rigid, but it helps students, especially novice writers, to clarify and
organize their thoughts prior to writing. It provides a specific structure for
the text. By the time students have finished answering the SOAPSTone
questions, they will have an outline of what they think, where they are
going with their ideas, and why they are writing.
O! say can you see by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming,
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;
O! say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines in the stream:
'Tis the star-spangled banner, O! long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion,
A home and a country should leave us no more!
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved home and the war's desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: "In God is our trust."
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And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave
S- The triumphal army and citizens of the newly born USA.
O- The victory of army of the new U.S. over the British.
A- Citizens of the new nation awaiting news of triumph and
independence;
P- Tell the emerging nation, the world, and especially the British
that America is brave and strong enough to be free.
S- Victory, bravery, pride, freedom, independence.
Tone- Brave, triumphal, defiant, proud, etc
SOAPSTONE THE FOLLOWING WORKS
SO FAR AWAY FROM ME- DIRE STRAITS
Here I am again in this mean old town
And you're so far away from me
And where are you when the sun go down
You're so far away from me
So far away from me
So far I just can't see
So far away from me
You're so far away from me... All Right
I'm tired of being in love and being all alone
When you're so far away from me
I'm tired of making out on the telephone
BECAUSE you're so far away from me
So far away from me
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So far I just can't see
So far away from me
You're so far away from me... All Right
And I get so tired when I have to explain
When you're so far away from me
See you've been in the sun and I've been in the rain
And you're so far away from me
So far away from me
So far I just can't see
So far away from me
You're so far away from me... Dig it out
So Far Away From Me...
Perry Como : Tie A Yellow Ribbon Round The Old Oak Tree Lyrics
I'm comin' home, i've done my time,
Now i've got to know what is and isn't mine,
If you received my letter,
Tellin' you i'd soon be free,
Then you'll know just what to do,
If you still want me . . .
If you still want me . . .
Tie a yellow ribbon 'round the ole oak tree,
It's been three long years,
Do you still want me ? ( still want me ? )
If i don't see a ribbon 'round the ole oak tree,
I'll stay on the bus, forget about us,
Put the blame on me . . .
If i don't see a yellow ribbon around the ole oak tree . . .
Bus driver please look for me,
'cause i couldn't bear to see what i might see,
I'm really still in prison,
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And my love, she holds the key,
Simple yella ribbon's, what i need to set me free . . .
I wrote and told her please . . .
Tie a yellow ribbon 'round the ole oak tree,
It's been three long years,
Do you still want me ? ( still want me ? )
If i don't see a ribbon 'round the ole oak tree,
I'll stay on the bus, forget about us,
Put the blame on me . . .
If i don't see a yellow ribbon 'round the ole oak tree . . .
Tie a yellow ribbon 'round the ole oak tree,
. . . three long years,
. . . still want me ?
And now the whole damn bus is cheerin'
And i can't believe i see . . .
A hundred yellow ribbons 'round the ole . . .
The ole oak tree!
Tie a ribbon 'round the ole oak tree,
Tie a ribbon 'round the ole oak tree,
Tie a ribbon 'round the ole oak tree . . .
The Happy Prince
From The Happy Prince and Other Tales (1888)
High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy
Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he
had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.
He was very much admired indeed. "He is as beautiful as a
weathercock," remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain
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a reputation for having artistic tastes; "only not quite so useful," he
added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really
was not.
"Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?" asked a sensible mother of
her little boy who was crying for the moon. "The Happy Prince never
dreams of crying for anything."
"I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy," muttered a
disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.
"He looks just like an angel," said the Charity Children as they came out
of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white
pinafores.
"How do you know?" said the Mathematical Master, "you have never
seen one."
"Ah! but we have, in our dreams," answered the children; and the
Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not
approve of children dreaming.
One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone
away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in
love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as
he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so
attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.
"Shall I love you?" said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at
once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round
her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This
was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.
"It is a ridiculous attachment," twittered the other Swallows; "she has no
money, and far too many relations"; and indeed the river was quite full of
Reeds. Then, when the autumn came they all flew away.
After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady- love.
"She has no conversation," he said, "and I am afraid that she is a
coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind." And certainly, whenever
the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. "I admit that
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she is domestic," he continued, "but I love travelling, and my wife,
consequently, should love travelling also."
"Will you come away with me?" he said finally to her; but the Reed shook
her head, she was so attached to her home.
"You have been trifling with me," he cried. "I am off to the Pyramids.
Good-bye!" and he flew away.
All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. "Where shall
I put up?" he said; "I hope the town has made preparations."
Then he saw the statue on the tall column.
"I will put up there," he cried; "it is a fine position, with plenty of fresh air."
So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.
"I have a golden bedroom," he said softly to himself as he looked round,
and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under
his wing a large drop of water fell on him. "What a curious thing!" he
cried; "there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and
bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really
dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her
selfishness."
Then another drop fell.
"What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?" he said; "I
must look for a good chimney-pot," and he determined to fly away.
But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up,
and saw - Ah! what did he see?
The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were
running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the
moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.
"Who are you?" he said.
"I am the Happy Prince."
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"Why are you weeping then?" asked the Swallow; "you have quite
drenched me."
"When I was alive and had a human heart," answered the statue, "I did
not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans- Souci, where
sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my
companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the
Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to
ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My
courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if
pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead
they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all
the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot
chose but weep."
"What! is he not solid gold?" said the Swallow to himself. He was too
polite to make any personal remarks out loud.
"Far away," continued the statue in a low musical voice, "far away in a
little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and
through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and
worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she
is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion- flowers on a satin gown
for the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of- honour to wear at the next
Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He
has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give
him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will
you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to
this pedestal and I cannot move."
"I am waited for in Egypt," said the Swallow. "My friends are flying up and
down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus- flowers. Soon they will go to
sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his
painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices.
Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like
withered leaves."
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with
me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the
mother so sad."
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"I don't think I like boys," answered the Swallow. "Last summer, when I
was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons, who
were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we
swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous
for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect."
But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. "It
is very cold here," he said; "but I will stay with you for one night, and be
your messenger."
"Thank you, little Swallow," said the Prince.
So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword, and
flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.
He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were
sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A
beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. "How wonderful the
stars are," he said to her, "and how wonderful is the power of love!"
"I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball," she answered;
"I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the
seamstresses are so lazy."
He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of
the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining
with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he
came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on
his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he
hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble.
Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his
wings. "How cool I feel," said the boy, "I must be getting better"; and he
sank into a delicious slumber.
Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he
had done. "It is curious," he remarked, "but I feel quite warm now,
although it is so cold."
"That is because you have done a good action," said the Prince. And the
little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always
made him sleepy.
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When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. "What a
remarkable phenomenon," said the Professor of Ornithology as he was
passing over the bridge. "A swallow in winter!" And he wrote a long letter
about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so
many words that they could not understand.
"To-night I go to Egypt," said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at
the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on
top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped,
and said to each other, "What a distinguished stranger!" so he enjoyed
himself very much.
When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. "Have you any
commissions for Egypt?" he cried; "I am just starting."
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with
me one night longer?"
"I am waited for in Egypt," answered the Swallow. "To-morrow my friends
will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among
the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All
night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he
utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come
down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and
their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "far away across the
city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered
with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered
violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a
pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a
play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more.
There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint."
"I will wait with you one night longer," said the Swallow, who really had a
good heart. "Shall I take him another ruby?"
"Alas! I have no ruby now," said the Prince; "my eyes are all that I have
left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a
thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell
it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play."
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"Dear Prince," said the Swallow, "I cannot do that"; and he began to
weep.
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command
you."
So the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the
student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the
roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man
had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the
bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire
lying on the withered violets.
"I am beginning to be appreciated," he cried; "this is from some great
admirer. Now I can finish my play," and he looked quite happy.
The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast
of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the
hold with ropes. "Heave a-hoy!" they shouted as each chest came up. "I
am going to Egypt"! cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the
moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.
"I am come to bid you good-bye," he cried.
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with
me one night longer?"
"It is winter," answered the Swallow, "and the chill snow will soon be
here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the
crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are
building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves
are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave
you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two
beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be
redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great
sea."
"In the square below," said the Happy Prince, "there stands a little
match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all
spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money,
and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is
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bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not
beat her."
"I will stay with you one night longer," said the Swallow, "but I cannot
pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then."
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command
you."
So he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He
swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her
hand. "What a lovely bit of glass," cried the little girl; and she ran home,
laughing.
Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. "You are blind now," he said,
"so I will stay with you always."
"No, little Swallow," said the poor Prince, "you must go away to Egypt."
"I will stay with you always," said the Swallow, and he slept at the
Prince's feet.
All the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories of
what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who
stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold-fish in their
beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the
desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the
side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of
the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a
large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and
has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who
sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the
butterflies.
"Dear little Swallow," said the Prince, "you tell me of marvellous things,
but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women.
There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow,
and tell me what you see there."
So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in
their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He
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flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking
out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little
boys were lying in one another's arms to try and keep themselves warm.
"How hungry we are!" they said. "You must not lie here," shouted the
Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.
Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.
"I am covered with fine gold," said the Prince, "you must take it off, leaf
by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make
them happy."
Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy
Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he
brought to the poor, and the children's faces grew rosier, and they
laughed and played games in the street. "We have bread now!" they
cried.
Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets
looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening;
long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses,
everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and
skated on the ice.
The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave
the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the
baker's door when the baker was not looking and tried to keep himself
warm by flapping his wings.
But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly
up to the Prince's shoulder once more. "Good-bye, dear Prince!" he
murmured, "will you let me kiss your hand?"
"I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow," said the
Prince, "you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips,
for I love you."
"It is not to Egypt that I am going," said the Swallow. "I am going to the
House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?"
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And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his
feet.
At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if
something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped
right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.
Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in
company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he
looked up at the statue: "Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!"
he said.
"How shabby indeed!" cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed
with the Mayor; and they went up to look at it.
"The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is
golden no longer," said the Mayor in fact, "he is litttle beter than a
beggar!"
"Little better than a beggar," said the Town Councillors.
"And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!" continued the Mayor. "We
must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die
here." And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.
So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. "As he is no longer
beautiful he is no longer useful," said the Art Professor at the University.
Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting
of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. "We
must have another statue, of course," he said, "and it shall be a statue of
myself."
"Of myself," said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled.
When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.
"What a strange thing!" said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry.
"This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it
away." So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also
lying.
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"Bring me the two most precious things in the city," said God to one of
His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead
bird.
"You have rightly chosen," said God, "for in my garden of Paradise this
little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince
shall praise me."
THE END.
ELEMENTS OF LITERATURE TECHNIQUE II – ELEMENTS WITHIN A
SHORT STORY
SHORT STORY ELEMENTS
SETTING
CONFLICT
POINT OF VIEW
PLOT
CHARACTER
THEME
SETTING -- The time and location in which a story takes place is called
the setting. For some stories the setting is very important, while for
others it is not. There are several aspects of a story's setting to consider
when examining how setting contributes to a story (some, or all, may be
present in a story):
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a) place - geographical location. Where is the action of the story taking
place?
b) time - When is the story taking place? (historical period, time of day,
year, etc)
c) weather conditions - Is it rainy, sunny, stormy, etc?
d) social conditions - What is the daily life of the characters like? Does
the story contain local colour (writing that focuses on the speech, dress,
mannerisms, customs, etc. of a particular place)?
e) mood or atmosphere - What feeling is created at the beginning of
the story? Is it bright and cheerful or dark and frightening?
BACK TO TOP
PLOT -- The plot is how the author arranges events to develop his basic
idea; It is the sequence of events in a story or play. The plot is a
planned, logical series of events having a beginning, middle, and end.
The short story usually has one plot so it can be read in one sitting.
There are five essential parts of plot:
a) Introduction - The beginning of the story where the characters and
the setting is revealed.
b) Rising Action - This is where the events in the story become
complicated and the conflict in the story is revealed (events between the
introduction and climax).
c) Climax - This is the highest point of interest and the turning point of
the story. The reader wonders what will happen next; will the conflict be
resolved or not?
d) Falling action - The events and complications begin to resolve
themselves. The reader knows what has happened next and if the
conflict was resolved or not (events between climax and denouement).
e) Denouement - This is the final outcome or untangling of events in the
story.
It is helpful to consider climax as a three-fold phenomenon: 1) the main
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character receives new information 2) accepts this information (realizes
it but does not necessarily agree with it) 3) acts on this information
(makes a choice that will determine whether or not he/she gains his
objective).
CONFLICT-- Conflict is essential to plot. Without conflict there is no
plot. It is the opposition of forces which ties one incident to another and
makes the plot move. Conflict is not merely limited to open arguments,
rather it is any form of opposition that faces the main character. Within a
short story there may be only one central struggle, or there may be one
dominant struggle with many minor ones.
There are two types of conflict:
1) External - A struggle with a force outside one's self.
2) Internal - A struggle within one's self; a person must make some
decision, overcome pain, quiet their temper, resist an urge, etc.
There are four kinds of conflict:
1) Man vs. Man (physical) - The leading character struggles with his
physical strength against other men, forces of nature, or animals.
2) Man vs. Circumstances (classical) - The leading character struggles
against fate, or the circumstances of life facing him/her.
3) Man vs. Society (social) - The leading character struggles against
ideas, practices, or customs of other people.
4) Man vs. Himself/Herself (psychological) - The leading character
struggles with himself/herself; with his/her own soul, ideas of right or
wrong, physical limitations, choices, etc.
CHARACTER -- There are two meanings for the word character:
1) The person in a work of fiction.
2) The characteristics of a person.
Persons in a work of fiction - Antagonist and Protagonist
Short stories use few characters. One character is clearly central to the
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story with all major events having some importance to this character he/she is the PROTAGONIST. The opposer of the main character is
called the ANTAGONIST.
The Characteristics of a Person In order for a story to seem real to the reader its characters must seem
real. Characterization is the information the author gives the reader
about the characters themselves. The author may reveal a character in
several ways:
a) his/her physical appearance
b) what he/she says, thinks, feels and dreams
c) what he/she does or does not do
d) what others say about him/her and how others react to him/her
Characters are convincing if they are: consistent, motivated, and life-like
(resemble real people)
Characters are...
1. Individual - round, many sided and complex personalities.
2. Developing - dynamic, many sided personalities that change, for
better or worse, by the end of the story.
3. Static - Stereotype, have one or two characteristics that never
change and are emphasized e.g. brilliant detective, drunk, scrooge, cruel
stepmother, etc.
BACK TO TOP
POINT OF VIEW
Point of view, or p.o.v., is defined as the angle from which the story is
told.
1. Innocent Eye - The story is told through the eyes of a child (his/her
judgment being different from that of an adult) .
2. Stream of Consciousness - The story is told so that the reader feels
as if they are inside the head of one character and knows all their
thoughts and reactions.
3. First Person - The story is told by the protagonist or one of the
characters who interacts closely with the protagonist or other characters
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(using pronouns I, me, we, etc). The reader sees the story through this
person's eyes as he/she experiences it and only knows what he/she
knows or feels.
4. Omniscient- The author can narrate the story using the omniscient
point of view. He can move from character to character, event to event,
having free access to the thoughts, feelings and motivations of his
characters and he introduces information where and when he chooses.
There are two main types of omniscient point of view:
a) Omniscient Limited - The author tells the story in third person (using
pronouns they, she, he, it, etc). We know only what the character knows
and what the author allows him/her to tell us. We can see the thoughts
and feelings of characters if the author chooses to reveal them to us.
b) Omniscient Objective – The author tells the story in the third
person. It appears as though a camera is following the characters, going
anywhere, and recording only what is seen and heard. There is no
comment on the characters or their thoughts. No interpretations are
offered. The reader is placed in the position of spectator without the
author there to explain. The reader has to interpret events on his own.
THEME -- The theme in a piece of fiction is its controlling idea or its
central insight. It is the author's underlying meaning or main idea that he
is trying to convey. The theme may be the author's thoughts about a
topic or view of human nature. The title of the short story usually points
to what the writer is saying and he may use various figures of speech to
emphasize his theme, such as: symbol, allusion, simile, metaphor,
hyperbole, or irony.
Some simple examples of common themes from literature, TV, and film
are:
- things are not always as they appear to be
- Love is blind
- Believe in yourself
- People are afraid of change
- Don't judge a book by its cover
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Short story refers to a work of fiction that is usually written in prose,
usually in narrative format. This format or medium tends to be more
pointed than longer works of fiction, such as novellas (in the 20th and
21st century sense) and novels or books. Short story definitions based
upon length differ somewhat even among professional writers, due
somewhat in part to the fragmentation of the medium into genres. Since
the short story format includes a wide range of genres and styles, the
actual length is mitigated somewhere between the individual author's
preference (or the story's actual needs in terms of creative trajectory
or story arc) and the submission guidelines relevant to the story's actual
market. Guidelines vary greatly among publishers.
Many short story writers define their work through a combination of
creative, personal expression and artistic integrity. As a result, many
attempt to resist categorization by genre as well as definition by
numbers, finding such approaches limiting and counter-intuitive to artistic
form and reasoning. As a result, definitions of the short story based upon
length splinter even more when the writing process is taken into
consideration.
Characteristics
Short stories tend to be less complex than novels. Usually a short story
focuses on only one incident, has a single plot, a single setting, a small
number of characters, and covers a short period of time.
In longer forms of fiction, stories tend to contain certain core elements
of dramatic structure: exposition (the introduction of setting, situation and
main characters); complication (the event that introduces the
conflict); rising action, crisis (the decisive moment for the protagonist and
his commitment to a course of action); climax (the point of highest
interest in terms of the conflict and the point with the most action);
resolution (the point when the conflict is resolved); and moral.
Because of their length, short stories may or may not follow this pattern.
Some do not follow patterns at all. For example, modern short stories
only occasionally have an exposition. More typical, though, is an abrupt
beginning, with the story starting in the middle of the action (in medias
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res). As with longer stories, plots of short stories also have a climax,
crisis, or turning point. However, the endings of many short stories are
abrupt and open and may or may not have a moral or practical lesson.
As with any art form, the exact characteristics of a short story will vary by
author.
When short stories intend to convey a specific ethical or). This specific
kind of short story has been used by spiritual and religious leaders
worldwide to inspire, enlighten, entertain, and educate their followers.
Length
See the article novella for related debate about length.
Determining what exactly separates a short story from longer fictional
formats is problematic. A classic definition of a short story is that one
should be able to be read it in one sitting, a point most notably made in
Edgar Allan Poe's essay "The Philosophy of Composition" (1846). Other
definitions place the maximum word length at anywhere from 7,000 to
9,000 words. As a point of reference for the science fiction genre writer,
the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America defines short story
length in its Nebula Awards for science fiction submission guidelines as
having a word count of less than 7,500.[1] In contemporary usage, the
term short story most often refers to a work of fiction no longer than
20,000 words and no shorter than 1,000. Stories less than 1,000 words
are usually referred to either as "short short fiction" or "short shorts" or
even "flash fiction".[‘
Literature Network » Charles Dickens » The Trial For Murder
The Trial for Murder-Charles Dickens
I have always noticed a prevalent want of courage, even among
persons of superior intelligence and culture, as to imparting their
own psychological experiences when those have been of a strange
sort. Almost all men are afraid that what they could relate in such
wise would find no parallel or response in a listener's internal
life, and might be suspected or laughed at. A truthful traveller,
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who should have seen some extraordinary creature in the likeness of
a sea-serpent, would have no fear of mentioning it; but the same
traveller, having had some singular presentiment, impulse, vagary of
thought, vision (so-called), dream, or other remarkable mental
impression, would hesitate considerably before he would own to it.
To this reticence I attribute much of the obscurity in which such
subjects are involved. We do not habitually communicate our
experiences of these subjective things as we do our experiences of
objective creation. The consequence is, that the general stock of
experience in this regard appears exceptional, and really is so, in
respect of being miserably imperfect.
In what I am going to relate, I have no intention of setting up,
opposing, or supporting, any theory whatever. I know the history of
the Bookseller of Berlin, I have studied the case of the wife of a
late Astronomer Royal as related by Sir David Brewster, and I have
followed the minutest details of a much more remarkable case of
Spectral Illusion occurring within my private circle of friends. It
may be necessary to state as to this last, that the sufferer (a
lady) was in no degree, however distant, related to me. A mistaken
assumption on that head might suggest an explanation of a part of my
own case,--but only a part,--which would be wholly without
foundation. It cannot be referred to my inheritance of any
developed peculiarity, nor had I ever before any at all similar
experience, nor have I ever had any at all similar experience since.
It does not signify how many years ago, or how few, a certain murder
was committed in England, which attracted great attention. We hear
more than enough of murderers as they rise in succession to their
atrocious eminence, and I would bury the memory of this particular
brute, if I could, as his body was buried, in Newgate Jail. I
purposely abstain from giving any direct clue to the criminal's
individuality.
