Fourth Reader

She replied that she was but a simple maiden and no goddess, and would have given an account of herself, had not Prospero interrupted her. He foresaw that these two young people would become much attached to each other, and therefore resolved to throw many difficulties in Ferdinand’s way, that he might prove the strength and constancy of his affection.

“I will bind you hand and foot,” he cried. “Shell-fish, acorns, withered roots shall be your food, and salt sea water your only drink.”

“No,” cried Ferdinand, drawing his sword; “I shall resist such entertainment – at any rate until I am overcome by some more powerful enemy than yourself.”

At this Prospero raised his magic wand, which completely fixed Ferdinand to the spot, so that he could not move!

“O father, be not so unkind,” cried Miranda, clinging to the old man. “Have some pity on him, for indeed it seems to me that he is good and true.”

“Silence, girl. You think much of this youth because you have seen no comelier form than mine: but I tell you there are others who in person excel him as far as he excels in beauty the monster, Caliban.”

Then, turning to the prince, Prospero cried, “Come, young sir; you have no power to disobey me.”

And Ferdinand found himself compelled to follow the old man into the cavern, although he turned once and again to gaze upon Miranda. “In truth this man’s threats would seem as nothing to me,” he sighed, “if only I might from my prison behold this fair maid.”

Ferdinand was not confined very long; he was brought out and set to some laborious task, while Prospero from his study watched both the young man and Miranda.

The prince had been ordered to pile up some heavy logs of wood, and soon the maiden saw him half-fainting beneath his burden. “Pray rest,” she cried; “my father will for three hours be at his studies. I entreat you not to work so hard.”

“Dear lady, I dare not rest,” said Ferdinand; “I must finish my task.”

“Sit down and I shall carry the logs for a while,” said the maiden; but Ferdinand would not have it so, and so she began to assist him, though the business went on but slowly because they were talking together.

But Prospero was not among his books, as Miranda thought; he was quite close to them, although invisible, and he smiled as he heard his daughter tell her name, and smiled again as Ferdinand professed his great love and admiration for her.

“I fear I am talking too freely. I have forgotten my father’s command,” said Miranda, at last.

And here Prospero nodded his head, and said to himself, “My daughter shall be queen of Naples.”

They had not talked long, before Miranda had promised to be the bride of Ferdinand; and then her father no longer concealed his presence, but made himself visible to the eyes of these young people. “Be not afraid, daughter,” he said; “I have heard all that has passed, but I approve it. As for you, Ferdinand, if I have been hard, it was but to try if you were worthy of my child; and by giving her to you I make amends for it all.”

Calling his attendant, Ariel, Prospero left them, saying he had business to attend to; which business was to hear how the sprite had been tormenting and frightening his master’s brother and the king of Naples. When they were weary and well-nigh famished, he set a delicate banquet before them; but only to appear again as a monster, who carried the untasted food away. Then he spoke to them, still in the form of a harpy, and reminded them of the shameful way in which they had treated Prospero and his little child, adding that in punishment this shipwreck had befallen them.

The king and Antonio were greatly distressed at this; and Ariel declared that though he was but a sprite, he could not but pity them, their grief seemed so sincere.

“Bring them here,” cried Prospero. “Bring them quickly, my good Ariel; for if you feel for them, much more should I who am a human being, such as they, take compassion on them in their misfortune, and freely forgive the past.”

So Ariel brought the king and Prospero’s brother into his presence; and with them came Gonzalo, who had proved his love for his master by putting food and apparel into the boat in which he had been left to the mercy of the winds and waves.

When Prospero spoke to Gonzalo, and called him the preserver of his life, Antonio knew this old man must be his own much-injured brother, and he began to implore his pardon with many tears; the king also asked forgiveness for the part he had taken against him.

Prospero assured them that he freely forgave all; and, opening a door, he showed them Ferdinand, who was engaged in a game of chess with Miranda. What joy was this to the father and son, both of whom believed the other had been lost in the storm!

The king of Naples was astonished at the beauty of Miranda. “Is this a goddess” he asked, “who parted us that she might bring us together?”

“Not a goddess,” answered Ferdinand, smiling. “A fair maiden, whom I have asked to be my bride. She is the daughter of the duke of Milan, who, in giving her to me, has made himself my second father.”

“Then I must be her father,” said the king. “And, first, I must ask her forgiveness.”

