Eighth Reader

Now read the poem aloud, giving full expression to its pathetic meaning. Select the most striking descriptive passage and read it. Select the stanza which seems to you the most touching, and read it.

Study now the peculiarities of the poem. Do the lines rime? Are they of similar length? What can you say about the meter?

Compare this poem with the two gems from Browning, pages 38 and 41. Compare it with the selection from Longfellow, page 54; with that from Lanier, page 66. How does it differ from any or all of these? What is poetry? Name three great American poets; three great English poets.

THE ADDRESS AT GETTYSBURG 31

Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation – or any nation so conceived and so dedicated – can long endure.

We are met on a great battle field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as the final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow, this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we say here; but it can never forget what they did here.

It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us; – that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; – that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

ODE TO THE CONFEDERATE DEAD 32

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves,Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause;Though yet no marble column cravesThe pilgrim here to pause.In seeds of laurel in the earthThe blossom of your fame is blown,And somewhere, waiting for its birth,The shaft is in the stone.Meanwhile, behalf the tardy yearsWhich keep in trust your storied tombs,Behold! Your sisters bring their tearsAnd these memorial blooms.Small tribute! but your shades will smileMore proudly on these wreathes to-day,Than when some cannon-molded pileShall overlook this bay.Stoop, angels, hither from the skies!There is no holier spot of groundThan where defeated valor lies,By mourning beauty crowned.

THE CHARIOT RACE 33

Orestes? He is dead. I will tell all as it happen

He journeyed forth to attend the great games which Hellas counts her pride, to join the Delphic contests. There he heard the herald's voice, with loud and clear command, proclaim, as coming first, the chariot race, and so he entered, radiant, every eye admiring as he passed. And in the race he equaled all the promise of his form in those his rounds, and so with noblest prize of conquest left the ground.

Summing up in fewest words what many scarce could tell, I know of none in strength and act like him. And having won the prize in all the fivefold forms of race which the umpires had proclaimed, he then was hailed, proclaimed an Argive, and his name Orestes, the son of mighty Agamemnon, who once led Hellas's glorious host.

So far, well. But when a god will injure, none can escape, strong though he be. For lo! another day, when, as the sun was rising, came the race swift-footed of the chariot and the horse, he entered the contest with many charioteers. One was an Achæan, one was from Sparta, two were from Libya with four-horsed chariots, and Orestes with swift Thessalian mares came as the fifth. A sixth, with bright bay colts, came from Ætolia; the seventh was born in far Magnesia; the eighth was an Ænian with white horses; the ninth was from Athens, the city built by the gods; the tenth and last was a Bœotian.

And so they stood, their cars in order as the umpires had decided by lot. Then, with sound of brazen trumpet, they started.

All cheering their steeds at the same moment, they shook the reins, and at once the course was filled with the clash and din of rattling chariots, and the dust rose high. All were now commingled, each striving to pass the hubs of his neighbors' wheels. Hard and hot were the horses' breathings, and their backs and the chariot wheels were white with foam.

Each charioteer, when he came to the place where the last stone marks the course's goal, turned the corner sharply, letting go the right-hand trace horse and pulling the nearer in. And so, at first, the chariots kept their course; but, at length, the Ænian's unbroken colts, just as they finished their sixth or seventh round, turned headlong back and dashed at full speed against the chariot wheels of those who were following. Then with tremendous uproar, each crashed on the other, they fell overturned, and Crissa's broad plain was filled with wreck of chariots.

The man from Athens, skilled and wise as a charioteer, saw the mischief in time, turned his steeds aside, and escaped the whirling, raging surge of man and horse. Last of all, Orestes came, holding his horses in check, and waiting for the end. But when he saw the Athenian, his only rival left, he urged his colts forward, shaking the reins and speeding onward. And now the twain continued the race, their steeds sometimes head to head, sometimes one gaining ground, sometimes the other; and so all the other rounds were passed in safety.

Upright in his chariot still stood the ill-starred hero. Then, just as his team was turning, he let loose the left rein unawares, and struck the farthest pillar, breaking the spokes right at his axles' center. Slipping out of his chariot, he was dragged along, with reins dissevered. His frightened colts tore headlong through the midst of the field; and the people, seeing him in his desperate plight, bewailed him greatly – so young, so noble, so unfortunate, now hurled upon the ground, helpless, lifeless.

The charioteers, scarcely able to restrain the rushing steeds, freed the poor broken body – so mangled that not one of all his friends would have known whose it was. They built a pyre and burned it; and now they bear hither, in a poor urn of bronze, the sad ashes of that mighty form – that so Orestes may have his tomb in his fatherland.