When the murder was first discovered, no suspicion fell--or I ought
rather to say, for I cannot be too precise in my facts, it was
nowhere publicly hinted that any suspicion fell--on the man who was
afterwards brought to trial. As no reference was at that time made
to him in the newspapers, it is obviously impossible that any
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description of him can at that time have been given in the
newspapers. It is essential that this fact be remembered.
Unfolding at breakfast my morning paper, containing the account of
that first discovery, I found it to be deeply interesting, and I
read it with close attention. I read it twice, if not three times.
The discovery had been made in a bedroom, and, when I laid down the
paper, I was aware of a flash--rush--flow--I do not know what to
call it,--no word I can find is satisfactorily descriptive,--in
which I seemed to see that bedroom passing through my room, like a
picture impossibly painted on a running river. Though almost
instantaneous in its passing, it was perfectly clear; so clear that
I distinctly, and with a sense of relief, observed the absence of
the dead body from the bed.
It was in no romantic place that I had this curious sensation, but
in chambers in Piccadilly, very near to the corner of St. James's
Street. It was entirely new to me. I was in my easy-chair at the
moment, and the sensation was accompanied with a peculiar shiver
which started the chair from its position. (But it is to be noted
that the chair ran easily on castors.) I went to one of the windows
(there are two in the room, and the room is on the second floor) to
refresh my eyes with the moving objects down in Piccadilly. It was
a bright autumn morning, and the street was sparkling and cheerful.
The wind was high. As I looked out, it brought down from the Park a
quantity of fallen leaves, which a gust took, and whirled into a
spiral pillar. As the pillar fell and the leaves dispersed, I saw
two men on the opposite side of the way, going from West to East.
They were one behind the other. The foremost man often looked back
over his shoulder. The second man followed him, at a distance of
some thirty paces, with his right hand menacingly raised. First,
the singularity and steadiness of this threatening gesture in so
public a thoroughfare attracted my attention; and next, the more
remarkable circumstance that nobody heeded it. Both men threaded
their way among the other passengers with a smoothness hardly
consistent even with the action of walking on a pavement; and no
single creature, that I could see, gave them place, touched them, or
looked after them. In passing before my windows, they both stared
up at me. I saw their two faces very distinctly, and I knew that I
could recognise them anywhere. Not that I had consciously noticed
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anything very remarkable in either face, except that the man who
went first had an unusually lowering appearance, and that the face
of the man who followed him was of the colour of impure wax.
I am a bachelor, and my valet and his wife constitute my whole
establishment. My occupation is in a certain Branch Bank, and I
wish that my duties as head of a Department were as light as they
are popularly supposed to be. They kept me in town that autumn,
when I stood in need of change. I was not ill, but I was not well.
My reader is to make the most that can be reasonably made of my
feeling jaded, having a depressing sense upon me of a monotonous
life, and being "slightly dyspeptic." I am assured by my renowned
doctor that my real state of health at that time justifies no
stronger description, and I quote his own from his written answer to
my request for it.
As the circumstances of the murder, gradually unravelling, took
stronger and stronger possession of the public mind, I kept them
away from mine by knowing as little about them as was possible in
the midst of the universal excitement. But I knew that a verdict of
Wilful Murder had been found against the suspected murderer, and
that he had been committed to Newgate for trial. I also knew that
his trial had been postponed over one Sessions of the Central
Criminal Court, on the ground of general prejudice and want of time
for the preparation of the defence. I may further have known, but I
believe I did not, when, or about when, the Sessions to which his
trial stood postponed would come on.
My sitting-room, bedroom, and dressing-room, are all on one floor.
With the last there is no communication but through the bedroom.
True, there is a door in it, once communicating with the staircase;
but a part of the fitting of my bath has been--and had then been for
some years--fixed across it. At the same period, and as a part of
the same arrangement,--the door had been nailed up and canvased
over.
I was standing in my bedroom late one night, giving some directions
to my servant before he went to bed. My face was towards the only
available door of communication with the dressing-room, and it was
closed. My servant's back was towards that door. While I was
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speaking to him, I saw it open, and a man look in, who very
earnestly and mysteriously beckoned to me. That man was the man who
had gone second of the two along Piccadilly, and whose face was of
the colour of impure wax.
The figure, having beckoned, drew back, and closed the door. With
no longer pause than was made by my crossing the bedroom, I opened
the dressing-room door, and looked in. I had a lighted candle
already in my hand. I felt no inward expectation of seeing the
figure in the dressing-room, and I did not see it there.
Conscious that my servant stood amazed, I turned round to him, and
said: "Derrick, could you believe that in my cool senses I fancied
I saw a--" As I there laid my hand upon his breast, with a sudden
start he trembled violently, and said, "O Lord, yes, sir! A dead
man beckoning!"
Now I do not believe that this John Derrick, my trusty and attached
servant for more than twenty years, had any impression whatever of
having seen any such figure, until I touched him. The change in him
was so startling, when I touched him, that I fully believe he
derived his impression in some occult manner from me at that
instant.
I bade John Derrick bring some brandy, and I gave him a dram, and
was glad to take one myself. Of what had preceded that night's
phenomenon, I told him not a single word. Reflecting on it, I was
absolutely certain that I had never seen that face before, except on
the one occasion in Piccadilly. Comparing its expression when
beckoning at the door with its expression when it had stared up at
me as I stood at my window, I came to the conclusion that on the
first occasion it had sought to fasten itself upon my memory, and
that on the second occasion it had made sure of being immediately
remembered.
I was not very comfortable that night, though I felt a certainty,
difficult to explain, that the figure would not return. At daylight
I fell into a heavy sleep, from which I was awakened by John
Derrick's coming to my bedside with a paper in his hand.
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This paper, it appeared, had been the subject of an altercation at
the door between its bearer and my servant. It was a summons to me
to serve upon a Jury at the forthcoming Sessions of the Central
Criminal Court at the Old Bailey. I had never before been summoned
on such a Jury, as John Derrick well knew. He believed--I am not
certain at this hour whether with reason or otherwise--that that
class of Jurors were customarily chosen on a lower qualification
than mine, and he had at first refused to accept the summons. The
man who served it had taken the matter very coolly. He had said
that my attendance or non-attendance was nothing to him; there the
summons was; and I should deal with it at my own peril, and not at
his.
For a day or two I was undecided whether to respond to this call, or
take no notice of it. I was not conscious of the slightest
mysterious bias, influence, or attraction, one way or other. Of
that I am as strictly sure as of every other statement that I make
here. Ultimately I decided, as a break in the monotony of my life,
that I would go.
The appointed morning was a raw morning in the month of November.
There was a dense brown fog in Piccadilly, and it became positively
black and in the last degree oppressive East of Temple Bar. I found
the passages and staircases of the Court-House flaringly lighted
with gas, and the Court itself similarly illuminated. I THINK that,
until I was conducted by officers into the Old Court and saw its
crowded state, I did not know that the Murderer was to be tried that
day. I THINK that, until I was so helped into the Old Court with
considerable difficulty, I did not know into which of the two Courts
sitting my summons would take me. But this must not be received as
a positive assertion, for I am not completely satisfied in my mind
on either point.
I took my seat in the place appropriated to Jurors in waiting, and I
looked about the Court as well as I could through the cloud of fog
and breath that was heavy in it. I noticed the black vapour hanging
like a murky curtain outside the great windows, and I noticed the
stifled sound of wheels on the straw or tan that was littered in the
street; also, the hum of the people gathered there, which a shrill
whistle, or a louder song or hail than the rest, occasionally
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pierced. Soon afterwards the Judges, two in number, entered, and
took their seats. The buzz in the Court was awfully hushed. The
direction was given to put the Murderer to the bar. He appeared
there. And in that same instant I recognised in him the first of
the two men who had gone down Piccadilly.
If my name had been called then, I doubt if I could have answered to
it audibly. But it was called about sixth or eighth in the panel,
and I was by that time able to say, "Here!" Now, observe. As I
stepped into the box, the prisoner, who had been looking on
attentively, but with no sign of concern, became violently agitated,
and beckoned to his attorney. The prisoner's wish to challenge me
was so manifest, that it occasioned a pause, during which the
attorney, with his hand upon the dock, whispered with his client,
and shook his head. I afterwards had it from that gentleman, that
the prisoner's first affrighted words to him were, "AT ALL HAZARDS,
CHALLENGE THAT MAN!" But that, as he would give no reason for it,
and admitted that he had not even known my name until he heard it
called and I appeared, it was not done.
Both on the ground already explained, that I wish to avoid reviving
the unwholesome memory of that Murderer, and also because a detailed
account of his long trial is by no means indispensable to my
narrative, I shall confine myself closely to such incidents in the
ten days and nights during which we, the Jury, were kept together,
as directly bear on my own curious personal experience. It is in
that, and not in the Murderer, that I seek to interest my reader.
It is to that, and not to a page of the Newgate Calendar, that I beg
attention.
I was chosen Foreman of the Jury. On the second morning of the
trial, after evidence had been taken for two hours (I heard the
church clocks strike), happening to cast my eyes over my brother
jurymen, I found an inexplicable difficulty in counting them. I
counted them several times, yet always with the same difficulty. In
short, I made them one too many.
I touched the brother jurymen whose place was next me, and I
whispered to him, "Oblige me by counting us." He looked surprised
by the request, but turned his head and counted. "Why," says he,
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suddenly, "we are Thirt-; but no, it's not possible. No. We are
twelve."
According to my counting that day, we were always right in detail,
but in the gross we were always one too many. There was no
appearance--no figure--to account for it; but I had now an inward
foreshadowing of the figure that was surely coming.
The Jury were housed at the London Tavern. We all slept in one
large room on separate tables, and we were constantly in the charge
and under the eye of the officer sworn to hold us in safe-keeping.
I see no reason for suppressing the real name of that officer. He
was intelligent, highly polite, and obliging, and (I was glad to
hear) much respected in the City. He had an agreeable presence,
good eyes, enviable black whiskers, and a fine sonorous voice. His
name was Mr. Harker.
When we turned into our twelve beds at night, Mr. Harker's bed was
drawn across the door. On the night of the second day, not being
disposed to lie down, and seeing Mr. Harker sitting on his bed, I
went and sat beside him, and offered him a pinch of snuff. As Mr.
Harker's hand touched mine in taking it from my box, a peculiar
shiver crossed him, and he said, "Who is this?"
Following Mr. Harker's eyes, and looking along the room, I saw again
the figure I expected,--the second of the two men who had gone down
Piccadilly. I rose, and advanced a few steps; then stopped, and
looked round at Mr. Harker. He was quite unconcerned, laughed, and
said in a pleasant way, "I thought for a moment we had a thirteenth
juryman, without a bed. But I see it is the moonlight."
Making no revelation to Mr. Harker, but inviting him to take a walk
with me to the end of the room, I watched what the figure did. It
stood for a few moments by the bedside of each of my eleven brother
jurymen, close to the pillow. It always went to the right-hand side
of the bed, and always passed out crossing the foot of the next bed.
It seemed, from the action of the head, merely to look down
pensively at each recumbent figure. It took no notice of me, or of
my bed, which was that nearest to Mr. Harker's. It seemed to go out
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where the moonlight came in, through a high window, as by an aerial
flight of stairs.
Next morning at breakfast, it appeared that everybody present had
dreamed of the murdered man last night, except myself and Mr.
Harker.
I now felt as convinced that the second man who had gone down
Piccadilly was the murdered man (so to speak), as if it had been
borne into my comprehension by his immediate testimony. But even
this took place, and in a manner for which I was not at all
prepared.
On the fifth day of the trial, when the case for the prosecution was
drawing to a close, a miniature of the murdered man, missing from
his bedroom upon the discovery of the deed, and afterwards found in
a hiding-place where the Murderer had been seen digging, was put in
evidence. Having been identified by the witness under examination,
it was handed up to the Bench, and thence handed down to be
inspected by the Jury. As an officer in a black gown was making his
way with it across to me, the figure of the second man who had gone
down Piccadilly impetuously started from the crowd, caught the
miniature from the officer, and gave it to me with his own hands, at
the same time saying, in a low and hollow tone,--before I saw the
miniature, which was in a locket,--"I WAS YOUNGER THEN, AND MY
FACE
WAS NOT THEN DRAINED OF BLOOD." It also came between me and
the
brother juryman to whom I would have given the miniature, and
between him and the brother juryman to whom he would have given it,
and so passed it on through the whole of our number, and back into
my possession. Not one of them, however, detected this.
At table, and generally when we were shut up together in Mr.
Harker's custody, we had from the first naturally discussed the
day's proceedings a good deal. On that fifth day, the case for the
prosecution being closed, and we having that side of the question in
a completed shape before us, our discussion was more animated and
serious. Among our number was a vestryman,--the densest idiot I
have ever seen at large,--who met the plainest evidence with the
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most preposterous objections, and who was sided with by two flabby
parochial parasites; all the three impanelled from a district so
delivered over to Fever that they ought to have been upon their own
trial for five hundred Murders. When these mischievous blockheads
were at their loudest, which was towards midnight, while some of us
were already preparing for bed, I again saw the murdered man. He
stood grimly behind them, beckoning to me. On my going towards
them, and striking into the conversation, he immediately retired.
This was the beginning of a separate series of appearances, confined
to that long room in which we were confined. Whenever a knot of my
brother jurymen laid their heads together, I saw the head of the
murdered man among theirs. Whenever their comparison of notes was
going against him, he would solemnly and irresistibly beckon to me.
It will be borne in mind that down to the production of the
miniature, on the fifth day of the trial, I had never seen the
Appearance in Court. Three changes occurred now that we entered on
the case for the defence. Two of them I will mention together,
first. The figure was now in Court continually, and it never there
addressed itself to me, but always to the person who was speaking at
the time. For instance: the throat of the murdered man had been
cut straight across. In the opening speech for the defence, it was
suggested that the deceased might have cut his own throat. At that
very moment, the figure, with its throat in the dreadful condition
referred to (this it had concealed before), stood at the speaker's
elbow, motioning across and across its windpipe, now with the right
hand, now with the left, vigorously suggesting to the speaker
himself the impossibility of such a wound having been self-inflicted
by either hand. For another instance: a witness to character, a
woman, deposed to the prisoner's being the most amiable of mankind.
The figure at that instant stood on the floor before her, looking
her full in the face, and pointing out the prisoner's evil
countenance with an extended arm and an outstretched finger.
The third change now to be added impressed me strongly as the most
marked and striking of all. I do not theorise upon it; I accurately
state it, and there leave it. Although the Appearance was not
itself perceived by those whom it addressed, its coming close to
such persons was invariably attended by some trepidation or
disturbance on their part. It seemed to me as if it were prevented,
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by laws to which I was not amenable, from fully revealing itself to
others, and yet as if it could invisibly, dumbly, and darkly
overshadow their minds. When the leading counsel for the defence
suggested that hypothesis of suicide, and the figure stood at the
learned gentleman's elbow, frightfully sawing at its severed throat,
it is undeniable that the counsel faltered in his speech, lost for a
few seconds the thread of his ingenious discourse, wiped his
forehead with his handkerchief, and turned extremely pale. When the
witness to character was confronted by the Appearance, her eyes most
certainly did follow the direction of its pointed finger, and rest
in great hesitation and trouble upon the prisoner's face. Two
additional illustrations will suffice. On the eighth day of the
trial, after the pause which was every day made early in the
afternoon for a few minutes' rest and refreshment, I came back into
Court with the rest of the Jury some little time before the return
of the Judges. Standing up in the box and looking about me, I
thought the figure was not there, until, chancing to raise my eyes
to the gallery, I saw it bending forward, and leaning over a very
decent woman, as if to assure itself whether the Judges had resumed
their seats or not. Immediately afterwards that woman screamed,
fainted, and was carried out. So with the venerable, sagacious, and
patient Judge who conducted the trial. When the case was over, and
he settled himself and his papers to sum up, the murdered man,
entering by the Judges' door, advanced to his Lordship's desk, and
looked eagerly over his shoulder at the pages of his notes which he
was turning. A change came over his Lordship's face; his hand
stopped; the peculiar shiver, that I knew so well, passed over him;
he faltered, "Excuse me, gentlemen, for a few moments. I am
somewhat oppressed by the vitiated air;" and did not recover until
he had drunk a glass of water.
Through all the monotony of six of those interminable ten days,--the
same Judges and others on the bench, the same Murderer in the dock,
the same lawyers at the table, the same tones of question and answer
rising to the roof of the court, the same scratching of the Judge's
pen, the same ushers going in and out, the same lights kindled at
the same hour when there had been any natural light of day, the same
foggy curtain outside the great windows when it was foggy, the same
rain pattering and dripping when it was rainy, the same footmarks of
turnkeys and prisoner day after day on the same sawdust, the same
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keys locking and unlocking the same heavy doors,--through all the
wearisome monotony which made me feel as if I had been Foreman of
the Jury for a vast cried of time, and Piccadilly had flourished
coevally with Babylon, the murdered man never lost one trace of his
distinctness in my eyes, nor was he at any moment less distinct than
anybody else. I must not omit, as a matter of fact, that I never
once saw the Appearance which I call by the name of the murdered man
look at the Murderer. Again and again I wondered, "Why does he
not?" But he never did.
Nor did he look at me, after the production of the miniature, until
the last closing minutes of the trial arrived. We retired to
consider, at seven minutes before ten at night. The idiotic
vestryman and his two parochial parasites gave us so much trouble
that we twice returned into Court to beg to have certain extracts
from the Judge's notes re-read. Nine of us had not the smallest
doubt about those passages, neither, I believe, had any one in the
Court; the dunder-headed triumvirate, having no idea but
obstruction, disputed them for that very reason. At length we
prevailed, and finally the Jury returned into Court at ten minutes
past twelve.
The murdered man at that time stood directly opposite the Jury-box,
on the other side of the Court. As I took my place, his eyes rested
on me with great attention; he seemed satisfied, and slowly shook a
great gray veil, which he carried on his arm for the first time,
over his head and whole form. As I gave in our verdict, "Guilty,"
the veil collapsed, all was gone, and his place was empty.
The Murderer, being asked by the Judge, according to usage, whether
he had anything to say before sentence of Death should be passed
upon him, indistinctly muttered something which was described in the
leading newspapers of the following day as "a few rambling,
incoherent, and half-audible words, in which he was understood to
complain that he had not had a fair trial, because the Foreman of
the Jury was prepossessed against him." The remarkable declaration
that he really made was this: "MY LORD, I KNEW I WAS A DOOMED
MAN,
WHEN THE FOREMAN OF MY JURY CAME INTO THE BOX. MY
LORD, I KNEW HE
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WOULD NEVER LET ME OFF, BECAUSE, BEFORE I WAS TAKEN, HE
SOMEHOW GOT
TO MY BEDSIDE IN THE NIGHT, WOKE ME, AND PUT A ROPE
ROUND MY NECK."
A HAUNTED HOUSE- VIRGINIA WOOLF
Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room
they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure a
ghostly couple.
"Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here too!" "It's
upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly,"
they said, "or we shall wake them."
But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're
drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now
they've found it, " one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the
margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself,
the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons
bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding
from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My
hands were empty. "Perhaps it's upstairs then?" The apples were in the
loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had
slipped into the grass.
But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see
them. The window panes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves
were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple
only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was
opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the
ceiling what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the
carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its
bubble of sound. "Safe, safe, safe" the pulse of the house beat softly.
"The treasure buried; the room . . ." the pulse stopped short. Oh, was
that the buried treasure?
A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees
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spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk
beneath the surface the beam I sought always burnt behind the glass.
Death was the glass; death was between us; coming to the woman first,
hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the
rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the
stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped
beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of the house beat
gladly. "The Treasure yours."
The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that.
Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp
falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering
through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the
ghostly couple seek their joy.
"Here we slept," she says. And he adds, "Kisses without number."
"Waking in the morning " "Silver between the trees " "Upstairs " "In the
garden " "When summer came " "In winter snowtime " "The doors go
shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.
Nearer they come, cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides
silver down the glass. Our eyes darken, we hear no steps beside us; we
see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern.
"Look," he breathes. "Sound asleep. Love upon their lips."
Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply.
Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly.
Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain
the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers
and seek their hidden joy.
"Safe, safe, safe," the heart of the house beats proudly. "Long years " he
sighs. "Again you found me." "Here," she murmurs, "sleeping; in the
garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our
treasure " Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. "Safe! safe!
safe!" the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry "Oh, is this your
buried treasure? The light in the heart."
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ELEMENTS OF LITERATURE IV- “Symbolism”
Symbolism is the use of symbols to represent things such as ideas and
emotions. It contrasts with representationalism. Language is highly
symbolic, but symbolism refers specifically to totemic symbols that stand
on their own.