“Not so,” interrupted Prospero; “let us rather forget the past and think only of the happy present.” And then, embracing his brother, he declared that all his troubles had been overruled by Providence; as, but for their meeting on the desert island, perhaps Ferdinand would never have known and loved Miranda.

The ship was safe in harbor, the sailors were on board, and the whole company intended to depart together in the morning; but for that last evening they partook of some refreshments in the cavern, which was so soon now to be deserted, while Prospero gave them the story of his adventures.

Before he left the island he dismissed Ariel from his service, to the joy of the active sprite, who loved liberty above all else. “But, master, I shall attend your passage home, and get for you prosperous winds; and then how merrily I’ll live.” And at this Ariel broke into a sweet song, which went like this: —

“Where the bee sucks, there suck I:In a cowslip’s bell I lie;There I couch when owls do cry.On the bat’s back I do flyAfter summer merrily:Merrily, merrily shall I live now,Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.”

Prospero’s last act was to bury all his magical books and his wand; for he meant to have nothing more to do with the art, but to spend the rest of his life in his native land, watching over the welfare of his people, and at peace with all the world.

As soon as the party reached Naples, the marriage of Ferdinand and Miranda took place with much splendor, thus completing the happiness of Prospero, now again duke of Milan, but whom we have learned to know as the old man of the island. – Mary Seymour.

From “Tales from Shakespeare,” by Mary Seymour, published by Thomas Nelson & Sons, Edinburgh.Thanks to the human heart by which we live,Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears;To me the meanest flower that blows can giveThoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.– Wordsworth.

EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN

News of battle! News of battle!Hark! ’tis ringing down the street;And the archways and the pavementBear the clang of hurrying feet.News of battle! who hath brought it?News of triumph! who should bringTidings from our noble army,Greetings from our gallant king?All last night we watched the beaconsBlazing on the hills afar,Each one bearing, as it kindled,Message of the opened war.All night long the northern streamersShot across the trembling sky;Fearful lights, that never beckonSave when kings or heroes die.News of battle! who hath brought it?All are thronging to the gate;“Warder – warder! open quickly!Man – is this a time to wait?”And the heavy gates are opened:Then a murmur long and loud,And a cry of fear and wonderBursts from out the bending crowd.For they see in battered harnessOnly one hard-stricken man;And his weary steed is wounded,And his cheek is pale and wan:Spearless hangs a bloody bannerIn his weak and drooping hand —What! can this be Randolph Murray,Captain of the city band?Round him crush the people, crying,“Tell us all – oh, tell us true!Where are they who went to battle,Randolph Murray, sworn to you?Where are they, our brothers, – children?Have they met the English foe?Why art thou alone, unfollowed?Is it weal, or is it woe?”Like a corpse the grisly warriorLooks out from his helm of steel;But no words he speaks in answer —Only with his armèd heelChides his weary steed, and onwardsUp the city streets they ride;Fathers, sisters, mothers, children,Shrieking, praying by his side.“By the God that made thee, Randolph!Tell us what mischance has come.”Then he lifts his riven banner,And the asker’s voice is dumb.The elders of the cityHave met within their hall —The men whom good King James had chargedTo watch the tower and wall.“Your hands are weak with age,” he said,“Your hearts are stout and true;So bide ye in the Maiden Town,While others fight for you.My trumpet from the border sideShall send a blast so clear,That all who wait within the gateThat stirring sound may hear.Or if it be the will of HeavenThat back I never come,And if, instead of Scottish shouts,Ye hear the English drum, —Then let the warning bells ring out,Then gird you to the fray,Then man the walls like burghers stout,And fight while fight you may.’Twere better that in fiery flameThe roof should thunder down,Than that the foot of foreign foeShould trample in the town!”Then in came Randolph Murray, —His step was slow and weak,And, as he doffed his dinted helm,The tears ran down his cheek:They fell upon his corselet,And on his mailèd hand,As he gazed around him wistfully,Leaning sorely on his brand.And none who then beheld himBut straight were smote with fear,For a bolder and a sterner manHad never couched a spear.They knew so sad a messengerSome ghastly news must bring,And all of them were fathers,And their sons were with the King.And up then rose the Provost —A brave old man was he,Of ancient name, and knightly fame,And chivalrous degree.He ruled our city like a LordWho brooked no equal here.And ever for the townsman’s rightsStood up ’gainst prince and peer.And he had seen the Scottish hostMarch from the Borough-muir,With music-storm and clamorous shout,And all the din that thunders outWhen youth’s of victory sure.But yet a dearer thought had he, —For, with a father’s pride,He saw his last remaining sonGo forth by Randolph’s side,With casque on head and spur on heelAll keen to do and dare;And proudly did that gallant boyDunedin’s banner bear.Oh! woful now was the old man’s look,And he spake right heavily —“Now, Randolph, tell thy tidings,However sharp they be!Woe is written on thy visage,Death is looking from thy face:Speak! – though it be of overthrow,It cannot be disgrace!”Right bitter was the agonyThat wrung that soldier proud:Thrice did he strive to answer,And thrice he groaned aloud.Then he gave the riven bannerTo the old man’s shaking hand,Saying – “That is all I bring yeFrom the bravest of the land!Ay! ye may look upon it —It was guarded well and long,By your brothers and your children,By the valiant and the strong.One by one they fell around it,As the archers laid them low,Grimly dying, still unconquered,With their faces to the foe.Ay! ye may well look upon it —There is more than honor there,Else, be sure, I had not brought itFrom the field of dark despair.Never yet was royal bannerSteeped in such a costly dye;It hath lain upon a bosomWhere no other shroud shall lie.Sirs! I charge you, keep it holy,Keep it as a sacred thing,For the stain you see upon itWas the life-blood of your King!”Woe, and woe, and lamentation!What a piteous cry was there!Widows, maidens, mothers, children,Shrieking, sobbing in despair!“Oh, the blackest day for ScotlandThat she ever knew before!Oh, our king! the good, the noble,Shall we see him never more?Woe to us, and woe to Scotland!Oh, our sons, our sons and men!Surely some have ’scaped the Southron,Surely some will come again!”Till the oak that fell last winterShall uprear its shattered stem —Wives and mothers of Dunedin —Ye may look in vain for them!– William Edmondstoune Aytoun.