Such is my tale, full sad to hear; but to me who saw this accident, nothing can ever be more sorrowful.

THE COLISEUM AT MIDNIGHT 34

I crossed the Forum to the foot of the Palatine, and, ascending the Via Sacra, passed beneath the Arch of Titus. From this point I saw below me the gigantic outline of the Coliseum, like a cloud resting upon the earth.

As I descended the hillside, it grew more broad and high, – more definite in its form, and yet more grand in its dimensions, – till, from the vale in which it stands encompassed by three of the Seven Hills of Rome, the majestic ruin in all its solitary grandeur "swelled vast to heaven."

A single sentinel was pacing to and fro beneath the arched gateway which leads to the interior, and his measured footsteps were the only sound that broke the breathless silence of night.

What a contrast with the scene which that same midnight hour presented, when in Domitian's time the eager populace began to gather at the gates, impatient for the morning sports! Nor was the contrast within less striking. Silence, and the quiet moonbeams, and the broad, deep shadow of the ruined wall!

Where now were the senators of Rome, her matrons, and her virgins? Where was the ferocious populace that rent the air with shouts, when, in the hundred holidays that marked the dedication of this imperial slaughter house, five thousand wild beasts from the Libyan deserts and the forests of Anatolia made the arena sick with blood?

Where were the Christian martyrs that died with prayers upon their lips, amid the jeers and imprecations of their fellow men? Where were the barbarian gladiators, brought forth to the festival of blood, and "butchered to make a Roman holiday"?

The awful silence answered, "They are mine!" The dust beneath me answered, "They are mine!"

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Expression: Learn all you can about the Coliseum. When was it built? by whom? For what was it used?

Word Study: Forum, Palatine, Via Sacra, Titus, Domitian, Libyan, Anatolia.

THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE 35

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,That was built in such a logical wayIt ran a hundred years to a day,And then, of a sudden, it – ah, but stay,I'll tell you what happened, without delay,Scaring the parson into fits,Frightening people out of their wits, —Have you ever heard of that, I say?Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.Georgius Secundus was then alive, —Snuffy old drone from the German hive.That was the year when Lisbon townSaw the earth open and gulp her down,And Braddock's army was done so brown,Left without a scalp to its crown.It was on the terrible Earthquake dayThat the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,There is always somewhere a weakest spot, —In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, – lurking still,Find it somewhere, you must and will, —Above or below, or within or without, —And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,")He would build one shay to beat the taown'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';It should be so built that it couldn' break daown:"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plainThut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,Is only jestT' make that place uz strong uz the rest."So the Deacon inquired of the village folkWhere he could find the strongest oak,That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,That was for spokes and floor and sills;He sent for lancewood to make the thills;The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees;The panels of white wood, that cuts like cheese,But lasts like iron for things like these;The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"Last of its timber, – they couldn't sell 'em,Never an ax had seen their chips,And the wedges flew from between their lips,Their blunt ends frizzled like celery tips;Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin, too,Steel of the finest, bright and blue;Thoroughbrace bison skin, thick and wide;Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hideFound in the pit when the tanner died.That was the way he "put her through." —"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew."Do! I tell you, I rather guessShe was a wonder, and nothing less!Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,Deacon and deaconess dropped away,Children and grandchildren – where were they?But there stood the stout old one-hoss shayAs fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day!Eighteen hundred, – it came and foundThe Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound,Eighteen hundred increased by ten, —"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.Eighteen hundred and twenty came, —Running as usual; much the same.Thirty and forty at last arrive,And then come fifty and FIFTY-FIVE.Little of all we value hereWakes on the morn of its hundredth yearWithout both feeling and looking queer.In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,So far as I know, but a tree and truth.(This is a moral that runs at large;Take it, – You're welcome. – No extra charge.)First of November, – the Earthquake day. —There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,A general flavor of mild decay,But nothing local, as one may say.There couldn't be, – for the Deacon's artHad made it so like in every partThat there wasn't a chance for one to start,For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,And the floor was just as strong as the sills,And the panels just as strong as the floor,And the whippletree neither less nor more,And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,And spring and axle and hub encore.And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubtIn another hour it will be worn out!First of November, Fifty-five!This morning the parson takes a drive.Now, small boys, get out of the way!Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay."Huddup!" said the parson. – Off went they.The parson was working his Sunday's text, —Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexedAt what the – Moses – was coming next.All at once the horse stood still,Close by the meet'n'house on the hill.– First a shiver, and then a thrill,Then something decidedly like a spill, —And the parson was sitting upon a rock,At half-past nine by the meet'n'house clock, —Just the hour of the earthquake shock!– What do you think the parson found,When he got up and stared around?The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,As if it had been to the mill and ground.You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,How it went to pieces all at once, —All at once, and nothing first, —Just as bubbles do when they burst.End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.Logic is logic. That's all I say.FOOTNOTE:

Expression: Read the selection silently to appreciate its humor. Now read it aloud with careful attention to naturalness of expression. Study the historical allusions – "Georgius Secundus," "Lisbon town," "Braddock's army," "the Earthquake day," etc.