In Psychoanalysis, Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung envisioned symbols as
being not of the mind, but rather the mind's capacity to
hold information.[citation needed] The mind uses symbols to form free
association, organization, and connections between symbols. Jung and
Freud diverged on the issue of common cognitive symbol systems and
whether they exist within the individual mind or among other minds,
whether cognitive symbolism was innate or defined by the environment.
Symbolism is important to religion. Religious oracles divine by
interpreting symbols. Max Weber described religion as a system
of sacred religious symbolism.
Historical meaning
This history of a symbol is one of many factors in determining a particular
symbol's apparent meaning. Old symbols become reinterpreted, due
perhaps to environmental changes. Consequently, symbols with emotive
power carry problems analogous to false etymologies.
For example, the Irish and Scottish American elements of design in
the Rebel Flag of the American South predate the American Civil War.
An early variant of the crossed bars can be seen on the Scottish Flag.
Following the American Civil War, the KKK, founded in part by
Confederate general Nathan Bedford Forrest, became notorious in
the American South for conductingracially-motivated attacks. Its
members associated themselves with the Confederate flag.[citation
needed]
This lead to a subsequent dispute over whether or not the flag has
racist connotations.
Another example is the superficial resemblance between the
Christian cross, an execution device, and the Ancient Egyptian Ankh,
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signifying life. The cross derives from the Roman Empire's use of large
wooden crosses to crucify alleged criminals.
Juxtaposition
Juxtaposition further complicates the matter. Alone, the cross is a symbol
of Christianity. However, a cross set on fire on a lawn is a distinct, racist
symbol of the KKK, even though the original cross lacks racist impl
ications.
EXERCISE:
III/ FIND SYMBOLS WITHIN SHAKESPEARE’S SONNETS 18 AND
144
ESSAYS
*ANNEX- I
TIPS FOR WRITING AN ESSAY ON LITERARY WORK
Answering essay questions on high school and university exams
requires good writing and analytical skills. Literature essays can be
especially difficult, since the "facts" you have to deal with can be
abstract, such as characters or entire plots.
Say, for instance, you were asked to write an essay on the relationship of
perfection to humanity in a course on Ancient Greek Literature.
Assuming you've studied beforehand, how would you begin once you sat
down to take the exam?
Plan to Answer the Literature Exam Essay Question Fully
In college-level literature exams, the essay question itself is often a
paragraph or more. So make sure you understand it, in all its parts,
before you begin. You may find it helpful to underline or highlight key
phrases in the essay question itself. Take a few moments to organize
your thoughts, and jot down a point-form outline on scrap paper.
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This process includes recalling the issues involved,recognizing the
right terms, and thinking of pertinent examples. Using the Greek
Literature example, you might want to recall Ancient Greek attitudes
toward art; recognize the difference between Archaic, Classical, and
Hellenistic periods; and think of such works as theOdyssey, Oedipus
Rex, andLysistrata.
Proper essay format is vital on a literature exam, since you have little
time to revise. Make sure that your essay has a brief and focused
introduction, with a thesis (also called a statement of purpose), and a
summary of your main points.
Here is a good introductory paragraph for a Greek Literature essay:
The ancient Greeks portrayed the physical world and the people in
it as inherently flawed in their literature. In theOdyssey, Oedipus Rex,
andLysistrata, physical flaws and shortcomings serve as a reminder of
identity for their heroes, suggesting that imperfection and humanity are
inextricably linked.
Now compare this with a poor exam essay on the same topic:

Since the beginning of Western civilization, man has been
fascinated by the idea of imperfection – can we ever be perfect, or
not? Greek art was made to be imperfect, and even in our own times,
we hear expressions like “nobody’s perfect.” In all the great works we
have studied in this course so far, we can also see that they show
imperfections in their characters, especially in such outstanding works
like theOdyssey,Oedipus Rex, andLysistrata. These imperfections
make it easy for people to identify with their heroes even today.
Notice how the first essay example is short, to the point, and deals with
the implications and significance of its topic. The second example, on the
other hand, has a lot of generalizations, irrelevant observations, and a
weak conclusion.

Follow through with Examples in the Essay's Body Paragraphs
Once you have a thesis statement, you need to back up your claims with
analysis. In literature exam essays, that means finding relevant
examples from your texts:

Although Odysseus disguises himself often in Homer’sOdyssey, he
has a physical flaw that doesn’t change: the scar on his leg. Odysseus’
old nurse, Eurycleia, finds this scar when Odysseus, disguised as a
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beggar, returns home. Eurycleia recognizes Odysseus because of it,
and nearly gives away his true identity prematurely. This episode links
Odysseus’ physical imperfection to his very humanity. Unlike the gods,
he can be hurt, nor can his scars be hidden – not even by his ally, the
goddess Athena.
Each "body" paragraph like this should deal with a separate point. In the
example, you would continue with a similar paragraph aboutOedipus
RexandLysistrata.
Remember that for a literature exam essay, you usually aren't expected
to quote such texts exactly. But it is essential that you be as specific as
possible, and that your examples are directly related to the topic.
Budget Your Literature Exam Time...
As you write, stop once in a while to make sure that you're still on topic
and not rambling. In literature exams essays, focus and clarity are just as
important as getting as many facts down on paper as possible.
Also check that you're giving each part of your argument equal time. If,
for instance, more than half your time is up, and you're still writing on
theOdysseywithout mentioningOedipus RexandLysistrata, move on.
Finally, always leave yourself some time at the end to re-read your exam
essay. You will probably spot and correct a few spelling
orgrammaticalerrors. Having a few minutes at the end will also allow
you to write a more compelling conclusion, which should be a brief
restatement of your main points and why they are significant.
... For a Good Essay Conclusion
A solid thesis, backed up with well-argued examples, is the foundation of
a good literature exam essay. Taking time to plan at the beginning and
double-check at the end will make writing it easier. You'll
begraduatingbefore you know it!
ANNEX II
TIPS ON READING LITERARY ESSAYS
118
Reading Essays
Here are some questions you might ask when you are faced
with the task of reading and writing about essays. (Note that
cross-references refer to selections in Literature: Reading
and Writing the Human Experience, seventh edition.)
1. What is the author's thesis (or unifying idea)? What
evidence or arguments does the author advance to support
the thesis? Is the thesis convincing? If not, why not? Does the
author rely on any basic but unstated assumptions?
2. What is the author's tone? Select for analysis a passage
you consider illustrative of the author's tone. Does the author
maintain that tone consistently throughout the essay?
3. How would you characterize the author's style? For
example, are the syntax, length of sentences, and diction
elevated and formal or familiar and informal?
4. What rhetorical strategies does the author use? For
example, can you identify the effective use of narration,
description, classification, comparison and contrast, analogy,
cause and effect, or definition? Note that one of these
rhetorical strategies may constitute the unifying idea of the
essay and the means of structuring it. Jessica Mitford's "The
American Way of Death" (p. 933) is an essay in definition that
effectively uses comparison and contrast and analogy.
5. What are the major divisions in the essay, and how are
they set off? Are the transitions between the divisions
effective and easy to follow?
6. Analyze the author's opening paragraph. Is it effective in
gaining the reader's attention? Does it clearly state the
essay's thesis? If it does not, at what point does the author's
thesis and purpose become clear?
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MODEL ESSAYS:
BEOWULF (ON ITS CONTEXT)
T HOUGH IT IS OFTEN VIEWED both as the archetypal Anglo-Saxon literary
work and as a cornerstone of modern literature, Beowulf has a peculiar
history that complicates both its historical and its canonical position in
English literature. By the time the story of Beowulf was composed by an
unknown Anglo-Saxon poet around 700 A.D., much of its material had
been in circulation in oral narrative for many years. The Anglo-Saxon and
Scandinavian peoples had invaded the island of Britain and settled there
several hundred years earlier, bringing with them several closely related
Germanic languages that would evolve into Old English. Elements of
theBeowulf story—including its setting and characters—date back to the
period before the migration. The action of the poem takes place
around500 A.D. Many of the characters in the poem—the Swedish and
Danish royal family members, for example—correspond to actual
historical figures. Originally pagan warriors, the Anglo-Saxon and
Scandinavian invaders experienced a large-scale conversion to
Christianity at the end of the sixth century. Though still an old pagan
story, Beowulf thus came to be told by a Christian poet.
The Beowulf poet is often at pains to attribute Christian thoughts and
motives to his characters, who frequently behave in distinctly unChristian ways. The Beowulf that we read today is therefore probably
quite unlike the Beowulf with which the first Anglo-Saxon audiences were
familiar. The element of religious tension is quite common in Christian
Anglo-Saxon writings (The Dream of the Rood, for example), but the
combination of a pagan story with a Christian narrator is fairly unusual.
The plot of the poem concerns Scandinavian culture, but much of the
poem’s narrative intervention reveals that the poet’s culture was
somewhat different from that of his ancestors, and that of his characters
as well.
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The world thatBeowulf depicts and the heroic code of honor that defines
much of the story is a relic of pre–Anglo-Saxon culture. The story is set
in Scandinavia, before the migration. Though it is a traditional story—part
of a Germanic oral tradition—the poem as we have it is thought to be the
work of a single poet. It was composed in England (not in Scandinavia)
and is historical in its perspective, recording the values and culture of a
bygone era. Many of those values, including the heroic code, were still
operative to some degree in when the poem was written. These values
had evolved to some extent in the intervening centuries and were
continuing to change. In the Scandinavian world of the story, tiny tribes
of people rally around strong kings, who protect their people from
danger—especially from confrontations with other tribes. The warrior
culture that results from this early feudal arrangement is extremely
important, both to the story and to our understanding of Saxon
civilization. Strong kings demand bravery and loyalty from their warriors,
whom they repay with treasures won in war. Mead-halls such as Heorot
in Beowulf were places where warriors would gather in the presence of
their lord to drink, boast, tell stories, and receive gifts. Although these
mead-halls offered sanctuary, the early Middle Ages were a dangerous
time, and the paranoid sense of foreboding and doom that runs
throughout Beowulf evidences the constant fear of invasion that plagued
Scandinavian society.
Only a single manuscript of Beowulf survived the Anglo-Saxon era. For
many centuries, the manuscript was all but forgotten, and, in the 1700s,
it was nearly destroyed in a fire. It was not until the nineteenth century
that widespread interest in the document emerged among scholars and
translators of Old English. For the first hundred years of Beowulf’s
prominence, interest in the poem was primarily historical—the text was
viewed as a source of information about the Anglo-Saxon era. It was not
until 1936, when the Oxford scholar J. R. R. Tolkien (who later wrote The
Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, works heavily influenced by Beowulf)
published a groundbreaking paper entitled “Beowulf: The Monsters and
the Critics” that the manuscript gained recognition as a serious work of
art.
Beowulf is now widely taught and is often presented as the first important
work of English literature, creating the impression that Beowulf is in
some way the source of the English canon. But because it was not
widely read until the 1800s and not widely regarded as an important
artwork until the1900s, Beowulf has had little direct impact on the
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development of English poetry. In fact, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Marlowe,
Pope, Shelley, Keats, and most other important English writers before
the 1930s had little or no knowledge of the epic. It was not until the midto-late twentieth century thatBeowulf began to influence writers, and,
since then, it has had a marked impact on the work of many important
novelists and poets, including W. H. Auden, Geoffrey Hill, Ted Hughes,
and Seamus Heaney, the 1995 recipient of the Nobel Prize in Literature,
whose recent translation of the epic is the edition used for this report.
A Room of One’s Own
Virginia Woolf
Commentary on the first chapter.
Woolf elects not to respond to the problem of "women and fiction" by
delivering pat remarks on famous women writers, hoping instead to
explore the issue in deeper ways. She recognizes that her chosen
approach is such that she might "never be able to come to a conclusion"
or distill "a nugget of pure truth" for her listeners to carry home. "When a
subject is highly controversial," she explains, "one cannot hope to tell the
truth. One can only show how one came to hold whatever opinion one
does hold." By choosing fiction as the medium for her argument, Woolf
continues to thematize the complex network of relationships between
truth and fiction, facts and lies, and opinions and emotions. "Fiction is
likely to contain more truth than fact," she explains. "Lies will flow from
my lips, but there may be some truth mixed up with them."
The "I" who narrates the story is not Woolf—it matters little what name
we give her, Woolf insists—and yet her experiences and thoughts are to
provide the background and argument for Woolf's thesis. Already, the
narrative situation illustrates one of Woolf's fundamental aesthetic
principles: Art should have a kind of "incandescence" in which everything
that is purely personal burns away, leaving something like the "nugget of
pure truth" to which Woolf has referred. The imagery of light and fire that
122
is already accumulating in this chapter are meant to suggest this kind of
aesthetic purification. Woolf's aesthetic argument will be developed more
fully as the essay continues.
The orientation here, however, is materialist and social, and Woolf's
thesis—that "a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is
to write fiction"—announces that focus in no uncertain terms. What are
the basic material and social conditions in which aesthetic achievement
becomes a realistic possibility? By addressing this question, she hopes
to situate the problem of women and fiction in an objective and
historicized framework—in rejection of a theoretical tradition founded on
the assumption that women are naturally inferior to men. Woolf's
argument constantly returns to the concrete material details of the
situations she describes: the food that was eaten, the money that was
spent, the comfort of the accommodations, and the demands on people's
time. Her strategy is designed to convince the reader of the deep
relevance of these physical conditions for the possibility of intellectual
and creative activity.
As Woolf describes her narrator's thoughts on women and fiction, she
emphasizes the role of interruptions in the reflective process. By
dramatizing the effects of these interruptions, Woolf bolsters her
argument that a private room is a basic requirement for creative work.
The fact that women have not historically been granted space or leisure
for uninterrupted thinking is, in Woolf's view, a determining factor in the
history of their literary achievements. Intelligence, at least in the model of
Charles Lamb, works by "wild flash[es] of imagination" or the "lightning
crack of genius"—insights which nevertheless take time to gestate. Yet
time and time again, just as our narrator seems to be on the verge of an
insight of this sort, her thinking is cut off—usually by an authority figure
trying to keep her in her place. Where a man would have been given free
rein, the narrator is restricted to a narrow path on the Oxbridge campus.
Nor is she permitted to enter the college library. These obstacles
symbolize the effects of an educational culture that radically restricts the
scope of a woman's intellectual exposure. Woolf identifies the fact of
being denied access—whether to buildings or ideas—as another type of
infringement on the freedom of the female mind. This exclusion is a more
radical kind of interruption, one that disturbs not just a single thought or
reverie, but the life-long developmental of an individual or the historical
development of an intellectual tradition.
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American literature
For the journal of the same name, see American Literature (journal).
American literature as a whole is the written or literary work produced
in the area of the United States and itspreceding colonies. For more
specific discussions of poetry and theater, see Poetry of the United
States and Theater in the United States. During its early history, America
was a series of British colonies on the eastern coast of the present-day
United States. Therefore, its literary tradition begins as linked to the
broader tradition of English literature. However, unique American
characteristics and the breadth of its production usually now cause it to
be considered a separate path and tradition.
[edit]Beginning of American Literature
While the New England colonies have often been regarded as the
centerpiece of early American literature, the first North American
settlements had been founded elsewhere many years earlier. Many
towns are older than Boston, such as Saint Augustine, Jamestown,
Santa Fe, Albany, and New York. Furthermore, English was not the only
language in which early North American texts were written. The eventual
emergence of the English language was hardly inevitable. [1] The large
initial immigration to Boston in the 1630s, the high articulation of Puritan
cultural ideals, and the early establishment of a college and a printing
press in Cambridge all gave New England a substantial edge. However,
political events eventually would make English the lingua franca for the
colonies at large as well as the literary medium of choice. One such
event is the conquering of New Amsterdam by the English in 1664, which
124
was renamed New York. The first item printed in Pennsylvania was in
German although it issued from the press established by an immigrant
Englishman, and was the largest book printed in any of the colonies
before the American Revolution. [2]
The printing press was active in many areas, from Cambridge and
Boston to New York, Philadelphia, and Annapolis. From 1696 to 1700,
only about 250 separate items were issued in all these places combined.
This is a small number compared to the output of the printers in London
at the time. However, printing was established in the American colonies
before it was allowed in most of England. In England restrictive laws had
long confined printing to four locations: London, York, Oxford, and
Cambridge. Because of this, the colonies ventured into the modern world
earlier than their provincial English counterparts. [3]
[edit]Colonial literature
Some of the American literature were pamphlets and writings extolling
the benefits of the colonies to both a European and colonist
audience.Captain John Smith could be considered the first American
author with his works: A True Relation of ... Virginia ... (1608) and The
General Historie of Virginia, New England, and the Summer Isles (1624).
Other writers of this manner included Daniel Denton, Thomas
Ashe, William Penn, George Percy, William Strachey, Daniel
Coxe, Gabriel Thomas, and John Lawson.
The religious disputes that prompted settlement in America were also
topics of early writing. A journal written by John Winthrop discussed the
religious foundations of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Edward
Winslow also recorded a diary of the first years after
the Mayflower'sarrival. Other religiously influenced writers
included Increase Mather and William Bradford, author of the journal
published as a History of Plymouth Plantation, 1620–47. Others
like Roger Williams and Nathaniel Ward more fiercely argued state and
church separation.
Some poetry also existed. Anne Bradstreet and Edward Taylor are
especially noted. Michael Wigglesworth wrote a best-selling poem, The
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Day of Doom, describing the time of judgment. Nicholas Noyes was also
known for his doggerel verse.
Other late writings described conflicts and interaction with the Indians, as
seen in writings by Daniel Gookin, Alexander Whitaker, John
Mason, Benjamin Church, and Mary Rowlandson. John Eliot translated
the Bible into the Algonquin language.
Jonathan Edwards and George Whitefield represented the Great
Awakening, a religious revival in the early 18th century that asserted
strictCalvinism. Other Puritan and religious writers include Thomas
Hooker, Thomas Shepard, John Wise, and Samuel Willard. Less strict
and serious writers included Samuel Sewall, Sarah Kemble Knight,
and William Byrd.
The revolutionary period also contained political writings, including those
by colonists Samuel Adams, Josiah Quincy, John Dickinson, andJoseph
Galloway, a loyalist to the crown. Two key figures were Benjamin
Franklin and Thomas Paine. Franklin's Poor Richard's Almanac andThe
Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin are esteemed works with their wit
and influence toward the formation of a budding American identity.
Paine's pamphlet Common Sense and The American Crisis writings are
seen as playing a key role in influencing the political tone of the period.
During the revolution itself, poems and songs such as "Yankee Doodle"
and "Nathan Hale" were popular. Major satirists included John
Trumbull and Francis Hopkinson. Philip Morin Freneau also wrote poems
about the war's course.
During the eighteenth century, writing shifted focus from the Puritanical
ideals of Winthrop and Bradford to the power of the human mind and
rational thought. The belief that human and natural occurrences were
messages from God no longer fit with the new human centered world.
Many intellectuals believed that the human mind could comprehend the
universe through the laws of physics as described by Isaac Newton. The
enormous scientific, economic, social, and philosophical, changes of the
eighteenth century, called the Enlightenment, impacted the authority of
clergyman and scripture, making way for democratic principles. The
increase in population helped account for the greater diversity of opinion
126
in religious and political life as seen in the literature of this time. In 1670,
the population of the colonies numbered approximately 111,000. Thirty
years later it was more than 250.000. By 1760, it reached
1,600,000. [4] The growth of communities and therefore social life lead
people to become more interested in the progress of individuals and their
shared experience on the colonies. These new ideals are accounted for
in the widespread popularity of Benjamin Franklin’s ‘’Autobiography.’’
[edit]Post-independence
In the post-war period, Thomas Jefferson's United States Declaration of
Independence, his influence on the American Constitution, his
autobiography, the Notes on the State of Virginia, and his many letters
solidify his spot as one of the most talented early American writers.The
Federalist essays by Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and John
Jay presented a significant historical discussion of American government
organization and republican values. Fisher Ames, James Otis,
and Patrick Henry are also valued for their political writings and orations.
Much of the early literature of the new nation struggled to find a uniquely
American voice in existing literary genre, and this tendency was also
reflected in novels. European forms and styles were often transferred to
new locales and critics often saw them as inferior.
[edit]First American Novels
It was in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century that the
nation’s first novels were published. These fictions were too lengthy to be
printed as manuscript or public reading. Publishers took a chance on
these works in hopes they would become steady sellers and need to be
reprinted. This was a good bet as literacy rates soared in this period
among both men and women. The first American novel is William Hill
Brown’s ‘’The Power of Sympathy’’ published in 1789. [5]
In the next decade important women writers also published novels.