THE DISCOVERY OF THE MACKENZIE RIVER

Upon a bright June morning, in the year 1789, the gates of Fort Chipewyan, on the south shore of Lake Athabaska, opened to give passage to a party of gayly dressed fur-traders. At their head strode a handsome young Scotsman named Alexander Mackenzie. The love of adventure had brought him from the Highlands to Montreal, where he joined a company of merchants engaged in the western fur-trade. Bartering blankets and beads for beaver-skins soon grew wearisome, however, and Mackenzie looked around eagerly for a chance to win fame for himself and glory for his adopted country. He had heard of the wonderful journey of Samuel Hearne, from the shores of Hudson Bay to the far-off mouth of the Coppermine River, and determined that he too would explore the immense unknown country that lay to the northward.

Fort Chipewyan had been built only in 1788, by Mackenzie’s cousin Roderick, and although some of the fur-traders had pushed their way a few hundred miles farther north to the shores of Great Slave Lake, nothing was known of what lay beyond, except from the reports of roving Indians. These Indians were in the habit of bringing their furs to Fort Chipewyan to trade, and Mackenzie never lost a chance of questioning them as to the nature of the country through which they had travelled. They would draw rude maps for him on birch-bark, or in the sand, of rivers, lakes, and mountains. Finally they told him of a mighty river that ran out of the western end of Great Slave Lake. None of them had ever been to its mouth, but they had been told by Indians of a different tribe who lived upon the banks of this river, that it emptied into the sea at such an immense distance that one would have to journey for several years to reach the salt water. Mackenzie knew that this could not be true, but he made up his mind to explore this great river and discover whether it flowed into the Arctic Sea or into the Pacific.

All preparations having been made, therefore, he and his plucky little band of French-Canadian boatmen and Indian hunters got into their canoes. Amid shouts of farewell from the fort, the paddles dipped noiselessly into the water, and they were off on their long journey to the mouth of the Mackenzie. A few days’ paddling brought them to Great Slave Lake, which they had to cross very carefully in their frail birch-bark canoes, as great masses of ice were still floating about in spite of the warm June sun. Before the end of the month they had reached the western end of the lake, and entered the Mackenzie River.