Read again the passages in which dialect expressions occur. Try to speak these passages as the author intended them to be spoken.

Select the passages which appeal most strongly to your sense of humor. Read them in such manner as to make their humorous quality thoroughly appreciable to those who listen to you.

Now study the selection as a poem, comparing it with several typical poems which you have already studied. Remembering your definition of poetry (page 138), what is the real poetical value of this delightful composition? Is it a true poem? Find some other poems written by Dr. Holmes. Bring them to the class and read them aloud.

Talk with your teacher about the life of Dr. Holmes and about his prose and poetical works. As a poet, how does he compare with Longfellow? with Whittier? with Walt Whitman? with Browning?

DOGS AND CATS 36

Most people agree that the dog has intelligence, a heart, and possibly a soul; on the other hand, they declare that the cat is a traitor, a deceiver, an ingrate, a thief. How many persons have I heard say: "Oh, I can't bear a cat! The cat has no love for its master; it cares only for the house. I had one once, for I was living in the country, where there were mice. One day the cook left on the kitchen table a chicken she had just prepared for cooking; in came the cat, and carried it off, and we never saw a morsel of it. Oh, I hate cats; I will never have one."

True, the cat is unpopular. Her reputation is bad, and she makes no effort to improve the general opinion which people have of her. She cares as little about your opinion as does the Sultan of Turkey. And – must I confess – this is the very reason I love her.

In this world, no one can long be indifferent to things, whether trivial or serious – if, indeed, anything is serious. Hence, every person must, sooner or later, declare himself on the subjects of dogs and cats.

Well, then! I love cats.

Ah, how many times people have said to me, "What! do you love cats?"

"Certainly."

"Well, don't you love dogs better?"

"No, I prefer cats every time."

"Oh, that's very queer!"

The truth is, I would rather have neither cat nor dog. But when I am obliged to live with one of these beings, I always choose the cat. I will tell you why.

The cat seems to me to have the manners most necessary to good society. In her early youth she has all the graces, all the gentleness, all the unexpectedness that the most artistic imagination could desire. She is smart; she never loses herself. She is prudent, going everywhere, looking into everything, breaking nothing.

The cat steals fresh mutton just as the dog steals it, but, unlike the dog, she takes no delight in carrion. She is fastidiously clean – and in this respect, she might well be imitated by many of her detractors. She washes her face, and in so doing foretells the weather into the bargain. You may please yourself by putting a ribbon around her neck, but never a collar; she cannot be enslaved.

In short, the cat is a dignified, proud, disdainful animal. She defies advances and tolerates no insults. She abandons the house in which she is not treated according to her merits. She is, in both origin and character, a true aristocrat, while the dog is and always will be, a mere vulgar parvenu.

The only serious argument that can be urged against the cat is that she destroys the birds, not caring whether they are sparrows or nightingales. If the dog does less, it is because of his stupidity and clumsiness, not because he is above such business. He also runs after the birds; but his foolish barking warns them of his coming, and as they fly away he can only watch them with open mouth and drooping tail.

The dog submits himself to the slavery of the collar in order to be taught the art of circumventing rabbits and pigeons – and this not for his own profit, but for the pleasure of his master, the hunter. Foolish, foolish fellow! An animal himself, he delights in persecuting other animals at the command of the man who beats him.

But the cat, when she catches a bird, has a good excuse for her cruelty – she catches it only to eat it herself. Shall she be slandered for such an act? Before condemning her, men may well think of their own shortcomings. They will find among themselves, as well as in the race of cats, many individuals who have claws and often use them for the destruction of those who are gifted with wings.

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Expression: In what does the humor of this selection consist? Read aloud and with expression the passages which appeal to you as the most enjoyable. Do you agree with all the statements made by the author? Read these with which you disagree, and then give reasons for your disagreement.