Susannah Rowson is best known for her novel, ‘’Charlotte: A Tale of
Truth’’, published in London in 1791. [6] In 1794 the novel was reissued in
Philadelphia under the title, ‘’Charlotte Temple.’’ ‘’Charlotte Temple’’ is a
seduction tale, written in the third person, which warns against listening
127
to the voice of love and counsels resistance. In addition to this best
selling novel, she wrote nine novels, six theatrical works, two collections
of poetry, six textbooks, and countless songs. [7]
Reaching more than a million and a half readers over a century and a
half, ‘’Charlotte Temple’’ was the biggest seller of the nineteenth century
before Stowe’s ‘’Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’’ Although Rowson was extremely
popular in her time and is often acknowledged in accounts of the
development of the early American novel, ‘’Charlotte Temple’’ is often
criticized as a sentimental novel of seduction. Hannah Webster Foster’s
‘’The Coquette: Or, the History of Eliza Wharton’’ was published in 1797
and was also extremely popular. [8]
Told from Foster’s point of view and based on the real life of Eliza
Whitman, this novel is about a woman who is seduced and abandoned.
She gives birth to an illegitimate stillborn child at an inn and is then
charged with arrogance because she had refused marriage until she
could find someone to be her intellectual companion. ‘’The Coquette’’ is
praised for its demonstration of this era’s contradictory ideals of
womanhood. [9]Both ‘’The Coquette’’ and ‘’Charlotte Temple’’ are novels
that treat the right of women to live as equals as the new democratic
experiment. These novels are of the Sentimental genre, characterized by
overindulgence in emotion and an optimistic overemphasis on the
goodness of humanity. Sentimentalism is often thought to be a reaction
against the Calvinistic belief in the depravity of human nature. [10] While
many of these novels were popular, the economic infrastructure of the
time did not allow these writers to make a living through their writing
alone. [11]
The first author to be able to support himself through the income
generated by his publications alone was Washington Irving. He
completed his first major book in 1809 entitled ‘’A History of New-York
from the Beginning of the World to the End of the Dutch
Dynasty.’’ [12] Charles Brockden Brown is another early American
novelist, publishing ‘’Wieland’’ in 1798, ‘’Ormond’’ in 1799, and ‘’Edgar
Huntly’’ in 1799.
128
These novels are of the Gothic genre. Of the Picturesque genre, Hugh
Henry Brackenridge published ‘’Modern Chivalry’’ in 1792-1815; Tabitha
Gilman Tenney wrote ‘’Female Quixotism: Exhibited in the Romantic
Opinions and Extravagant Adventure of Dorcasina Sheldon’’ in 1801;
Carlotte Lennox wrote ‘’The Female Quixote’’ in 1752, and Royall Tyler
wrote ‘’The Algerine Captive’’ in 1797. [13]
Other notable others include William Gilmore Simms, who wrote ‘’Martin
Faber’’ in 1833, ‘’Guy Rivers’’ in 1834, and ‘’The Yemassee’’ in 1835.
Lydia Maria Child wrote ‘’Hobomok’’ in 1824 and ‘’The Rebels’’ in 1825.
John Neal wrote ‘’Logan, A Family History’’ in 1822, ‘’Rachel Dyer’’ in
1828, and ‘’The Down-Eaters’’ in 1833. Catherine Maria Sedgwick wrote
‘’A New England Tale’’ in 1822, ‘’Redwood’’ in 1824, ‘’Hope Leslie’’ in
1827, and ‘’The Linwoods” in 1835. James Kirke Paulding wrote ‘’The
Lion of the West’’ in 1830, ‘’The Dutchman’s Fireside’’ in 1831, and
‘’Westward Ho!’’ in 1832. Robert Montgomery Bird wrote ‘’Calavar’’ in
1834 and ‘’Nick of the Woods’’ in 1837. James Fenimore Cooper was
also a notable author best known for his novel, ‘’The Last of the
Mohicans” written in 1826. [14]
[edit]Unique American style
With the War of 1812 and an increasing desire to produce uniquely
American literature and culture, a number of key new literary figures
emerged, perhaps most prominently Washington Irving, William Cullen
Bryant, James Fenimore Cooper, and Edgar Allan Poe. Irving, often
considered the first writer to develop a unique American style[citation
needed]
(although this has been debated) wrote humorous works
inSalmagundi and the well-known satire A History of New York, by
Diedrich Knickerbocker (1809). Bryant wrote early romantic and natureinspired poetry, which evolved away from their European origins. In
1832, Poe began writing short stories – including "The Masque of the
Red Death," "The Pit and the Pendulum," "The Fall of the House of
Usher," and "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" – that explore previously
hidden levels of human psychology and push the boundaries of fiction
toward mystery and fantasy. Cooper's Leatherstocking Tales about Natty
129
Bumppo (which includes The Last of the Mohicans) were popular both in
the new country and abroad.
Humorous writers were also popular and included Seba
Smith and Benjamin P. Shillaber in New England and Davy
Crockett, Augustus Baldwin Longstreet, Johnson J. Hooper, Thomas
Bangs Thorpe, and George Washington Harris writing about the
American frontier.
The New England Brahmins were a group of writers connected
to Harvard University and its seat in Cambridge, Massachusetts. The
core included James Russell Lowell, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
and Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
In 1836, Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), an ex-minister, published a
startling nonfiction work called Nature, in which he claimed it was
possible to dispense with organized religion and reach a lofty spiritual
state by studying and responding to the natural world. His work
influenced not only the writers who gathered around him, forming a
movement known as Transcendentalism, but also the public, who heard
him lecture.
130
Emerson's most gifted fellow-thinker was perhaps Henry David
Thoreau (1817-1862), a resolute nonconformist. After living mostly by
himself for two years in a cabin by a wooded pond, Thoreau
wrote Walden, a book-length memoir that urges resistance to the
meddlesome dictates of organized society. His radical writings express a
deep-rooted tendency toward individualism in the American character.
Other writers influenced by Transcendentalism were Bronson
Alcott, Margaret Fuller, George Ripley, Orestes Brownson, and Jones
Very.[15]
The political conflict surrounding Abolitionism inspired the writings
of William Lloyd Garrison and his paper The Liberator, along with
poet John Greenleaf Whittier and Harriet Beecher Stowe in her worldfamous Uncle Tom's Cabin.
Nathaniel Hawthorne.
In 1837, the young Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864) collected some of
his stories as Twice-Told Tales, a volume rich in symbolism and occult
incidents. Hawthorne went on to write full-length "romances", quasiallegorical novels that explore such themes as guilt, pride, and emotional
repression in his native New England. His masterpiece, The Scarlet
Letter, is the stark drama of a woman cast out of her community for
committing adultery.
131
Hawthorne's fiction had a profound impact on his friend Herman
Melville (1819-1891), who first made a name for himself by turning
material from his seafaring days into exotic and sensational sea narrative
novels. Inspired by Hawthorne's focus on allegories and dark
psychology, Melville went on to write romances replete with philosophical
speculation. In Moby-Dick, an adventurous whaling voyage becomes the
vehicle for examining such themes as obsession, the nature of evil, and
human struggle against the elements. In another fine work, the short
novel Billy Budd, Melville dramatizes the conflicting claims of duty and
compassion on board a ship in time of war. His more profound books
sold poorly, and he had been long forgotten by the time of his death. He
was rediscovered in the early decades of the 20th century.
Anti-transcendental works from Melville, Hawthorne, and Poe all
comprise the Dark Romanticismsubgenre of literature popular during this
time.
[edit]Early American poetry
Walt Whitman, 1856.
America's two greatest 19th-century poets could hardly have been more
different in temperament and style. Walt Whitman (1819-1892) was a
working man, a traveler, a self-appointed nurse during the American Civil
132
War (1861-1865), and a poetic innovator. His magnum opus was Leaves
of Grass, in which he uses a free-flowing verse and lines of irregular
length to depict the all-inclusiveness of American democracy. Taking that
motif one step further, the poet equates the vast range of American
experience with himself without being egotistical. For example, in Song
of Myself, the long, central poem in Leaves of Grass, Whitman writes:
"These are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are
not original with me ..."
Whitman was also a poet of the body – "the body electric," as he called
it. In Studies in Classic American Literature, the English novelist D. H.
Lawrence wrote that Whitman "was the first to smash the old moral
conception that the soul of man is something 'superior' and 'above' the
flesh."
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), on the other hand, lived the sheltered life
of a genteel unmarried woman in small-town Amherst, Massachusetts.
Within its formal structure, her poetry is ingenious, witty, exquisitely
wrought, and psychologically penetrating. Her work was unconventional
for its day, and little of it was published during her lifetime.
Many of her poems dwell on death, often with a mischievous twist. One,
"Because I could not stop for Death," begins, "He kindly stopped for me."
The opening of another Dickinson poem toys with her position as a
woman in a male-dominated society and an unrecognized poet: "I'm
nobody! Who are you? / Are you nobody too?"
American poetry arguably reached its peak in the early to mid-twentieth
century, with such noted writers as Wallace Stevens and
his Harmonium (1923) and The Auroras of Autumn (1950), T. S.
Eliot and hisThe Waste Land (1922), Robert Frost and his North of
Boston (1914) and New Hampshire (1923), Hart Crane and his White
Buildings (1926) and the epic cycle, The Bridge (1930), Ezra
Pound, William Carlos Williams and his epic poem about his New Jersey
hometown, Paterson, Marianne Moore, E. E. Cummings, Edna St.
Vincent Millay and Langston Hughes, in addition to many others.
[edit]Realism, Twain and James
133
Mark Twain, 1907.
Mark Twain (the pen name of Samuel Langhorne Clemens, 1835-1910)
was the first major American writer to be born away from the East Coast
– in the border state of Missouri. His regional masterpieces were the
memoir Life on the Mississippiand the novels Adventures of Tom
Sawyer and Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Twain's style – influenced
by journalism, wedded to the vernacular, direct and unadorned but also
highly evocative and irreverently humorous – changed the way
Americans write their language. His characters speak like real people
and sound distinctively American, using local dialects, newly invented
words, and regional accents. Other writers interested in regional
differences and dialect were George W. Cable, Thomas Nelson
Page, Joel Chandler Harris, Mary Noailles Murfree (Charles Egbert
Craddock), Sarah Orne Jewett, Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, Henry Cuyler
Bunner, and William Sydney Porter (O. Henry).
William Dean Howells also represented the realist tradition through his
novels, including The Rise of Silas Lapham and his work as editor of
the Atlantic Monthly.
Henry James (1843-1916) confronted the Old World-New World dilemma
by writing directly about it. Although born in New York City, he spent
most of his adult years in England. Many of his novels center on
Americans who live in or travel to Europe. With its intricate, highly
134
qualified sentences and dissection of emotional and psychological
nuance, James's fiction can be daunting. Among his more accessible
works are the novellas Daisy Miller, about an enchanting American girl in
Europe, and The Turn of the Screw, an enigmatic ghost story.
Turn of the century
Ernest Hemingway in World War I uniform.
At the beginning of the 20th century, American novelists were expanding
fiction's social spectrum to encompass both high and low life and
sometimes connected to the naturalist school of realism. In her stories
and novels, Edith Wharton (1862-1937) scrutinized the upperclass, Eastern-seaboard society in which she had grown up. One of her
finest books, The Age of Innocence, centers on a man who chooses to
marry a conventional, socially acceptable woman rather than a
fascinating outsider. At about the same time, Stephen Crane (18711900), best known for his Civil War novel The Red Badge of Courage,
depicted the life of New York City prostitutes in Maggie: A Girl of the
Streets. And in Sister Carrie, Theodore Dreiser (1871-1945) portrayed a
country girl who moves to Chicago and becomes a kept woman. Hamlin
Garland and Frank Norris wrote about the problems of American farmers
and other social issues from a naturalist perspective.
More directly political writings discussed social issues and power of
corporations. Some likeEdward Bellamy in Looking Backward outlined
other possible political and social frameworks.Upton Sinclair, most
famous for his meat-packing novel The Jungle, advocated socialism.
Other political writers of the period included Edwin Markham, William
135
Vaughn Moody. Journalistic critics, including Ida M. Tarbell and Lincoln
Steffens were labeled The Muckrakers. Henry Brooks Adams' literate
autobiography, The Education of Henry Adams also depicted a stinging
description of the education system and modern life.
Experimentation in style and form soon joined the new freedom in
subject matter. In 1909,Gertrude Stein (1874-1946), by then an
expatriate in Paris, published Three Lives, an innovative work of fiction
influenced by her familiarity with cubism, jazz, and other movements in
contemporary art and music. Stein labeled a group of American literary
notables who lived in Paris in the 1920s and 1930s as the "Lost
Generation."
The poet Ezra Pound (1885-1972) was born in Idaho but spent much of
his adult life in Europe. His work is complex, sometimes obscure, with
multiple references to other art forms and to a vast range of literature,
both Western and Eastern. He influenced many other poets, notably T.
S. Eliot (1888-1965), another expatriate. Eliot wrote spare, cerebral
poetry, carried by a dense structure of symbols. In The Waste Land, he
embodied a jaundiced vision of post-World War I society in fragmented,
haunted images. Like Pound's, Eliot's poetry could be highly allusive,
and some editions of The Waste Land come with footnotes supplied by
the poet. In 1948, Eliot won the Nobel Prize in Literature.
American writers also expressed the disillusionment following upon the
war. The stories and novels of F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940) capture
the restless, pleasure-hungry, defiant mood of the 1920s. Fitzgerald's
characteristic theme, expressed poignantly in The Great Gatsby, is the
tendency of youth's golden dreams to dissolve in failure and
disappointment. Fitzgerald also elucidates the collapse of some key
American Ideals, set out in the Declaration of Independence, such as
liberty, social unity, good governance and peace, features which were
severely threatened by the pressures of modern early 20th century
society. Sinclair Lewis and Sherwood Anderson also wrote novels with
critical depictions of American life. John Dos Passos wrote about the war
and also the U.S.A. trilogy which extended into the Depression.
136
F. Scott Fitzgerald, photographed by Carl van Vechten, 1937.
Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961) saw violence and death first-hand as an
ambulance driver in World War I, and the carnage persuaded him that
abstract language was mostly empty and misleading. He cut out
unnecessary words from his writing, simplified the sentence structure,
and concentrated on concrete objects and actions. He adhered to a
moral code that emphasized grace under pressure, and his protagonists
were strong, silent men who often dealt awkwardly with women. The Sun
Also Rises and A Farewell to Arms are generally considered his best
novels; in 1953, he won the Nobel Prize in Literature.
Five years before Hemingway, another American novelist had won the
Nobel Prize: William Faulkner (1897-1962). Faulkner managed to
encompass an enormous range of humanity inYoknapatawpha County,
a Mississippian region of his own invention. He recorded his characters'
seemingly unedited ramblings in order to represent their inner states, a
technique called "stream of consciousness." (In fact, these passages are
carefully crafted, and their seemingly chaotic structure conceals multiple
layers of meaning.) He also jumbled time sequences to show how the
past – especially the slave-holding era of the Deep South – endures in
the present. Among his great works are Absalom, Absalom!, As I Lay
Dying, The Sound and the Fury, and Light in August.
137
[edit]Depression-era literature
Depression era literature was blunt and direct in its social criticism. John
Steinbeck (1902-1968) was born in Salinas, California, where he set
many of his stories. His style was simple and evocative, winning him the
favor of the readers but not of the critics. Steinbeck often wrote about
poor, working-class people and their struggle to lead a decent and
honest life. The Grapes of Wrath, considered his masterpiece, is a
strong, socially-oriented novel that tells the story of the Joads, a poor
family from Oklahoma and their journey to California in search of a better
life. Other popular novels include Tortilla Flat, Of Mice and Men, Cannery
Row, and East of Eden. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in
1962. Steinbeck's contemporary, Nathanael West's two most famous
short novels,Miss Lonelyhearts, which plumbs the life of its
eponymous antihero, a reluctant (and, to comic effect, male) advice
columnist, and the effects the tragic letters exert on it, and The Day of
the Locust, which introduces a cast of Hollywood stereotypes and
explores the ironies of the movies, have come to be avowed classics of
American literature.
Henry Miller assumed a unique place in American Literature in the 1930s
when his semi-autobiographical novels, written and published in Paris,
were banned from the US. Although his major works, which
include Tropic of Cancer and Black Spring, would not be cleared for
American sale and publication until 1962, their themes and stylistic
innovations had already exerted a major influence on succeeding
generations of American writers, as seen in the sexual liberties of the
writings of such figures as John Updike, Philip Roth and William Styron.
[edit]Post-World War II
138
[edit]The postwar novel
Norman Mailer, photographed by Carl Van Vechten, 1948
The period in time from the end of World War II up until, roughly, the late
1960s and early 1970s saw the publication of some of the most popular
works in American history such as To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee.
The last few of the more realistic modernists along with the wildly
Romantic beatniks largely dominated the period, while the direct
respondents to America's involvement in World War II contributed in their
notable influence.
Though born in Canada, Chicago-raised Saul Bellow would become one
of the most influential novelists in America in the decades directly
following World War II. In works like The Adventures of Augie
March and Herzog, Bellow painted vivid portraits of the American city
and the distinctive characters that peopled it. Bellow went on to win the
Nobel Prize for Literature in 1976.
From J.D. Salinger's Nine Stories and The Catcher in the Rye to Sylvia
Plath's The Bell Jar, the perceived madness of the state of affairs in
America was brought to the forefront of the nation's literary expression.
Immigrant authors such as Vladimir Nabokov, with Lolita, forged on with
the theme, and, at almost the same time, the beatniks took a concerted
step away from their Lost Generation predecessors, developing a style
139
and tone of their own by drawing on Eastern theology and experimenting
with recreational drugs.
The poetry and fiction of the "Beat Generation," largely born of a circle of
intellects formed in New York City around Columbia University and
established more officially some time later in San Francisco, came of
age. The term Beat referred, all at the same time, to the countercultural
rhythm of the Jazz scene, to a sense of rebellion regarding the
conservative stress of post-war society, and to an interest in new forms
of spiritual experience through drugs, alcohol, philosophy, and religion,
and specifically through Zen Buddhism. Allen Ginsberg set the tone of
the movement in his poem Howl, a Whitmanesque work that began: "I
saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness..." Among
the most representative achievements of the Beats in the novel are Jack
Kerouac's On the Road(1957), the chronicle of a soul-searching travel
through the continent, and William S. Burroughs's Naked Lunch (1959), a
more experimental work structured as a series of vignettes relating,
among other things, the narrator's travels and experiments with hard
drugs.
Regarding the war novel specifically, there was a literary explosion in
America during the post-World War II era. Some of the best known of the
works produced included Norman Mailer's The Naked and the
Dead (1948), Joseph Heller's Catch-22 (1961) and Kurt Vonnegut
Jr.'sSlaughterhouse-Five (1969). MacBird, written by Barbara Garson,
was another well-received work exposing the absurdity of war. The
Moviegoer (1962), by Southern author Walker Percy, winner of the
National Book Award, was his attempt at exploring "the dislocation of
man in the modern age."[16]
140
John Updike
In contrast, John Updike approached American life from a more reflective
but no less subversive perspective. His 1960 novel Rabbit, Run, the first
of four chronicling the rising and falling fortunes of Harry "Rabbit"
Angstrom over the course of four decades against the backdrop of the
major events of the second half of the twentieth century, broke new
ground on its release in its characterization and detail of the American
middle class and frank discussion of taboo topics such as adultery.
Notable among Updike's characteristic innovations was his use of
present-tense narration, his rich, stylized language, and his attention to
sensual detail. His work is also deeply imbued with Christian themes.
The two final installments of the Rabbit series, Rabbit is Rich(1981)
and Rabbit at Rest (1990), were both awarded the Pulitzer Prize for
Fiction. Other notable works include the Henry Bech novels (197098), The Witches of Eastwick (1984), Roger's Version(1986) and In the
Beauty of the Lilies (1996), which literary critic Michiko Kakutani called
"arguably his finest."[17]
Frequently linked with Updike is the novelist Philip Roth. Roth vigorously
explores Jewish identityin American society, especially in the postwar
era and the early 21st century. Frequently set inNewark, New Jersey,
Roth's work is known to be highly autobiographical, and many of Roth's
main characters, most famously the Jewish novelist Nathan Zuckerman,
are thought to be alter egos of Roth. With these techniques, and armed
141
with his articulate and fast-paced style, Roth explores the distinction
between reality and fiction in literature while provocatively examining
American culture. His most famous work includes the Zuckerman novels,
the controversial Portnoy's Complaint (1969), and Goodbye,
Columbus (1959). Among the most decorated American writers of his
generation, he has won every major American literary award, including
the Pulitzer Prize for his major novel American Pastoral(1997).