Day by day and week by week they paddled steadily onwards, the days growing longer as they went farther north. It must have seemed strange to rise, as they did, at two o’clock in the morning, and find the sun already up before them. As they journeyed down the river they met many new tribes of Indians, who had never before seen white men. Sometimes the Indians would rush into the woods in terror; at other times they would brandish their spears and clubs threateningly, until Mackenzie made them understand by signs that the white men were friends, not enemies. Then they would come near and examine with wonder his strange clothes and weapons, and they were willing to offer him all that they owned for a handful of bright-colored beads.

Early in July, Mackenzie reached a point where another river emptied into the one he was exploring. The Indians told him that this river came from a very great lake, which they called Bear Lake, some distance off to the eastward. Two days later he came to what were afterwards known as the Ramparts of the Mackenzie River, where the rocky banks rise to a great height, as straight as the walls of a room. The river grew narrow at this point and rushed forward so violently that Mackenzie and his men feared every moment would be their last. With great care, however, they managed to keep the canoes afloat, and presently the river widened out again and the current became less rapid.

Mackenzie now knew, from the direction of the river, that it must empty into the Arctic Sea, and as the short summer would soon be over, he would have to turn back within a few days. He therefore urged his men forward at their utmost speed. On July 10th, he came to a place where the river divides into a number of channels. He chose what seemed the largest, and on they went, racing for the mouth of the great river. Finally the banks widened out into what seemed at first to be a lake. Weary and dispirited, the explorer landed upon an island and threw himself down upon the hard ground to sleep. A shout from one of his men aroused him a few hours later. The water had risen, he said, and was carrying away their provisions. There could no longer be any doubt. The rising water was the tide, and the long task was completed. They had reached the mouth of the Mackenzie, and stood upon the shores of the Arctic Sea. A post was driven into the frozen ground, upon which Mackenzie carved his own name and those of his men, with the date. Then he gave the word, and the canoes bounded away with renewed energy on the long journey back to Fort Chipewyan.

– Lawrence J. Burpee.Count that day lost whose low descending sunViews from thy hand no worthy action done.

THE FACE AGAINST THE PANE

Mabel, little Mabel,With face against the pane,Looks out across the night,And sees the Beacon LightA-trembling in the rain.She hears the sea-bird screech,And the breakers on the beachMaking moan, making moan.And the wind about the eavesOf the cottage sobs and grieves;And the willow tree is blownTo and fro, to and fro,Till it seems like some old croneStanding out there all alone,With her woe!Wringing, as she stands,Her gaunt and palsied hands;While Mabel, timid Mabel,With face against the pane,Looks out across the night,And sees the Beacon LightA-trembling in the rain.Set the table, maiden Mabel,And make the cabin warm;Your little fisher loverIs out there in the storm;And your father, – you are weeping!O Mabel, timid Mabel,Go spread the supper table,And set the tea a-steeping.Your lover’s heart is brave,His boat is staunch and tight;And your father knows the perilous reefThat makes the water white.But Mabel, Mabel darling,With her face against the pane,Looks out across the nightAt the Beacon in the rain.The heavens are veined with fireAnd the thunder, how it rolls!In the lullings of the stormThe solemn church bell tollsFor lost souls!But no sexton sounds the knell;In that belfry, old and high,Unseen fingers sway the bell,As the wind goes tearing by!How it tolls, for the soulsOf the sailors on the sea!God pity them, God pity them,Wherever they may be!God pity wives and sweetheartsWho wait and wait, in vain!And pity little Mabel,With her face against the pane.A boom! the lighthouse gun!How its echo rolls and rolls!’Tis to warn home-bound shipsOff the shoals.See, a rocket cleaves the sky —From the fort, a shaft of light!See, it fades, and, fading, leavesGolden furrows on the night!What makes Mabel’s cheek so pale?What makes Mabel’s lips so white?Did she see the helpless sailThat, tossing here and thereLike a feather in the air,Went down and out of sight —Down, down, and out of sight?Oh, watch no more, no more,With face against the pane;You cannot see the men that drownBy the Beacon in the rain!From a shoal of richest rubiesBreaks the morning clear and cold;And the angel of the village spire,Frost-touched, is bright as gold.Four ancient fishermenIn the pleasant autumn air,Come toiling up the sandsWith something in their hands, —Two bodies stark and white,Ah! so ghastly in the light,With sea-weed in their hair.Oh, ancient fishermen,Go up to yonder cot!You’ll find a little childWith face against the pane,Who looks towards the beach,And, looking, sees it not.She will never watch again!Never watch and weep at night!For those pretty, saintly eyesLook beyond the stormy skies,And they see the Beacon Light.– Thomas Bailey Aldrich.By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Company.This above all: to thine own self be true,And it must follow, as the night the day,Thou canst not then be false to any man.