THE OWL CRITIC 37

"Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop;The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop;The customers, waiting their turns, were all readingThe Daily, the Herald, the Post, little heedingThe young man who blurted out such a blunt question;Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion;And the barber kept on shaving."Don't you see, Mister Brown,"Cried the youth, with a frown,"How wrong the whole thing is,How preposterous each wing is,How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is —In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis?I make no apology;I've learned owl-eology,I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections,And cannot be blinded to any deflectionsArising from unskillful fingers that failTo stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.Mister Brown! Mister Brown!Do take that bird down,Or you'll soon be the laughingstock all over town!"And the barber kept on shaving."I've studied owls,And other night fowls,And I tell youWhat I know to be true:An owl cannot roostWith his limbs so unloosed;No owl in this worldEver had his claws curled,Ever had his legs slanted,Ever had his bill canted,Ever had his neck screwedInto that attitude.He can't do it, because'Tis against all bird laws.Anatomy teaches,Ornithology preaches,An owl has a toeThat can't turn out so!I've made the white owl my study for years,And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!Mister Brown, I'm amazedYou should be so gone crazedAs to put up a birdIn that posture absurd!To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness;The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!"And the barber kept on shaving."Examine those eyes.I'm filled with surpriseTaxidermists should passOff on you such poor glass;So unnatural they seemThey'd make Audubon scream,And John Burroughs laughTo encounter such chaff.Do take that bird down:Have him stuffed again, Brown!"And the barber kept on shaving."With some sawdust and barkI could stuff in the darkAn owl better than that.I could make an old hatLook more like an owl than that horrid fowlStuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather.In fact, about him there's not one natural feather."Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch,The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch,Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic(Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic,And then fairly hooted, as if he should say,"Your learning's at fault this time, anyway;Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good day!"And the barber kept on shaving.

MRS. CAUDLE'S UMBRELLA LECTURE 38

Bah! That's the third umbrella gone since Christmas. What were you to do? Why, let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I'm very certain there was nothing about him that could spoil. Take cold? Indeed! He doesn't look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd better have taken cold than taken our umbrella. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, DO YOU HEAR THE RAIN?

Pooh! don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle. Don't insult me. He return the umbrella? Anybody would think you were born yesterday. As if anybody ever did return an umbrella!

I should like to know how the children are to go to school to-morrow. They shan't go through such weather, I'm determined. No! they shall stay at home and never learn anything – the blessed creatures – sooner than go and get wet. And when they grow up, I wonder whom they'll have to thank for knowing nothing – who, indeed, but their father?

But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes! I know very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow – you knew that – and you did it on purpose. Don't tell me; you hate to have me to go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle. No, sir; if it comes down in bucketfuls I'll go all the more.

No! and I won't have a cab! Where do you think the money's to come from? You've got nice, high notions at that club of yours. A cab, indeed! Cost me sixteen pence at least – sixteen pence? – two-and-eight-pence, for there's back again! Cabs, indeed! I should like to know who is to pay for them! I can't pay for them, and I'm sure you can't if you go on as you do; throwing away your property and beggaring your children, buying umbrellas.

Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, DO YOU HEAR IT? But I don't care – I'll go to mother's to-morrow, I will; and what's more, I'll walk every step of the way; and you know that will give me my death. Don't call me a foolish woman; it's you that's the foolish man. You know I can't wear clogs; and with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give me a cold – it always does. But what do you care for that? Nothing at all. I may be laid up for what you care, as I dare say I shall – and a pretty doctor's bill there'll be. I hope there will! It will teach you to lend your umbrella again. I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death; and that's what you lent your umbrella for. Of course!

Nice clothes I shall get, too, traipsing through weather like this. My gown and bonnet will be spoiled quite. Needn't I wear them, then? Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I shall wear them. No, sir; I'm not going out a dowdy to please you or anybody else. Gracious knows, it isn't often I step over the threshold; indeed, I might as well be a slave at once – better, I should say. But when I go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose to go as a lady.

Ugh! I look forward with dread for to-morrow. How I'm to go to mother's I'm sure I can't tell. But, if I die, I'll go. No, sir; I won't borrow an umbrella.

No; and you shan't buy one. Mr. Caudle, if you bring home another umbrella, I'll throw it into the street. Ha! it was only last week I had a new nozzle put to that umbrella. I'm sure if I'd known as much as I do now, it might have gone without one, for all of me.

The children, too, dear things, they'll be sopping wet; for they shan't stay at home; they shan't lose their learning; it's all their father will leave them, I'm sure. But they shall go to school. Don't tell me I said they shouldn't; you are so aggravating, Caudle, you'd spoil the temper of an angel; they shall go to school; mark that! And if they get their deaths of cold, it's not my fault. I didn't lend the umbrella.