In the realm of African-American literature, Ralph Ellison's 1953
novel Invisible Man was instantly recognized as among the most
powerful and important works of the immediate post-war years. The story
of a black man in the urban north, the novel laid bare the often repressed
racial tension still prevailing in the nation while also succeeding as an
existential character study. Richard Wright was catapulted to fame by the
publication in subsequent years of his now widely studied short story,
"The Man Who Was Almost a Man" (1939), and his controversial second
novel, Native Son (1940), and his legacy was cemented by the 1945
publication of Black Boy, a work in which Wright drew on his childhood
and mostly autodidactic education in the segregated South, fictionalizing
and exaggerating some elements as he saw fit. Because of its polemical
themes and Wright's involvement with the Communist Party, the novel's
final part, "American Hunger," was not published until 1977.
[edit]Short fiction and poetry
In the postwar period, the art of the short story again flourished. Among
its most respected practitioners was Flannery O'Connor (b. March 25,
1925 in Georgia – d. August 3, 1964 in Georgia) renewed the fascination
of such giants as Faulkner and Twain with the American south,
developing a distinctive Southern gothic esthetic wherein characters
acted at one level as people and at another as timeless symbols. A
devout Catholic, O'Connor often imbued her stories, among them the
widely studied "A Good Man is Hard to Find" and "Everything That Rises
Must Converge", and two novels, Wise Blood (1952); The Violent Bear It
Away (1960), with deeply religious themes, focusing particularly on the
search for truth and religious skepticism against the backdrop of the
nuclear age. Other important practitioners of the form include Raymond
142
Carver, Katherine Anne Porter, Eudora Welty, John Cheever and the
more experimental Donald Barthelme.
Among the most respected of the postwar American poets are John
Ashbery, the key figure of the surrealistic New York School of poetry,
and his celebrated Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror (Pulitzer Prize for
Poetry, 1976), Elizabeth Bishop and her North & South (Pulitzer Prize for
Poetry, 1956), Richard Wilbur and his Things of This World, winner of
both the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award for Poetry in
1957, A.R. Ammons, whose Collected Poems 1951-1971 won a National
Book Award in 1973 and whose long poem Garbage earned him another
in 1993, Theodore Roethke and his The Waking (Pulitzer Prize for
Poetry, 1954), James Merrill and his epic poem of communication with
the dead, The Changing Light at Sandover (Pulitzer Prize for Poetry,
1977), Louise Glück for her The Wild Iris (Pulitzer Prize for Poetry,
1993), W.S. Merwin for his The Carrier of Ladders (Pulitzer Prize for
Poetry, 1971) and The Shadow of Sirius (Pulitzer Prize for Poetry,
2009),Mark Strand for Blizzard of One (Pulitzer Prize for Poetry,
1999), John Berryman and his The Dream Songs, Robert Hass for
his Time and Materials, which won both the Pulitzer Prize and National
Book Award for Poetry in 2008 and 2007 respectively, and Rita Dove for
herThomas and Beulah (Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, 1987).
In addition, in this same period the confessional, whose origin is often
traced to the publication in 1959 of Robert Lowell's Life Studies[18],
andbeat schools of poetry enjoyed popular and academic success,
producing such widely anthologized voices as Allen Ginsberg, Gary
Snyder,Anne Sexton, and Sylvia Plath, among many others.
[edit]1970 - 2000
Though its exact parameters remain debatable, from the early 1970s to
the present day the most salient literary movement has
beenpostmodernism. Thomas Pynchon, a seminal practitioner of the
postmodern style, drawing on modernist fixtures such as temporal
distortion, unreliable narrators and internal monologue and coupling
them with distinctly postmodern techniques such
as metafiction, absurd and hyperbolic humor, deliberate use
143
of anachronisms and archaisms, a strong focus on postcolonial themes,
and a subversive commingling of high and low culture, in 1973 published
one of the seminal works of American postmodernism, Gravity's
Rainbow, which won the National Book Award and was unanimously
nominated for the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction that year. His other important
works include V. (1960), his debut, The Crying of Lot 49 (1966)
and Mason & Dixon (1997).
Toni Morrison at the Miami Book Fair International of 1986
Toni Morrison, the most recent American recipient of the Nobel Prize for
Literature, writing in the realist tradition in a distinctive poetic and deeply
evocative prose style, published her controversial debut novel, The
Bluest Eye, to widespread critical acclaim in 1970. Coming on the heels
of the signing of the Civil Rights Act of 1965, the novel includes a
description of incestuous rape and explores the conventions of beauty
established by a historically racist society, painting a portrait of a selfimmolating black family in search of beauty in whiteness. Among her
best-known novels are Sula(1974), Song of Solomon (1977),
and Beloved (1987). The latter was chosen in a 2006 survey conducted
by the New York Times as the most important work of fiction of the last
25 years.[19]
Writing in a lyrical, flowing style that eschews excessive use of the
comma and semicolon and recallsWilliam Faulkner and Ernest
Hemingway in equal measure, rich
with metaphor and polysyndeton,Cormac McCarthy is an author
whose oeuvre seizes on the literary traditions of several regions in the
United States and spans multiple genres. He writes in the Southern
Gothic aesthetic in his distinctly Faulknerian 1965 debut, The Orchard
Keeper; in the literary vein of Melville, blending dark humor with lorn
144
tragedy and a keen attention to American realism replete with colloquial
speech, social commentary and regional imagery in Suttree (1979); in
the western tradition in Blood Meridian (1985), which critic Harold
Bloom styled "the greatest single book since Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying,"
calling the character of Judge Holden "short of Moby Dick, the most
monstrous apparition in all of American literature"[20]; in a much more
pastoral tone in his celebrated Border Trilogy (1992-98), including All the
Pretty Horses (1992), winner of the National Book Award; and in
the post-apocalyptic genre in the Pulitzer Prize-winning The
Road (2007). His novels are noted for achieving both commercial and
literary success, several of his works having been adapted to film.
Don DeLillo, who rose to literary prominence with the publication of his
1985 novel, White Noise, a work broaching the subjects of death and
consumerism and doubling as a piece of social criticism, began his
writing career in 1971 with Americana. He is listed by Harold Bloom as
being among the preeminent contemporary American writers, in the
company of such giants as Philip Roth, Cormac McCarthy, and Thomas
Pynchon.[20] His 1997 novel Underworld, a gargantuan work chronicling
American life through and immediately after the Cold War and examining
with equal depth subjects as various as baseball and nuclear weapons,
is generally agreed upon to be his masterpiece and was the runner-up in
a survey asking writers to identify the most important work of fiction of
the last 25 years.[19] Among his other important novels
are Libra (1988), Mao II (1991) and Falling Man (2007).
Among the younger generation of contemporary American writers, Paul
Auster, like Thomas Pynchon an acolyte of postmodernism, stands out.
Known for his experimentation with fragmented narratives, unreliable
narrators, metafiction, intertextuality and multiple points of view, Auster
marries absurdism with elements of crime fiction. A former translator
of French literature, he brings to American letters a distinct pool of
influences, among them those of Albert Camus, Jacques
Derrida and Jean-Paul Sartre on the one hand and pulp fiction
writer Dashiell Hammett on the other. Among his most critically
successful works are The New York Trilogy (1987), Moon
Palace (1989), Leviathan (1992) and Oracle Night (2004). Richard Ford,
145
writing in a much more realist style reminiscent of John Updike and
Walker Percy, rose to literary prominence in 1986 with the publication of
the acclaimed The Sportswriter, the first of a trio of novels to feature his
memorable everymancharacter Frank Bascombe. The
second, Independence Day (1995), would win Ford the Pulitzer Prize for
Fiction, and the third, The Lay of the Land, was published to critical
acclaim in 2006.
[edit]Millennial and ethnic minority literature
At the turn of the twenty-first century, several new writers surfaced,
drawing on immigrant and ethnic minority experiences in an ever more
culturally diverse American landscape. Indian-American author Jhumpa
Lahiri won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for her debut collection of short
stories, Interpreter of Maladies (1999), and went on to write a wellreceived novel, The Namesake (2003), which was shortly adapted
tofilm in 2007. In her second collection of stories, Unaccustomed Earth,
released to widespread commercial and critical success, Lahiri shifts
focus and treats the experiences of the second and third generation.
After being relegated to cookbooks and autobiographies for most of the
century, Asian American literature achieved widespread notice
through Maxine Hong Kingston's fictional memoir, The Woman
Warrior (1976), and her novels China Men (1980) and Tripmaster
Monkey: His Fake Book. Chinese-American author Ha Jin in 1999 won
the National Book Award for his second novel, Waiting, about a Chinese
soldier in the Revolutionary Army who has to wait 18 years to divorce his
wife for another woman, all the while having to worry about persecution
for his protracted affair, and twice won the PEN/Faulkner Award, in 2000
for Waiting and in 2005 for War Trash. Other notable AsianAmerican (but not immigrant) novelists include Amy Tan, best known for
her novel, The Joy Luck Club (1989), tracing the lives of four immigrant
families brought together by the game of Mahjong, and Korean American
novelist Chang-Rae Lee, who has published Native Speaker, A Gesture
Life,and Aloft. Such poets as Marilyn Chin and Li-Young Lee, Kimiko
Hahn and Janice Mirikitani have also achieved prominence. Equally
important has been the effort to recover earlier Asian American authors,
146
started by Frank Chin and his colleagues; this effort has brought Sui Sin
Far, Toshio Mori, Carlos Bulosan, John Okada, Hisaye Yamamoto and
others to prominence.
Latina/o literature also became important during this period, starting with
acclaimed novels by Tomás Rivera, ...y no se lo tragó la tierra,
andRudolfo Anaya, Bless Me, Ultima. Latina writing became important
thanks to authors such as Sandra Cisneros, an icon of an
emergingChicano literature whose 1984 bildungsroman The House on
Mango Street is taught in schools across the United States, Denise
Chavez'sThe Last of the Menu Girls and Gloria
Anzaldúa's Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. DominicanAmerican author Junot Díaz, received the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for his
2007 novel The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, which tells the story
of an overweight Dominican boy growing up as a social
outcast in Paterson, New Jersey. Another Domincan author, Julia
Alvarez, is well known for How the García Girls Lost Their
Accents and In the Time of Butterflies. Cuban American author Oscar
Hijuelos won a Pulitzer for The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love,
and Cristina García received acclaim for Dreaming in Cuban. Well known
Puerto Rican authors from this period includeNicholasa Mohr, José
Rivera and Judith Ortiz Cofer, and the Nuyorican Poets Café.
Spurred by the success of N. Scott Momaday's Pulitzer Prize
winning House Made of Dawn, Native American literature showed
explosive growth during this period, known as the Native American
Renaissance, through such novelists as Leslie Marmon
Silko (Ceremony, Almanac of the Dead, Storyteller), Gerald
Vizenor (Bearheart: The Heirship Chronicles, Griever: An American
Monkey King in China, The Trickster of Liberty: Tribal Heirs to a Wild
Baronage and numerous essays on Native American literature), Louise
Erdrich (Love Medicine, Tracks, The Bingo Palace and several other
novels that use a recurring set of characters and locations in the manner
of William Faulkner), James Welch(Winter in the Blood, Fools
Crow), Sherman Alexie (The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in
Heaven, Reservation Blues, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time
Indian), and poets Simon Ortiz and Joy Harjo.
147
More recently, Arab American literature, dormant since the New York
Pen League of the 1920s, has become more prominent through the work
of Diana Abu-Jaber, whose novels include Arabian
Jazz and Crescent and the memoir The Language of Baklava. Other
important authors include Etel Adnan and poet Naomi Shihab Nye.
Other notable writers of the turn of the century include David Foster
Wallace, whose 1996 novel Infinite Jest, a futuristic portrait of America
and a withering critique of the media-saturated nature of American life,
has been consistently ranked among the most important works of the
twentieth century[21]; Michael Chabon, whose Pulitzer Prize-winning The
Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay (2000) tells the story of two
friends, Joe Kavalier and Sam Clay, as they rise through the ranks of
the comics industry in its heyday; Jonathan Franzen, whose 2001
novelThe Corrections, a tragicomedy about the disintegrating Lambert
family, won the National Book Award; Marilynne Robinson, whose 2004
novel Gilead, a family saga centered around religion and set during
the Civil War, was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction; and Denis
Johnson, whose 2007 novel Tree of Smoke about falsified intelligence
during Vietnam both won the National Book Award and was a finalist for
the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction; in reviewing the novel, literary critic Michiko
Kakutani wrote, "[It] is bound to become one of the classic works of
literature produced by [the Vietnam War].
SHORT STORY WORKOUT
Rip Van Winkle by Washington Irving
A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER
By Woden, God of Saxons,
From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday,
Truth is a thing that ever I will keep
Unto thylke day in which I creep into
My sepulchre.
~ CARTWRIGHT
148
The following Tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich
Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in
the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the descendants
from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie
so much among books as among men; for the former are lamentably
scanty on his favorite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and still
more their wives, rich in that legendary lore, so invaluable to true history.
Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly
shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he
looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it
with the zeal of a book-worm.
The result of all these researches was a history of the province during
the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years since.
There have been various opinions as to the literary character of his work,
and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its chief merit
is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little questioned on its
first appearance, but has since been completely established; and it is
now admitted into all historical collections, as a book of unquestionable
authority.
The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work, and now
that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory to say
that his time might have been better employed in weightier labors. He,
however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way; and though it did now
and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve
the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and
affection; yet his errors and follies are remembered "more in sorrow than
in anger," and it begins to be suspected, that he never intended to injure
or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is
still held dear by many folks, whose good opinion is well worth having;
particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint
his likeness on their new-year cakes; and have thus given him a chance
for immortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal,
or a Queen Anne's Farthing.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
149
Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the
Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great
Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling
up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every
change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the
day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these
mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as
perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are
clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear
evening sky, but, sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is
cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits,
which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a
crown of glory.
At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the
light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among
the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh
green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity,
having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early 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 of the
houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built of small
yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable
fronts, surmounted with weather-cocks.
In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the
precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived
many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain,
a simple good-natured fellow of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a
descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous
days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort
Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his
ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple good-natured man; he
was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient hen-pecked husband.
Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit
which gained him such universal popularity; for those men are most apt
to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of
shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and
malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation; and a curtain
lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of
150
patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some
respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; and if so, Rip Van Winkle
was thrice blessed.
Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the
village, who, as usual, with the amiable sex, took his part in all family
squabbles; and never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in
their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The
children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he
approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught
them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts,
witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he
was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on
his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a
dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood.
The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion to all
kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity or
perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and
heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even
though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a
fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods
and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild
pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even in the roughest
toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn,
or building stone-fences; the women of the village, too, used to employ
him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less
obliging husbands would not do for them. In a word Rip was ready to
attend to anybody's business but his own; but as to doing family duty,
and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible.
In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was the most
pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country; every thing about it
went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were
continually falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray, or get among
the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than
anywhere else; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had
some out-door work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate had
dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until there was little
151
more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the
worst conditioned farm in the neighborhood.
His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody.
His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit
the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen
trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his father's
cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand,
as a fine lady does her train in bad weather.
Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish,
well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or
brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would
rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he
would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept
continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and
the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her
tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to
produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of
replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown
into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his
eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley
from his wife; so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the
outside of the house - the only side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband.
Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as
companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as
the cause of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points of
spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as
ever scoured the woods - but what courage can withstand the everduring and all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf
entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled
between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a
sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a
broom-stick or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation.
Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony
rolled on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is
152
the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long while
he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a
kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle
personages of the village; which held its sessions on a bench before a
small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the
Third. Here they used to sit in the shade through a long lazy summer's
day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories
about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's money to
have heard the profound discussions that sometimes took place, when
by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing
traveller. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out
by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper learned little man,
who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary;
and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months
after they had taken place.
The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas
Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of
which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to
avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the
neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a
sundial. It is true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe
incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his
adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his
opinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he
was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short,
frequent and angry puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke
slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds; and
sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor
curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect
approbation.
From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his
termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the
assemblage and call the members all to naught; nor was that august
personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of
this terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her
husband in habits of idleness.
153
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only alternative,
to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his wife, was to take
gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes
seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with
Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution.
"Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but
never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand
by thee!" Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfuly in his master's face, and if
dogs can feel pity I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all
his heart.
In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had
unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill
mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the
still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun.
Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green
knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a
precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the
lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the
lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic
course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark,
here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in
the blue highlands.
On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild,
lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impending
cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For
some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually
advancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over
the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the
village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering
the terrors of Dame Van Winkle.
As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance,
hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" He looked round, but could
see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He
thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend,
when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air: "Rip Van
Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" - at the same time Wolf bristled up his back,
and giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully
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down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him;
he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure
slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something
he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this
lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some one of the
neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it.
On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of the
stranger's appearance. He was a short square-built old fellow, with thick
bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch
fashion - a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist - several pair of
breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons
down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a
stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach
and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this
new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity; and mutually
relieving one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the
dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and
then heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue
out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which
their rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it
to be the muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers which
often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the
ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded by
perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending trees shot
their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the
bright evening cloud. During the whole time Rip and his companion had
labored on in silence; for though the former marvelled greatly what could
be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there
was something strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that
inspired awe and checked familiarity.
On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented
themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking
personages playing at nine-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 beard, broad face, and small piggish eyes: the face of
another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a
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white sugar-loaf hat set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had
beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be
the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten
countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, highcrowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with
roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old
Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson,
and which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the
settlement.
What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folks were
evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces,
the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party
of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of
the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled,
echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.
As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted
from their play, and stared at him with such fixed statue-like gaze, and
such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned
within him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied
the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait
upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the
liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game.
By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured,
when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found
had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty
soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked
another; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at length
his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head
gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.
On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen
the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes - it was a bright sunny
morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and
the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze.
"Surely," thought Rip, "I have not slept here all night." He recalled the
occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor the mountain ravine - the wild retreat among the rocks - the woe-begone
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party at ninepins - the flagon - "Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!"
thought Rip - "what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle!"
He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean well-oiled fowlingpiece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust,
the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the
grave roysterers of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and having
dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had
disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or
partridge. He whistled after him and shouted his name, but all in vain; the
echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen.
He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and if he
met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to
walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity.
"These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip; "and if this
frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed
time with Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into the
glen: he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended
the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was
now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with
babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides,
working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witchhazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines
that twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of
network in his path.
At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to
the amphitheatre; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks
presented a high impenetrable wall over which the torrent came tumbling
in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin, black from
the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought
to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only
answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about
a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their
elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities.
What was to be done? the morning was passing away, and Rip felt
famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and
gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve among the
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mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a
heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward.
As he approached the village he met a number of people, but none
whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought
himself acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too,
was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They
all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast
their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant
recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same,
when to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long!
He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children
ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The
dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old acquaintance,
barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered; it was larger
and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had never
seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had
disappeared. Strange names were over the doors - strange faces at the
windows - every thing was strange. His mind now misgave him; he
began to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not
bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the
day before. There stood the Kaatskill mountains - there ran the silver
Hudson at a distance - there was every hill and dale precisely as it had
always been - Rip was sorely perplexed - "That flagon last night," thought
he, "has addled my poor head sadly!"
It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, which
he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill
voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay - the roof
fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A halfstarved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by
name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was
an unkind cut indeed - "My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten
me!"
He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had
always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently
abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears - he
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called loudly for his wife and children - the lonely chambers rang for a
moment with his voice, and then all again was silence.
He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn - but
it too was gone. A large rickety wooden building stood in its place, with
great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended with old hats
and petticoats, and over the door was painted, "the Union Hotel, by
Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the
quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with
something on the top that looked like a red night-cap, and from it was
fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes
- all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign,
however, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so
many a peaceful pipe; but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The
red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the
hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat,
and underneath was painted in large characters, GENERAL
WASHINGTON.
There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip
recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There
was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the
accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the
sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long
pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van
Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient
newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his
pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of
citizens - elections - members of congress - liberty - Bunker's Hill heroes of seventy-six - and other words, which were a perfect
Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.
The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty fowlingpiece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his
heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They
crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity.
The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired "on
which side he voted?" Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but
busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in
his ear, "Whether he was Federal or Democrat?" Rip was equally at a
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loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old
gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd,
putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and
planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other
resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were,
into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone, "what brought him to the
election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether
he meant to breed a riot in the village?" - "Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip,
somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a
loyal subject of the king, God bless him!"
Here a general shout burst from the by-standers - "A tory! a tory! a spy! a
refugee! hustle him! away with him!" It was with great difficulty that the
self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having
assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown
culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking? The poor
man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there
in search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern.
"Well - who are they? - name them."
Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas
Vedder?"