THE CARRONADE

A frightful thing had just happened; one of the carronades of the battery, a twenty-four pound cannon, had become loose.

This is perhaps the most dreadful thing that can take place at sea. Nothing more terrible can happen to a man-of-war under full sail. A cannon that breaks loose from its fastenings is suddenly transformed into a supernatural beast. It is a monster developed from a machine. This mass rolls along on its wheels as easily as a billiard ball; it rolls with the rolling, pitches with the pitching, comes and goes, stops and seems to meditate, begins anew, darts like an arrow from one end of the ship to the other, whirls around, turns aside, evades, rears, hits out, crushes, kills, exterminates.

It has the air of having lost its patience, and of taking a mysterious, dull revenge. The mad mass leaps like a panther; it has the weight of an elephant, the agility of a mouse, the obstinacy of an axe; it takes one by surprise like the surge of the sea; it flashes like lightning; it is deaf as the tomb; it weighs ten thousand pounds, and it bounds like a child’s ball. How can one guard against these terrible movements?

The ship had within its depths, so to speak, imprisoned lightning struggling to escape; something like the rumbling of thunder during an earthquake. In an instant the crew were on their feet. Brave men though they were, they paused, silent, pale, and undecided, looking down at the gun deck. Some one pushed them aside with his elbow and descended. It was their passenger, the peasant, the man about whom they had been talking a minute ago.

Having reached the foot of the ladder he halted. The cannon was rolling to and fro on the gun deck. A dim wavering of lights and shadows was added to this spectacle by the marine lantern swinging under the deck. The outlines of the cannon were becoming indistinguishable by reason of the rapidity of its motion; sometimes it looked black when the light shone upon it, then again it would cast pale, glimmering reflections in the darkness.

It was still pursuing its work of destruction. It had already shattered four other pieces, and made two breaches in the ship’s side, fortunately above the water line. It rushed frantically against the timbers; the stout riders resisted, – curved timbers have great strength; but one could hear them crack under this tremendous assault. The whole ship was filled with the tumult.

The captain, who had rapidly recovered his self-possession, had given orders to throw down the hatchway all that could abate the rage and check the mad onslaught of this infuriated gun, – mattresses, hammocks, spare sails, coils of rope, and bales of paper. But what availed these rags? No one dared to go down to arrange them, and in a few moments they were reduced to lint. Meanwhile the havoc increased. The mizzenmast was split and even the mainmast was damaged by the convulsive blows of the cannon. The fractures in the side grew larger and the ship began to leak.

The old passenger, who had descended to the gun deck, looked like one carved in stone, as he stood motionless at the foot of the ladder. Suddenly, as the escaped cannon was tossing from side to side, a man appeared, grasping an iron bar. It was the chief gunner, whose criminal negligence was the cause of the catastrophe. Having brought about the evil, he now intended to repair it. Holding a handspike in one hand, and in the other a rope with a noose in it, he had jumped through the hatchway to the deck below.

Then began a terrible struggle; a contest between mind and matter; a duel between man and the inanimate. The man stood in one corner holding in his hands the bar and the rope; calm, livid, and tragic, he stood firmly on his legs that were like two pillars of steel. He was waiting for the cannon to approach him. The gunner knew his piece, and he felt as if it must know him. They had lived together a long time. How often had he put his hand into its mouth! He began to talk to it as he would to a dog. “Come,” said he. Possibly he loved it.

When, in the act of accepting this awful hand-to-hand struggle, the gunner approached to challenge the cannon, it happened that the surging sea held the gun motionless for an instant, as if stupefied. “Come on!” said the man. It seemed to listen. Suddenly it leaped towards him. The man dodged. Then the struggle began, – a contest unheard of; the human warrior attacking the brazen beast; blind force on one side, soul on the other. It was as if a gigantic insect of iron was endowed with the will of a demon. Now and then this colossal grasshopper would strike the low ceiling of the gun deck, then falling back on its four wheels, like a tiger on all fours, would rush upon the man. He – supple, agile, adroit – writhed like a serpent before these lightning movements.