There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin
piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these eighteen
years! There was a wooden tombstone in the church-yard that used to
tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too."
"Where's Brom Dutcher?"
"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he
was killed at the storming of Stony Point - others say he was drowned in
a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know - he never came back
again."
"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?"
"He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and is now in
congress."
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Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and
friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer
puzzled him too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of
matters which he could not understand: war - congress - Stony Point; he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair,
"Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?"
"Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three, "Oh, to be sure! that's Rip
Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree."
Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up
the mountain: apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor
fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and
whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his
bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and
what was his name?
"God knows," exclaimed he, at his 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 every thing's changed, and I'm changed,
and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am!"
The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly,
and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper also,
about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief,
at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat
retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh comely
woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded
man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks,
began to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool; the old man
won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of
her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. "What is your
name, my good woman?" asked he.
"Judith Gardenier."
"And your father's name?"
"Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twenty years since
he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of
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since - his dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself, or
was 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?"
"Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a blood-vessel in
a fit of passion at a New-England peddler."
There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. 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?"
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 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 selfimportant 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
throughout the assemblage.
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
province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, 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 beings. That it was affirmed that the
great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept
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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 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 nine-pins 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.
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 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 an hereditary disposition to attend to anything else
but his business.
Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of his
former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time;
and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he
soon grew into great favor.
Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when
a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place once more on the
bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of
the village, and a chronicle of the old times "before the war." It was some
time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be
made to comprehend the strange events that had taken place during his
torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war - that the country
had thrown off the yoke of old England - and that, instead of being a
subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the
United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of states and
empires made but little impression on him; but there was one species of
despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was - petticoat
government. Happily that was at an end; he had got his neck out of the
yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased,
without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name
was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders,
and cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an expression of
resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance.
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He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's
hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points every time he
told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently awaked. It
at last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man,
woman, or child in the neighborhood, but knew it by heart. Some always
pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of
his head, and that this was one point on which he always remained
flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full
credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunderstorm of a summer
afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his
crew are at their game of nine-pins; and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their
hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's
flagon.
NOTE - The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to
Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor
Frederick der Rothbart, and the Kypphauser mountain: the subjoined
note, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an
absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity:
"The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but
nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch
settlements to have been very subject to marvellous events and
appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in
the villages along the Hudson; all of which were too well authenticated to
admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself who,
when last I saw him, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly
rational and consistent on every other point, that I think no conscientious
person could refuse to take this into the bargain; nay, I have seen a
certificate on the subject taken before a country justice and signed with a
cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond
the possibility of doubt. D. K."
THE END.
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The Black Cat by Edgar Allen Poe
FOR the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I
neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a
case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not
- and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I would
unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world,
plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household
events. In their consequences, these events have terrified - have tortured
- have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound them. To me, they
have presented little but Horror - to many they will seem less terrible than
barroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect may be found which will
reduce my phantasm to the common-place - some intellect more calm,
more logical, and far less excitable than my own, which will perceive, in
the circumstances I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary
succession of very natural causes and effects.
From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my
disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make
me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of animals, and was
indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent
most of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and
caressing them. This peculiarity of character grew with my growth, and in
my manhood, I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure.
To those who have cherished an affection for a faithful and sagacious
dog, I need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the
intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There is something in the
unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the
heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship
and gossamer fidelity of mere Man .
I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not
uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for domestic pets, she
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lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most agreeable kind. We
had birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey, and a cat .
This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black,
and sagacious to an astonishing degree. In speaking of his intelligence,
my wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured with superstition, made
frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion, which regarded all black
cats as witches in disguise. Not that she was ever serious upon this point
- and I mention the matter at all for no better reason than that it happens,
just now, to be remembered.
Pluto - this was the cat's name - was my favorite pet and playmate. I
alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the house. It
was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following me
through the streets.
Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during which my
general temperament and character - through the instrumentality of the
Fiend Intemperance - had (I blush to confess it) experienced a radical
alteration for the worse. I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable,
more regardless of the feelings of others. I suffered myself to use
intemperate language to my wife. At length, I even offered her personal
violence. My pets, of course, were made to feel the change in my
disposition. I not only neglected, but ill-used them. For Pluto, however, I
still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from maltreating him, as I
made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey, or even the dog,
when by accident, or through affection, they came in my way. But my
disease grew upon me - for what disease is like Alcohol! - and at length
even Pluto, who was now becoming old, and consequently somewhat
peevish - even Pluto began to experience the effects of my ill temper.
One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my haunts
about town, I fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I seized him;
when, in his fright at my violence, he inflicted a slight wound upon my
hand with his teeth. The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew
myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from
my body and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled
every fibre of my frame. I took from my waistcoat-pocket a pen-knife,
opened it, grasped the poor beast by the throat, and deliberately cut one
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of its eyes from the socket! I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen the
damnable atrocity.
When reason returned with the morning - when I had slept off the fumes
of the night's debauch - I experienced a sentiment half of horror, half of
remorse, for the crime of which I had been guilty; but it was, at best, a
feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul remained untouched. I again
plunged into excess, and soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed.
In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye
presented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he no longer appeared to
suffer any pain. He went about the house as usual, but, as might be
expected, fled in extreme terror at my approach. I had so much of my old
heart left, as to be at first grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a
creature which had once so loved me. But this feeling soon gave place to
irritation. And then came, as if to my final and irrevocable overthrow, the
spirit of PERVERSENESS. Of this spirit philosophy takes no account.
Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is
one of the primitive impulses of the human heart - one of the indivisible
primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of
Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a
silly action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not?
Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to
violate that which is Law , merely because we understand it to be such?
This spirit of perverseness, I say, came to my final overthrow. It was this
unfathomable longing of the soul to vex itself - to offer violence to its own
nature - to do wrong for the wrong's sake only - that urged me to
continue and finally to consummate the injury I had inflicted upon the
unoffending brute. One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose about
its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree; - hung it with the tears
streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my heart; hung it because I knew that it had loved me, and because I felt it had
given me no reason of offence; - hung it because I knew that in so doing
I was committing a sin - a deadly sin that would so jeopardize my
immortal soul as to place it - if such a thing wore possible - even beyond
the reach of the infinite mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible
God.
On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was
aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed were in
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flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great difficulty that my
wife, a servant, and myself, made our escape from the conflagration. The
destruction was complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed up,
and I resigned myself thenceforward to despair.
I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause
and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity. But I am detailing a
chain of facts - and wish not to leave even a possible link imperfect. On
the day succeeding the fire, I visited the ruins. The walls, with one
exception, had fallen in. This exception was found in a compartment wall,
not very thick, which stood about the middle of the house, and against
which had rested the head of my bed. The plastering had here, in great
measure, resisted the action of the fire - a fact which I attributed to its
having been recently spread. About this wall a dense crowd were
collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a particular
portion of it with very minute and eager attention. The words "strange!"
"singular!" and other similar expressions, excited my curiosity. I
approached and saw, as if graven in bas relief upon the white surface,
the figure of a gigantic cat. The impression was given with an accuracy
truly marvellous. There was a rope about the animal's neck.
When I first beheld this apparition - for I could scarcely regard it as less my wonder and my terror were extreme. But at length reflection came to
my aid. The cat, I remembered, had been hung in a garden adjacent to
the house. Upon the alarm of fire, this garden had been immediately
filled by the crowd - by some one of whom the animal must have been
cut from the tree and thrown, through an open window, into my chamber.
This had probably been done with the view of arousing me from sleep.
The falling of other walls had compressed the victim of my cruelty into
the substance of the freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which, with the
flames, and the ammonia from the carcass, had then accomplished the
portraiture as I saw it.
Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether to my
conscience, for the startling fact just detailed, it did not the less fail to
make a deep impression upon my fancy. For months I could not rid
myself of the phantasm of the cat; and, during this period, there came
back into my spirit a half-sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse. I
went so far as to regret the loss of the animal, and to look about me,
among the vile haunts which I now habitually frequented, for another pet
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of the same species, and of somewhat similar appearance, with which to
supply its place.
One night as I sat, half stupified, in a den of more than infamy, my
attention was suddenly drawn to some black object, reposing upon the
head of one of the immense hogsheads of Gin, or of Rum, which
constituted the chief furniture of the apartment. I had been looking
steadily at the top of this hogshead for some minutes, and what now
caused me surprise was the fact that I had not sooner perceived the
object thereupon. I approached it, and touched it with my hand. It was a
black cat - a very large one - fully as large as Pluto, and closely
resembling him in every respect but one. Pluto had not a white hair upon
any portion of his body; but this cat had a large, although indefinite
splotch of white, covering nearly the whole region of the breast. Upon my
touching him, he immediately arose, purred loudly, rubbed against my
hand, and appeared delighted with my notice. This, then, was the very
creature of which I was in search. I at once offered to purchase it of the
landlord; but this person made no claim to it - knew nothing of it - had
never seen it before.
I continued my caresses, and, when I prepared to go home, the animal
evinced a disposition to accompany me. I permitted it to do so;
occasionally stooping and patting it as I proceeded. When it reached the
house it domesticated itself at once, and became immediately a great
favorite with my wife.
For my own part, I soon found a dislike to it arising within me. This was
just the reverse of what I had anticipated; but - I know not how or why it
was - its evident fondness for myself rather disgusted and annoyed. By
slow degrees, these feelings of disgust and annoyance rose into the
bitterness of hatred. I avoided the creature; a certain sense of shame,
and the remembrance of my former deed of cruelty, preventing me from
physically abusing it. I did not, for some weeks, strike, or otherwise
violently ill use it; but gradually - very gradually - I came to look upon it
with unutterable loathing, and to flee silently from its odious presence, as
from the breath of a pestilence.
What added, no doubt, to my hatred of the beast, was the discovery, on
the morning after I brought it home, that, like Pluto, it also had been
deprived of one of its eyes. This circumstance, however, only endeared it
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to my wife, who, as I have already said, possessed, in a high degree,
that humanity of feeling which had once been my distinguishing trait, and
the source of many of my simplest and purest pleasures.
With my aversion to this cat, however, its partiality for myself seemed to
increase. It followed my footsteps with a pertinacity which it would be
difficult to make the reader comprehend. Whenever I sat, it would crouch
beneath my chair, or spring upon my knees, covering me with its
loathsome caresses. If I arose to walk it would get between my feet and
thus nearly throw me down, or, fastening its long and sharp claws in my
dress, clamber, in this manner, to my breast. At such times, although I
longed to destroy it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing, partly
by a memory of my former crime, but chiefly - let me confess it at once by absolute dread of the beast.
This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil - and yet I should be
at a loss how otherwise to define it. I am almost ashamed to own - yes,
even in this felon's cell, I am almost ashamed to own - that the terror and
horror with which the animal inspired me, had been heightened by one of
the merest chimaeras it would be possible to conceive. My wife had
called my attention, more than once, to the character of the mark of white
hair, of which I have spoken, and which constituted the sole visible
difference between the strange beast and the one I had destroyed. The
reader will remember that this mark, although large, had been originally
very indefinite; but, by slow degrees - degrees nearly imperceptible, and
which for a long time my Reason struggled to reject as fanciful - it had, at
length, assumed a rigorous distinctness of outline. It was now the
representation of an object that I shudder to name - and for this, above
all, I loathed, and dreaded, and would have rid myself of the monster had
I dared - it was now, I say, the image of a hideous - of a ghastly thing - of
the GALLOWS ! - oh, mournful and terrible engine of Horror and of
Crime - of Agony and of Death !
And now was I indeed wretched beyond the wretchedness of mere
Humanity. And a brute beast - whose fellow I had contemptuously
destroyed - a brute beast to work out for me - for me a man, fashioned in
the image of the High God - so much of insufferable wo! Alas! neither by
day nor by night knew I the blessing of Rest any more! During the former
the creature left me no moment alone; and, in the latter, I started, hourly,
from dreams of unutterable fear, to find the hot breath of the thing upon
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my face, and its vast weight - an incarnate Night-Mare that I had no
power to shake off - incumbent eternally upon my heart !
Beneath the pressure of torments such as these, the feeble remnant of
the good within me succumbed. Evil thoughts became my sole intimates
- the darkest and most evil of thoughts. The moodiness of my usual
temper increased to hatred of all things and of all mankind; while, from
the sudden, frequent, and ungovernable outbursts of a fury to which I
now blindly abandoned myself, my uncomplaining wife, alas! was the
most usual and the most patient of sufferers.
One day she accompanied me, upon some household errand, into the
cellar of the old building which our poverty compelled us to inhabit. The
cat followed me down the steep stairs, and, nearly throwing me
headlong, exasperated me to madness. Uplifting an axe, and forgetting,
in my wrath, the childish dread which had hitherto stayed my hand, I
aimed a blow at the animal which, of course, would have proved instantly
fatal had it descended as I wished. But this blow was arrested by the
hand of my wife. Goaded, by the interference, into a rage more than
demoniacal, I withdrew my arm from her grasp and buried the axe in her
brain. She fell dead upon the spot, without a groan.
This hideous murder accomplished, I set myself forthwith, and with entire
deliberation, to the task of concealing the body. I knew that I could not
remove it from the house, either by day or by night, without the risk of
being observed by the neighbors. Many projects entered my mind. At
one period I thought of cutting the corpse into minute fragments, and
destroying them by fire. At another, I resolved to dig a grave for it in the
floor of the cellar. Again, I deliberated about casting it in the well in the
yard - about packing it in a box, as if merchandize, with the usual
arrangements, and so getting a porter to take it from the house. Finally I
hit upon what I considered a far better expedient than either of these. I
determined to wall it up in the cellar - as the monks of the middle ages
are recorded to have walled up their victims.
For a purpose such as this the cellar was well adapted. Its walls were
loosely constructed, and had lately been plastered throughout with a
rough plaster, which the dampness of the atmosphere had prevented
from hardening. Moreover, in one of the walls was a projection, caused
by a false chimney, or fireplace, that had been filled up, and made to
171
resemble the red of the cellar. I made no doubt that I could readily
displace the bricks at this point, insert the corpse, and wall the whole up
as before, so that no eye could detect any thing suspicious. And in this
calculation I was not deceived. By means of a crow-bar I easily dislodged
the bricks, and, having carefully deposited the body against the inner
wall, I propped it in that position, while, with little trouble, I re-laid the
whole structure as it originally stood. Having procured mortar, sand, and
hair, with every possible precaution, I prepared a plaster which could not
be distinguished from the old, and with this I very carefully went over the
new brickwork. When I had finished, I felt satisfied that all was right. The
wall did not present the slightest appearance of having been disturbed.
The rubbish on the floor was picked up with the minutest care. I looked
around triumphantly, and said to myself - "Here at least, then, my labor
has not been in vain."
My next step was to look for the beast which had been the cause of so
much wretchedness; for I had, at length, firmly resolved to put it to death.
Had I been able to meet with it, at the moment, there could have been no
doubt of its fate; but it appeared that the crafty animal had been alarmed
at the violence of my previous anger, and forebore to present itself in my
present mood. It is impossible to describe, or to imagine, the deep, the
blissful sense of relief which the absence of the detested creature
occasioned in my bosom. It did not make its appearance during the night
- and thus for one night at least, since its introduction into the house, I
soundly and tranquilly slept; aye, slept even with the burden of murder
upon my soul!
The second and the third day passed, and still my tormentor came not.
Once again I breathed as a freeman. The monster, in terror, had fled the
premises forever! I should behold it no more! My happiness was
supreme! The guilt of my dark deed disturbed me but little. Some few
inquiries had been made, but these had been readily answered. Even a
search had been instituted - but of course nothing was to be discovered.
I looked upon my future felicity as secured.
Upon the fourth day of the assassination, a party of the police came, very
unexpectedly, into the house, and proceeded again to make rigorous
investigation of the premises. Secure, however, in the inscrutability of my
place of concealment, I felt no embarrassment whatever. The officers
bade me accompany them in their search. They left no nook or corner
172
unexplored. At length, for the third or fourth time, they descended into
the cellar. I quivered not in a muscle. My heart beat calmly as that of one
who slumbers in innocence. I walked the cellar from end to end. I folded
my arms upon my bosom, and roamed easily to and fro. The police were
thoroughly satisfied and prepared to depart. The glee at my heart was
too strong to be restrained. I burned to say if but one word, by way of
triumph, and to render doubly sure their assurance of my guiltlessness.
"Gentlemen," I said at last, as the party ascended the steps, "I delight to
have allayed your suspicions. I wish you all health, and a little more
courtesy. By the bye, gentlemen, this - this is a very well constructed
house." [In the rabid desire to say something easily, I scarcely knew what
I uttered at all.] - "I may say an excellently well constructed house. These
walls are you going, gentlemen? - these walls are solidly put together;"
and here, through the mere phrenzy of bravado, I rapped heavily, with a
cane which I held in my hand, upon that very portion of the brick-work
behind which stood the corpse of the wife of my bosom.
But may God shield and deliver me from the fangs of the Arch-Fiend ! No
sooner had the reverberation of my blows sunk into silence, than I was
answered by a voice from within the tomb! - by a cry, at first muffled and
broken, like the sobbing of a child, and then quickly swelling into one
long, loud, and continuous scream, utterly anomalous and inhuman - a
howl - a wailing shriek, half of horror and half of triumph, such as might
have arisen only out of hell, conjointly from the throats of the dammed in
their agony and of the demons that exult in the damnation.
Of my own thoughts it is folly to speak. Swooning, I staggered to the
opposite wall. For one instant the party upon the stairs remained
motionless, through extremity of terror and of awe. In the next, a dozen
stout arms were toiling at the wall. It fell bodily. The corpse, already
greatly decayed and clotted with gore, stood erect before the eyes of the
spectators. Upon its head, with red extended mouth and solitary eye of
fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder, and
whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled
the monster up within the tomb! THE END
*************************************************
173
To the Man on the Trail
By Jack London
'Dump it in!.' 'But I say, Kid, isn't that going it a little too strong' Whisky
and alcohol's bad enough; but when it comes to brandy and pepper
sauce and-' 'Dump it in. Who's making this punch, anyway?' And
Malemute Kid smiled benignantly through the clouds of steam. 'By the
time you've been in this country as long as I have, my son, and lived on
rabbit tracks and salmon belly, you'll learn that Christmas comes only
once per annum.
And a Christmas without punch is sinking a hole to bedrock with nary a
pay streak.'
'Stack up on that fer a high cyard,' approved Big Jim Belden, who had
come down from his claim on Mazy May to spend Christmas, and who,
as everyone knew, had been living the two months past on straight
moose meat. 'Hain't fergot the hooch we-uns made on the Tanana, hey
yeh?' 'Well, I guess yes. Boys, it would have done your hearts good to
see that whole tribe fighting drunk--and all because of a glorious ferment
of sugar and sour dough. That was before your time,' Malemute Kid said
as he turned to Stanley Prince, a young mining expert who had been in
two years. 'No white women in the country then, and Mason wanted to
get married. Ruth's father was chief of the Tananas, and objected, like
the rest of the tribe. Stiff? Why, I used my last pound of sugar; finest
work in that line I ever did in my life. You should have seen the chase,
down the river and across the portage.' 'But the squaw?' asked Louis
Savoy, the tall French Canadian, becoming interested; for he had heard
of this wild deed when at Forty Mile the preceding winter.
Then Malemute Kid, who was a born raconteur, told the unvarnished tale
of the Northland Lochinvar. More than one rough adventurer of the North
felt his heartstrings draw closer and experienced vague yearnings for the
sunnier pastures of the Southland, where life promised something more
than a barren struggle with cold and death.
'We struck the Yukon just behind the first ice run,' he concluded, 'and the
tribe only a quarter of an hour behind. But that saved us; for the second
run broke the jam above and shut them out. When they finally got into
Nuklukyeto, the whole post was ready for them.
174
And as to the forgathering, ask Father Roubeau here: he performed the
ceremony.' The Jesuit took the pipe from his lips but could only express
his gratification with patriarchal smiles, while Protestant and Catholic
vigorously applauded.
'By gar!' ejaculated Louis Savoy, who seemed overcome by the romance
of it. 'La petite squaw: mon Mason brav. By gar!' Then, as the first tin
cups of punch went round, Bettles the Unquenchable sprang to his feet
and struck up his favorite drinking song: 'There's Henry Ward Beecher
And Sunday-school teachers, All drink of the sassafras root; But you bet
all the same, If it had its right name, It's the juice of the forbidden fruit.'
'Oh, the juice of the forbidden fruit,' roared out the bacchanalian chorus,
'Oh, the juice of the forbidden fruit; But you bet all the same, If it had its
right name, It's the juice of the forbidden fruit.'
Malemute Kid's frightful concoction did its work; the men of the camps
and trails unbent in its genial glow, and jest and song and tales of past
adventure went round the board.
Aliens from a dozen lands, they toasted each and all. It was the
Englishman, Prince, who pledged 'Uncle Sam, the precocious infant of
the New World'; the Yankee, Bettles, who drank to 'The Queen, God
bless her'; and together, Savoy and Meyers, the German trader, clanged
their cups to Alsace and Lorraine.
Then Malemute Kid arose, cup in hand, and glanced at the greasedpaper window, where the frost stood full three inches thick. 'A health to
the man on trail this night; may his grub hold out; may his dogs keep
their legs; may his matches never miss fire.' Crack!
Crack! heard the familiar music of the dog whip, the whining howl of the
Malemutes, and the crunch of a sled as it drew up to the cabin.
Conversation languished while they waited the issue.
'An old-timer; cares for his dogs and then himself,' whispered Malemute
Kid to Prince as they listened to the snapping jaws and the wolfish snarls
and yelps of pain which proclaimed to their practiced ears that the
stranger was beating back their dogs while he fed his own.
175
Then came the expected knock, sharp and confident, and the stranger
entered.
Dazzled by the light, he hesitated a moment at the door, giving to all a
chance for scrutiny. He was a striking personage, and a most
picturesque one, in his Arctic dress of wool and fur. Standing six foot two
or three, with proportionate breadth of shoulders and depth of chest, his
smooth-shaven face nipped by the cold to a gleaming pink, his long
lashes and eyebrows white with ice, and the ear and neck flaps of his
great wolfskin cap loosely raised, he seemed, of a verity, the Frost King,
just stepped in out of the night.
Clasped outside his Mackinaw jacket, a beaded belt held two large Colt's
revolvers and a hunting knife, while he carried, in addition to the
inevitable dog whip, a smokeless rifle of the largest bore and latest
pattern. As he came forward, for all his step was firm and elastic, they
could see that fatigue bore heavily upon him.
An awkward silence had fallen, but his hearty 'What cheer, my lads?' put
them quickly at ease, and the next instant Malemute Kid and he had
gripped hands. Though they had never met, each had heard of the other,
and the recognition was mutual. A sweeping introduction and a mug of
punch were forced upon him before he could explain his errand.
How long since that basket sled, with three men and eight dogs,
passed?' he asked.
'An even two days ahead. Are you after them?' 'Yes; my team. Run them
off under my very nose, the cusses. I've gained two days on them
already--pick them up on the next run.' 'Reckon they'll show spunk?'
asked Belden, in order to keep up the conversation, for Malemute Kid
already had the coffeepot on and was busily frying bacon and moose
meat.
The stranger significantly tapped his revolvers.
'When'd yeh leave Dawson?' 'Twelve o'clock.' 'Last night?'--as a matter
of course.
176
'Today.' A murmur of surprise passed round the circle. And well it might;
for it was just midnight, and seventy-five miles of rough river trail was not
to be sneered at for a twelve hours' run.
The talk soon became impersonal, however, harking back to the trails of
childhood. As the young stranger ate of the rude fare Malemute Kid
attentively studied his face. Nor was he long in deciding that it was fair,
honest, and open, and that he liked it. Still youthful, the lines had been
firmly traced by toil and hardship.
Though genial in conversation, and mild when at rest, the blue eyes gave
promise of the hard steel-glitter which comes when called into action,
especially against odds. The heavy jaw and square-cut chin
demonstrated rugged pertinacity and indomitability. Nor, though the
attributes of the lion were there, was there wanting the certain softness,
the hint of womanliness, which bespoke the emotional nature.
'So thet's how me an' the ol' woman got spliced,' said Belden, concluding
the exciting tale of his courtship. '"Here we be, Dad," sez she. "An' may
yeh be damned," sez he to her, an' then to me, ''Jim, yeh-yeh git outen
them good duds o' yourn; I want a right peart slice o' thet forty acre
plowed 'fore dinner." An' then he sort o' sniffled an' kissed her. An' I was
thet happy--but he seen me an' roars out, ''Yeh, Jim!' An' yeh bet I
dusted fer the barn.' 'Any kids waiting for you back in the States?' asked
the stranger.
'Nope; Sal died 'fore any come. Thet's why I'm here.' Belden abstractedly
began to light his pipe, which had failed to go out, and then brightened
up with, 'How 'bout yerself, stranger--married man?' For reply, he opened
his watch, slipped it from the thong which served for a chain, and passed
it over. Belden picked up the slush lamp, surveyed the inside of the case
critically, and, swearing admiringly to himself, handed it over to Louis
Savoy. With numerous 'By gars!' he finally surrendered it to Prince, and
they noticed that his hands trembled and his eyes took on a peculiar
softness. And so it passed from horny hand to horny hand--the pasted
photograph of a woman, the clinging kind that such men fancy, with a
babe at the breast. Those who had not yet seen the wonder were keen
with curiosity; those who had became silent and retrospective. They
could face the pinch of famine, the grip of scurvy, or the quick death by
177
field or flood; but the pictured semblance of a stranger woman and child
made women and children of them all.
'Never have seen the youngster yet--he's a boy, she says, and two years
old,' said the stranger as he received the treasure back. A lingering
moment he gazed upon it, then snapped the case and turned away, but
not quick enough to hide the restrained rush of tears. Malemute Kid led
him to a bunk and bade him turn in.
'Call me at four sharp. Don't fail me,' were his last words, and a moment
later he was breathing in the heaviness of exhausted sleep.
'By Jove! He's a plucky chap,' commented Prince. 'Three hours' sleep
after seventy-five miles with the dogs, and then the trail again. Who is
he, Kid?' 'Jack Westondale. Been in going on three years, with nothing
but the name of working like a horse, and any amount of bad luck to his
credit. I never knew him, but Sitka Charley told me about him.' 'It seems
hard that a man with a sweet young wife like his should be putting in his
years in this Godforsaken hole, where every year counts two on the
outside.' 'The trouble with him is clean grit and stubbornness. He's
cleaned up twice with a stake, but lost it both times.' Here the
conversation was broken off by an uproar from Bettles, for the effect had
begun to wear away. And soon the bleak years of monotonous grub and
deadening toil were being forgotten in rough merriment. Malemute Kid
alone seemed unable to lose himself, and cast many an anxious look at
his watch. Once he put on his mittens and beaver-skin cap, and, leaving
the cabin, fell to rummaging about in the cache.
Nor could he wait the hour designated; for he was fifteen minutes ahead
of time in rousing his guest. The young giant had stiffened badly, and
brisk rubbing was necessary to bring him to his feet. He tottered painfully
out of the cabin, to find his dogs harnessed and everything ready for the
start. The company wished him good luck and a short chase, while
Father Roubeau, hurriedly blessing him, led the stampede for the cabin;
and small wonder, for it is not good to face seventy-four degrees below
zero with naked ears and hands.
Malemute Kid saw him to the main trail, and there, gripping his hand
heartily, gave him advice.
178
'You'll find a hundred pounds of salmon eggs on the sled,' he said. 'The
dogs will go as far on that as with one hundred and fifty of fish, and you
can't get dog food at Pelly, as you probably expected.' The stranger
started, and his eyes flashed, but he did not interrupt. 'You can't get an
ounce of food for dog or man till you reach Five Fingers, and that's a stiff
two hundred miles. Watch out for open water on the Thirty Mile River,
and be sure you take the big cutoff above Le Barge.' 'How did you know
it? Surely the news can't be ahead of me already?' 'I don't know it; and
what's more, I don't want to know it.
But you never owned that team you're chasing. Sitka Charley sold it to
them last spring.
But he sized you up to me as square once, and I believe him. I've seen
your face; I like it.
And I've seen--why, damn you, hit the high places for salt water and that
wife of yours, and-' Here the Kid unmittened and jerked out his sack.
'No; I don't need it,' and the tears froze on his cheeks as he convulsively
gripped Malemute Kid's hand.
'Then don't spare the dogs; cut them out of the traces as fast as they
drop; buy them, and think they're cheap at ten dollars a pound. You can
get them at Five Fingers, Little Salmon, and Hootalinqua. And watch out
for wet feet,' was his parting advice. 'Keep a- traveling up to twenty-five,
but if it gets below that, build a fire and change your socks.'
Fifteen minutes had barely elapsed when the jingle of bells announced
new arrivals. The door opened, and a mounted policeman of the
Northwest Territory entered, followed by two half-breed dog drivers. Like
Westondale, they were heavily armed and showed signs of fatigue. The
half-breeds had been borne to the trail and bore it easily; but the young
policeman was badly exhausted. Still, the dogged obstinacy of his race
held him to the pace he had set, and would hold him till he dropped in his
tracks.
'When did Westondale pull out?' he asked. 'He stopped here, didn't he?'
This was supererogatory, for the tracks told their own tale too well.
179
Malemute Kid had caught Belden's eye, and he, scenting the wind,
replied evasively, 'A right peart while back.' 'Come, my man; speak up,'
the policeman admonished.
'Yeh seem to want him right smart. Hez he ben gittin' cantankerous down
Dawson way?'
'Held up Harry McFarland's for forty thousand; exchanged it at the P.C.
store for a check on Seattle; and who's to stop the cashing of it if we
don't overtake him? When did he pull out?'
Every eye suppressed its excitement, for Malemute Kid had given the
cue, and the young officer encountered wooden faces on every hand.
Striding over to Prince, he put the question to him. Though it hurt him,
gazing into the frank, earnest face. of his fellow countryman, he replied
inconsequentially on the state of the trail.
Then he espied Father Roubeau, who could not lie. 'A quarter of an hour
ago,' the priest answered; 'but he had four hours' rest for himself and
dogs.' 'Fifteen minutes' start, and he's fresh! My God!' The poor fellow
staggered back, half fainting from exhaustion and disappointment,
murmuring something about the run from Dawson in ten hours and the
dogs being played out.
Malemute Kid forced a mug of punch upon him; then he turned for the
door, ordering the dog drivers to follow. But the warmth and promise of
rest were too tempting, and they objected strenuously. The Kid was
conversant with their French patois, and followed it anxiously.
They swore that the dogs were gone up; that Siwash and Babette would
have to be shot before the first mile was covered; that the rest were
almost as bad; and that it would be better for all hands to rest up.
'Lend me five dogs?' he asked, turning to Malemute Kid.
But the Kid shook his head.
'I'll sign a check on Captain Constantine for five thousand--here's my
papersI'm authorized to draw at my own discretion.'
180
Again the silent refusal.
'Then I'll requisition them in the name of the Queen.' Smiling
incredulously, the Kid glanced at his well-stocked arsenal, and the
Englishman, realizing his impotency, turned for the door. But the dog
drivers still objecting, he whirled upon them fiercely, calling them women
and curs. The swart face of the older half-breed flushed angrily as he
drew himself up and promised in good, round terms that he would travel
his leader off his legs, and would then be delighted to plant him in the
snow.
The young officer--and it required his whole will--walked steadily to the
door, exhibiting a freshness he did not possess. But they all knew and
appreciated his proud effort; nor could he veil the twinges of agony that
shot across his face. Covered with frost, the dogs were curled up in the
snow, and it was almost impossible to get them to their feet. The poor
brutes whined under the stinging lash, for the dog drivers were angry and
cruel; nor till Babette, the leader, was cut from the traces, could they
break out the sled and get under way.
'A dirty scoundrel and a liar!' 'By gar! Him no good!' 'A thief!' 'Worse than
an Indian!'
It was evident that they were angry--first at the way they had been
deceived; and second at the outraged ethics of the Northland, where
honesty, above all, was man's prime jewel.
'An' we gave the cuss a hand, after knowin' what he'd did.' All eyes
turned accusingly upon Malemute Kid, who rose from the corner where
he had been making Babette comfortable, and silently emptied the bowl
for a final round of punch.
'It's a cold night, boys--a bitter cold night,' was the irrelevant
commencement of his defense. 'You've all traveled trail, and know what
that stands for. Don't jump a dog when he's down. You've only heard one
side. A whiter man than Jack Westondale never ate from the same pot
nor stretched blanket with you or me.
Last fall he gave his whole clean-up, forty thousand, to Joe Castrell, to
buy in on Dominion. Today he'd be a millionaire. But, while he stayed
behind at Circle City, taking care of his partner with the scurvy, what
181
does Castell do? Goes into McFarland's, jumps the limit, and drops the
whole sack. Found him dead in the snow the next day. And poor Jack
laying his plans to go out this winter to his wife and the boy he's never
seen. You'll notice he took exactly what his partner lostforty thousand.
Well, he's gone out; and what are you going to do about it?' The Kid
glanced round the circle of his judges, noted the softening of their faces,
then raised his mug aloft. 'So a health to the man on trail this night; may
his grub hold out; may his dogs keep their legs; may his matches never
miss fire.
God prosper him; good luck go with him; and --' 'Confusion to the
Mounted Police!'
cried Bettles, to the crash of the empty cups. THE END
**************************************************
A Retrieved Reformation (O’HENRY)
A guard came to the prison shoe-shop, where Jimmy Valentine was
assiduously stitching uppers, and escorted him to the front office.
There the warden handed Jimmy his pardon, which had been signed that
morning by the governor. Jimmy took it in a tired kind of way. He had
served nearly ten months of a four year sentence. He had expected to
stay only about three months, at the longest. When a man with as many
friends on the outside as Jimmy Valentine had is received in the
"stir" it is hardly worth while to cut his hair.
"Now, Valentine," said the warden, "you'll go out in the morning.
Brace up, and make a man of yourself. You're not a bad fellow at
heart. Stop cracking safes, and live straight."
"Me?" said Jimmy, in surprise. "Why, I never cracked a safe in my
life."
"Oh, no," laughed the warden. "Of course not. Let's see, now. How was
it you happened to get sent up on that Springfield job? Was it because
you wouldn't prove an alibi for fear of compromising somebody in
extremely high-toned society? Or was it simply a case of a mean old
jury that had it in for you? It's always one or the other with you
182
innocent victims."
"Me?" said Jimmy, still blankly virtuous. "Why, warden, I never was in
Springfield in my life!"
"Take him back, Cronin!" said the warden, "and fix him up with
outgoing clothes. Unlock him at seven in the morning, and let him come
to the bull-pen. Better think over my advice, Valentine."
At a quarter past seven on the next morning Jimmy stood in the
warden's outer office. He had on a suit of the villainously fitting,
ready-made clothes and a pair of the stiff, squeaky shoes that the
state furnishes to its discharged compulsory guests.
The clerk handed him a railroad ticket and the five-dollar bill with
which the law expected him to rehabilitate himself into good
citizenship and prosperity. The warden gave him a cigar, and shook
hands. Valentine, 9762, was chronicled on the books, "Pardoned by
Governor," and Mr. James Valentine walked out into the sunshine.
Disregarding the song of the birds, the waving green trees, and the
smell of the flowers, Jimmy headed straight for a restaurant. There he
tasted the first sweet joys of liberty in the shape of a broiled
chicken and a bottle of white wine--followed by a cigar a grade better
than the one the warden had given him. From there he proceeded
leisurely to the depot. He tossed a quarter into the hat of a blind
man sitting by the door, and boarded his train. Three hours set him
down in a little town near the state line. He went to the cafe of one
Mike Dolan and shook hands with Mike, who was alone behind the bar.
"Sorry we couldn't make it sooner, Jimmy, me boy," said Mike. "But we
had that protest from Springfield to buck against, and the governor
nearly balked. Feeling all right?"
"Fine," said Jimmy. "Got my key?"
He got his key and went upstairs, unlocking the door of a room at the
rear. Everything was just as he had left it. There on the floor was
still Ben Price's collar-button that had been torn from that eminent
detective's shirt-band when they had overpowered Jimmy to arrest him.
183
Pulling out from the wall a folding-bed, Jimmy slid back a panel in
the wall and dragged out a dust-covered suit-case. He opened this and
gazed fondly at the finest set of burglar's tools in the East. It was
a complete set, made of specially tempered steel, the latest designs
in drills, punches, braces and bits, jimmies, clamps, and augers, with
two or three novelties, invented by Jimmy himself, in which he took
pride. Over nine hundred dollars they had cost him to have made at
----, a place where they make such things for the profession.
In half an hour Jimmy went down stairs and through the cafe. He was
now dressed in tasteful and well-fitting clothes, and carried his
dusted and cleaned suit-case in his hand.
"Got anything on?" asked Mike Dolan, genially.
"Me?" said Jimmy, in a puzzled tone. "I don't understand. I'm
representing the New York Amalgamated Short Snap Biscuit Cracker
and
Frazzled Wheat Company."
This statement delighted Mike to such an extent that Jimmy had to take
a seltzer-and-milk on the spot. He never touched "hard" drinks.
A week after the release of Valentine, 9762, there was a neat job of
safe-burglary done in Richmond, Indiana, with no clue to the author. A
scant eight hundred dollars was all that was secured. Two weeks after
that a patented, improved, burglar-proof safe in Logansport was opened
like a cheese to the tune of fifteen hundred dollars, currency;
securities and silver untouched. That began to interest the roguecatchers. Then an old-fashioned bank-safe in Jefferson City became
active and threw out of its crater an eruption of bank-notes amounting
to five thousand dollars. The losses were now high enough to bring the
matter up into Ben Price's class of work. By comparing notes, a
remarkable similarity in the methods of the burglaries was noticed.
Ben Price investigated the scenes of the robberies, and was heard to
remark:
"That's Dandy Jim Valentine's autograph. He's resumed business. Look
at that combination knob--jerked out as easy as pulling up a radish in
184
wet weather. He's got the only clamps that can do it. And look how
clean those tumblers were punched out! Jimmy never has to drill but
one hole. Yes, I guess I want Mr. Valentine. He'll do his bit next
time without any short-time or clemency foolishness."
Ben Price knew Jimmy's habits. He had learned them while working on
the Springfield case. Long jumps, quick get-aways, no confederates,
and a taste for good society--these ways had helped Mr. Valentine to
become noted as a successful dodger of retribution. It was given out
that Ben Price had taken up the trail of the elusive cracksman, and
other people with burglar-proof safes felt more at ease.
One afternoon Jimmy Valentine and his suit-case climbed out of the
mail-hack in Elmore, a little town five miles off the railroad down in
the black-jack country of Arkansas. Jimmy, looking like an athletic
young senior just home from college, went down the board side-walk
toward the hotel.
A young lady crossed the street, passed him at the corner and entered
a door over which was the sign, "The Elmore Bank." Jimmy Valentine
looked into her eyes, forgot what he was, and became another man. She
lowered her eyes and coloured slightly. Young men of Jimmy's style and
looks were scarce in Elmore.
Jimmy collared a boy that was loafing on the steps of the bank as if
he were one of the stockholders, and began to ask him questions about
the town, feeding him dimes at intervals. By and by the young lady
came out, looking royally unconscious of the young man with the suitcase, and went her way.
"Isn' that young lady Polly Simpson?" asked Jimmy, with specious
guile.
"Naw," said the boy. "She's Annabel Adams. Her pa owns this bank.
Why'd you come to Elmore for? Is that a gold watch-chain? I'm going to
get a bulldog. Got any more dimes?"
Jimmy went to the Planters' Hotel, registered as Ralph D. Spencer, and
engaged a room. He leaned on the desk and declared his platform to the
clerk. He said he had come to Elmore to look for a location to go into
185
business. How was the shoe business, now, in the town? He had thought
of the shoe business. Was there an opening?
The clerk was impressed by the clothes and manner of Jimmy. He,
himself, was something of a pattern of fashion to the thinly gilded
youth of Elmore, but he now perceived his shortcomings. While trying
to figure out Jimmy's manner of tying his four-in-hand he cordially
gave information.
Yes, there ought to be a good opening in the shoe line. There wasn't
an exclusive shoe-store in the place. The dry-goods and general stores
handled them. Business in all lines was fairly good. Hoped Mr. Spencer
would decide to locate in Elmore. He would find it a pleasant town to
live in, and the people very sociable.
Mr. Spencer thought he would stop over in the town a few days and look
over the situation. No, the clerk needn't call the boy. He would carry
up his suit-case, himself; it was rather heavy.
Mr. Ralph Spencer, the phoenix that arose from Jimmy Valentine's ashes
--ashes left by the flame of a sudden and alterative attack of love-remained in Elmore, and prospered. He opened a shoe-store and
secured
a good run of trade.
Socially he was also a success, and made many friends. And he
accomplished the wish of his heart. He met Miss Annabel Adams, and
became more and more captivated by her charms.
At the end of a year the situation of Mr. Ralph Spencer was this: he
had won the respect of the community, his shoe-store was flourishing,
and he and Annabel were engaged to be married in two weeks. Mr.
Adams,
the typical, plodding, country banker, approved of Spencer. Annabel's
pride in him almost equalled her affection. He was as much at home in
the family of Mr. Adams and that of Annabel's married sister as if he
were already a member.
One day Jimmy sat down in his room and wrote this letter, which he
mailed to the safe address of one of his old friends in St. Louis:
186
Dear Old Pal:
I want you to be at Sullivan's place, in Little Rock, next
Wednesday night, at nine o'clock. I want you to wind up some
little matters for me. And, also, I want to make you a present of
my kit of tools. I know you'll be glad to get them--you couldn't
duplicate the lot for a thousand dollars. Say, Billy, I've quit
the old business--a year ago. I've got a nice store. I'm making an
honest living, and I'm going to marry the finest girl on earth two
weeks from now. It's the only life, Billy--the straight one. I
wouldn't touch a dollar of another man's money now for a million.
After I get married I'm going to sell out and go West, where there
won't be so much danger of having old scores brought up against
me. I tell you, Billy, she's an angel. She believes in me; and I
wouldn't do another crooked thing for the whole world. Be sure to be
at Sully's, for I must see you. I'll bring along the tools with me.
Your old friend,
Jimmy.
On the Monday night after Jimmy wrote this letter, Ben Price jogged
unobtrusively into Elmore in a livery buggy. He lounged about town in
his quiet way until he found out what he wanted to know. From the
drug-store across the street from Spencer's shoe-store he got a good
look at Ralph D. Spencer.
"Going to marry the banker's daughter are you, Jimmy?" said Ben to
himself, softly. "Well, I don't know!"
The next morning Jimmy took breakfast at the Adamses. He was going
to
Little Rock that day to order his wedding-suit and buy something nice
for Annabel. That would be the first time he had left town since he
came to Elmore. It had been more than a year now since those last
professional "jobs," and he thought he could safely venture out.
After breakfast quite a family party went downtown together--Mr.
187
Adams, Annabel, Jimmy, and Annabel's married sister with her two
little girls, aged five and nine. They came by the hotel where Jimmy
still boarded, and he ran up to his room and brought along his suitcase. Then they went on to the bank. There stood Jimmy's horse and
buggy and Dolph Gibson, who was going to drive him over to the
railroad station.
All went inside the high, carved oak railings into the banking-room-Jimmy included, for Mr. Adams's future son-in-law was welcome
anywhere. The clerks were pleased to be greeted by the good-looking,
agreeable young man who was going to marry Miss Annabel. Jimmy set
his
suit-case down. Annabel, whose heart was bubbling with happiness and
lively youth, put on Jimmy's hat, and picked up the suit-case.
"Wouldn't I make a nice drummer?" said Annabel. "My! Ralph, how
heavy
it is? Feels like it was full of gold bricks."
"Lot of nickel-plated shoe-horns in there," said Jimmy, coolly, "that
I'm going to return. Thought I'd save express charges by taking them
up. I'm getting awfully economical."
The Elmore Bank had just put in a new safe and vault. Mr. Adams was
very proud of it, and insisted on an inspection by every one. The
vault was a small one, but it had a new, patented door. It fastened
with three solid steel bolts thrown simultaneously with a single
handle, and had a time-lock. Mr. Adams beamingly explained its
workings to Mr. Spencer, who showed a courteous but not too
intelligent interest. The two children, May and Agatha, were delighted
by the shining metal and funny clock and knobs.
While they were thus engaged Ben Price sauntered in and leaned on his
elbow, looking casually inside between the railings. He told the
teller that he didn't want anything; he was just waiting for a man he
knew.
Suddenly there was a scream or two from the women, and a commotion.
Unperceived by the elders, May, the nine-year-old girl, in a spirit of
play, had shut Agatha in the vault. She had then shot the bolts and
turned the knob of the combination as she had seen Mr. Adams do.
188
The old banker sprang to the handle and tugged at it for a moment.
"The door can't be opened," he groaned. "The clock hasn't been wound
nor the combination set."
Agatha's mother screamed again, hysterically.
"Hush!" said Mr. Adams, raising his trembling hand. "All be quite for
a moment. Agatha!" he called as loudly as he could. "Listen to me."
During the following silence they could just hear the faint sound of
the child wildly shrieking in the dark vault in a panic of terror.
"My precious darling!" wailed the mother. "She will die of fright!
Open the door! Oh, break it open! Can't you men do something?"
"There isn't a man nearer than Little Rock who can open that door,"
said Mr. Adams, in a shaky voice. "My God! Spencer, what shall we do?
That child--she can't stand it long in there. There isn't enough air,
and, besides, she'll go into convulsions from fright."
Agatha's mother, frantic now, beat the door of the vault with her
hands. Somebody wildly suggested dynamite. Annabel turned to Jimmy,
her large eyes full of anguish, but not yet despairing. To a woman
nothing seems quite impossible to the powers of the man she worships.
"Can't you do something, Ralph--/try/, won't you?"
He looked at her with a queer, soft smile on his lips and in his keen
eyes.
"Annabel," he said, "give me that rose you are wearing, will you?"
Hardly believing that she heard him aright, she unpinned the bud from
the bosom of her dress, and placed it in his hand. Jimmy stuffed it
into his vest-pocket, threw off his coat and pulled up his shirtsleeves. With that act Ralph D. Spencer passed away and Jimmy
Valentine took his place.
"Get away from the door, all of you," he commanded, shortly.
189
He set his suit-case on the table, and opened it out flat. From that
time on he seemed to be unconscious of the presence of any one else.
He laid out the shining, queer implements swiftly and orderly,
whistling softly to himself as he always did when at work. In a deep
silence and immovable, the others watched him as if under a spell.
In a minute Jimmy's pet drill was biting smoothly into the steel door.
In ten minutes--breaking his own burglarious record--he threw back the
bolts and opened the door.
Agatha, almost collapsed, but safe, was gathered into her mother's
arms.
Jimmy Valentine put on his coat, and walked outside the railings
towards the front door. As he went he thought he heard a far-away
voice that he once knew call "Ralph!" But he never hesitated.
At the door a big man stood somewhat in his way.
"Hello, Ben!" said Jimmy, still with his strange smile. "Got around at
last, have you? Well, let's go. I don't know that it makes much
difference, now."
And then Ben Price acted rather strangely.
"Guess you're mistaken, Mr. Spencer," he said. "Don't believe I
recognize you. Your buggy's waiting for you, ain't it?"
THE END
The Romance of a Busy Broker (O’HENRY)
Pitcher, confidential clerk in the office of Harvey Maxwell, broker,
allowed a look of mild interest and surprise to visit his usually
expressionless countenance when his employer briskly entered at
half
past nine in company with his young lady stenographer. With a
snappy
"Good-morning, Pitcher," Maxwell dashed at his desk as though he
were
190
intending to leap over it, and then plunged into the great heap of
letters and telegrams waiting there for him.
The young lady had been Maxwell's stenographer for a year. She
was
beautiful in a way that was decidedly unstenographic. She forewent
the pomp of the alluring pompadour. She wore no chains, bracelets
or
lockets. She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation
to luncheon. Her dress was grey and plain, but it fitted her figure
with fidelity and discretion. In her neat black turban hat was the
gold-green wing of a macaw. On this morning she was softly and
shyly
radiant. Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuine
peachblow, her expression a happy one, tinged with reminiscence.
Pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this
morning. Instead of going straight into the adjoining room, where
her desk was, she lingered, slightly irresolute, in the outer office.
Once she moved over by Maxwell's desk, near enough for him to be
aware of her presence.
The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy
New York broker, moved by buzzing wheels and uncoiling springs.
"Well--what is it? Anything?" asked Maxwell sharply. His opened
mail lay like a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk. His keen
grey eye, impersonal and brusque, flashed upon her half
impatiently.
"Nothing," answered the stenographer, moving away with a little
smile.
"Mr. Pitcher," she said to the confidential clerk, did Mr. Maxwell
say anything yesterday about engaging another stenographer?"
"He did," answered Pitcher. "He told me to get another one. I
notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples
this morning. It's 9.45 o'clock, and not a single picture hat or
piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet."
191
"I will do the work as usual, then," said the young lady, "until some
one comes to fill the place." And she went to her desk at once and
hung the black turban hat with the gold-green macaw wing in its
accustomed place.
He who has been denied the spectacle of a busy Manhattan broker
during a rush of business is handicapped for the profession of
anthropology. The poet sings of the "crowded hour of glorious life."
The broker's hour is not only crowded, but the minutes and seconds
are hanging to all the straps and packing both front and rear
platforms.
And this day was Harvey Maxwell's busy day. The ticker began to
reel
out jerkily its fitful coils of tape, the desk telephone had a
chronic attack of buzzing. Men began to throng into the office and
call at him over the railing, jovially, sharply, viciously,
excitedly. Messenger boys ran in and out with messages and
telegrams. The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during
a storm. Even Pitcher's face relaxed into something resembling
animation.
On the Exchange there were hurricanes and landslides and
snowstorms
and glaciers and volcanoes, and those elemental disturbances were
reproduced in miniature in the broker's offices. Maxwell shoved his
chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a
toe dancer. He jumped from ticker to 'phone, from desk to door with
the trained agility of a harlequin.
In the midst of this growing and important stress the broker became
suddenly aware of a high-rolled fringe of golden hair under a
nodding
canopy of velvet and ostrich tips, an imitation sealskin sacque and a
string of beads as large as hickory nuts, ending near the floor with
a silver heart. There was a self-possessed young lady connected
with
these accessories; and Pitcher was there to construe her.
192
"Lady from the Stenographer's Agency to see about the position,"
said
Pitcher.
Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker
tape.
"What position?" he asked, with a frown.
"Position of stenographer," said Pitcher. "You told me yesterday to
call them up and have one sent over this morning."
"You are losing your mind, Pitcher," said Maxwell. "Why should I
have given you any such instructions? Miss Leslie has given perfect
satisfaction during the year she has been here. The place is hers as
long as she chooses to retain it. There's no place open here,
madam.
Countermand that order with the agency, Pitcher, and don't bring
any
more of 'em in here."
The silver heart left the office, swinging and banging itself
independently against the office furniture as it indignantly
departed. Pitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper
that
the "old man" seemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful
every
day of the world.
The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster. On the floor
they were pounding half a dozen stocks in which Maxwell's
customers
were heavy investors. Orders to buy and sell were coming and
going
as swift as the flight of swallows. Some of his own holdings were
imperilled, and the man was working like some high-geared,
delicate,
strong machine--strung to full tension, going at full speed,
accurate, never hesitating, with the proper word and decision and
act
193
ready and prompt as clockwork. Stocks and bonds, loans and
mortgages, margins and securities--here was a world of finance,
and
there was no room in it for the human world or the world of nature.
When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight lull in the
uproar.
Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and
memoranda, with a fountain pen over his right ear and his hair
hanging in disorderly strings over his forehead. His window was
open, for the beloved janitress Spring had turned on a little warmth
through the waking registers of the earth.
And through the window came a wandering--perhaps a lost--odour-a
delicate, sweet odour of lilac that fixed the broker for a moment
immovable. For this odour belonged to Miss Leslie; it was her own,
and hers only.
The odour brought her vividly, almost tangibly before him. The
world
of finance dwindled suddenly to a speck. And she was in the next
room--twenty steps away.
"By George, I'll do it now," said Maxwell, half aloud. "I'll ask her
now. I wonder I didn't do it long ago."
He dashed into the inner office with the haste of a short trying to
cover. He charged upon the desk of the stenographer.
She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink crept over her cheek,
and her eyes were kind and frank. Maxwell leaned one elbow on
her
desk. He still clutched fluttering papers with both hands and the
pen was above his ear.
"Miss Leslie," he began hurriedly, "I have but a moment to spare.
194
I want to say something in that moment. Will you he my wife? I
haven't had time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but I
really do love you. Talk quick, please--those fellows are clubbing
the stuffing out of Union Pacific."
"Oh, what are you talking about?" exclaimed the young lady. She
rose
to her feet and gazed upon him, round-eyed.
"Don't you understand?" said Maxwell, restively. "I want you to
marry me. I love you, Miss Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I
snatched a minute when things had slackened up a bit. They're
calling me for the 'phone now. Tell 'em to wait a minute, Pitcher.
Won't you, Miss Leslie?"
The stenographer acted very queerly. At first she seemed
overcome
with amazement; then tears flowed from her wondering eyes; and
then
she smiled sunnily through them, and one of her arms slid tenderly
about the broker's neck.
"I know now," she said, softly. "It's this old business that has
driven everything else out of your head for the time. I was
frightened at first. Don't you remember, Harvey? We were married
last evening at 8 o'clock in the Little Church Around the Corner."
THE END
“POETRY WORKOUT”:
DO A) SOAPSTONE B) EXPLAIN KEY VERSES C) IDENTIFY AND
EXPLAIN SYMBOLS
I'm Nobody! Who are you? by Emily Dickinson
****************************************
195
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you -- Nobody -- Too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise -- you know!
How dreary -- to be -- Somebody!
How public -- like a Frog -To tell one's name -- the livelong June -To an admiring Bog!
<>
There is another sky by Emily Dickinson
**********************************
There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind silent fields Here is a little forest,
Whose leaf is ever green;
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!
<>
Nobody knows this little Rose by Emily Dickinson
******************************************
Nobody knows this little Rose -It might a pilgrim be
Did I not take it from the ways
And lift it up to thee.
Only a Bee will miss it -196
Only a Butterfly,
Hastening from far journey -On its breast to lie -Only a Bird will wonder -Only a Breeze will sigh -Ah Little Rose -- how easy
For such as thee to die!
\
Let America Be America Again by Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed-Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
197
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek-And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean-Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home-For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
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The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay-Except the dream that's almost dead today.
O, let America be America again-The land that never has been yet-And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME-Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose-The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath-America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain-All, all the stretch of these great green states-And make America again!
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*WORKOUT CONTINUED ON THE NEXT PAGE:
I, Too, Sing America by Langston Hughes
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I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.
Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed-I, too, am America.
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O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman
1
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
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Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
2
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up-for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths-for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.
3
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
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As I Ponder’d in Silence. by Walt Whitman
*************************************
1
AS I ponder’d in silence,
Returning upon my poems, considering, lingering long,
A Phantom arose before me, with distrustful aspect,
Terrible in beauty, age, and power,
The genius of poets of old lands,
As to me directing like flame its eyes,
With finger pointing to many immortal songs,
And menacing voice, What singest thou? it said;
Know’st thou not, there is but one theme for ever-enduring bards?
And that is the theme of War, the fortune of battles,
The making of perfect soldiers?
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2
Be it so, then I answer’d,
I too, haughty Shade, also sing war—and a longer and greater one than
any,
Waged in my book with varying fortune—with flight, advance, and
retreat—Victory deferr’d and wavering,
(Yet, methinks, certain, or as good as certain, at the last,)—The
field the world;
For life and death—for the Body, and for the eternal Soul,
Lo! too am come, chanting the chant of battles,
I, above all, promote brave soldiers.
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NOVEL WORKOUT FOR ORAL PRESENTATIONS:
CHOOSE ONE OF THESE TITLES FOR YOUR SECOND TEST ON A
NOVEL
1- The Great Gastby- S.Fitzgerald
2- Life on the Mississippi- M. Twain
3- Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.- M. Twain
4- Mobie Dick- H. Melville
5- The Red Badge of Courage- S. Crane
Essay Workout:
Let America be America Again
The Poem “Let America Be America Again” is a very emotional and
moving poem. It was most likely written around the same time slavery
ended in America. As the poem goes on it shows more and more the
cruelty and hardships certain people would have had to experience in
that time and how hard it was for these obstacles to be overcome.
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The poem speaks of America’s dream for freedom and for all to be
equal. The character says that this dream has not yet been realized
especially for him and those like him.
He speaks of how America is supposed to be the land of love but how it
never was that to him. The character also says how “There’s never been
equality for me, nor freedom in this “homeland of the free”. America is
called the homeland of the free and it is almost as if the character is
mocking this because he himself has never been able to be free.
But all of the different unfairness’ America has done to its people. For
example “the negro bearing slavery’s scar” and “the red man driven from
the land” and it also mentions “the immigrant clutching the hope I seek”.
With that line the character is trying to say how when the immigrants
come to America they are filled with dreams and hope because of the
freedom America is supposed to offer but when they reach there they
find it is a world of “dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak”. Which is
what the character sees America as being, a world where those more
powerful than others crush those below them. The character does not
even have the hope for America that an immigrant would because he
has experienced what America really is and knows better then that.
The character speaks of how he is not even free in his country and he
makes oh how he made America for he was the one that worked it and
put his blood, sweat, faith and pain into it.
*********************************************************
Rip Van Winkle
In Washington Irving’s “Rip Van Winkle”, Dame Van Winkle is described
as “a termagant wife” (p. 574) with “a tart temper” and “and sharp
tongue” (p. 575). In fact, Dame Van Winkle was so domineering that Rip
frequently sought solace outside of his own home. However, his wife
could have simply been completely frustrated by his lack of initiative to
assist in the upkeep of his home and family and stunned by the depth of
laziness. Perhaps this was Dame Van Winkle’s attempt to get Rip to
actually do something useful for his own family. Rip’s response to being
confronted by his wife was to shrug his shoulders, shake his head, roll
his eyes and remain silent (p. 575).
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During the time period this classic was written, a woman was dependent
upon her husband as the sole financial supporter of the family. Dame
Van Winkle may not have known the extent of Rip’s idleness prior to their
marriage. Many marriages were arranged by parents versus entered into
by consenting and in love adults. A wife was expected to keep the home
and raise the children. A husband was to provide for the family. By Rip’s
own admission in referring to the house, Dame Van Winkle “always kept
in neat o
In the poems “The Raven” and “Annabel Lee”, Edgar Allan Poe skillfully
creates the emotions of despair and loneliness over the loss of a
beautiful woman. As the author states in “The Philosophy of
Composition” (p. 1300) and in order to provide such a vivid mental
picture and strong emotions depicted, a “bereaved lover” is best suited to
portray such a topic. It is obvious from both poems that the narrator has
lost a great love.
rder” (p. 579). However, Rip was not willing to provide for his own family
choosing instead to assist his neighbors (p. 374). Since his was not living
up to his familial responsibilities, Dame Van Winkle took every occasion
to bring his failings to his attention in the hopes of changing him. At the
time, her options were limited and her dilemma maddening at best. Rip
must have had some love for (or fear of) his wife for upon awakening
from his sleep his first thoughts were not of his faithful companion Wolf,
but of his wife (p. 578). Yet consistent with his lazy nature, Rip’s thoughts
were of the excuses he would use when he encountered the dreaded
Dame Van Winkle.
************************************************************
I'm Nobody! Who are you? by Emily Dickinson
Emily Dickinson is often called a recluse because she spent the second
half of her life secluded from the public in her family home. Out of over
2000 poems she wrote, only 12 of those were published anonymously in
her lifetime. Furthermore, the friendships
she kept in the latter part of her life were held mostly by letter
correspondence.
However, Dickinson believed that the best inspiration came from doing
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without. I believe that this is the basis for "I'm Nobody! Who are you?"
Dickinson not only chose to be a "Nobody," she preferred it. She enjoyed
herself the most when she was alone, tending the gardens around her
family home, writing poetry, reading. Her choice to publish
herpoems anonymously is a direct reflection of her choice to be a
nobody. For
this reason, I would argue that the poem "I'm Nobody! Who are you?" is
a direct reflection of Dickinson's ideals on life.
"Are you -- Nobody -- too?" The friendships that Dickinson kept in her life
were intimate. There were so intimate, in fact, that her sexuality is often
questioned based on the letters she wrote to her friends. All of the
people that theorists have connected to Dickinson as being the "love"
she spoke of in her poems are people to whom she corresponded with
by letters, men and women alike. This second line paired with the third,
"Then there's a pair of us!" suggests that Dickinson was not so much of a
recluse. Rather, she was looking for another "Nobody," another person
who valued anonymity, to spend her time with.
READING CHECK- 10 POINTS
PROJECT- ORAL PRESENTATION ON AN AMERICAN AUTHOR/ HIS
OR HER WORKS. 10 POINTS
FINAL PROJECT- LITERATURE OF OTHER ENGLISH SPEAKING
COUNTRIES (10 POINTS)
A) Form groups of at least three memebers. The participation of
each member is explained in B:
B) Present on 1) History of literature of an English speaking
country
2) Choose the most prominent literary
representative of the country.
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3) Prepare a presentation on one of the most
important works of the chosen
author.
EVALUATION
1ST MODULE (BRITISH LITERATURE)
READING QUIZ- 10P
ORAL PRESENTATION 10P
PARTIAL 30P
2ND MODULE (US LITARATURE)
READING QUIZ- 10P
ORAL PRESENTATION 10P
PARTIAL 20P
3RD MODULE – ORAL PRESENTATION ON ANOTHER
ENGLISH SPEAKING
COUNTRY. 10 P
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