Chapter 20

"And lay it in the holy soil Where once the Saviour trod, Since he might not bear the blessed Cross, Nor strike one blow for God.

"Last night as in my bed I lay, I dreamed a dreary dream:-- Methought I saw a Pilgrim stand In the moonlight's quivering beam.

"His robe was of the azure dye, Snow-white his scattered hairs, And even such a cross he bore As good Saint Andrew bears.

"'Why go ye forth, Lord James,' he said, 'With spear and belted brand? Why do you take its dearest pledge From this our Scottish land?

"'The sultry breeze of Galilee Creeps through its groves of palm, The olives on the Holy Mount Stand glittering in the calm.

"'But 'tis not there that Scotland's heart Shall rest by God's decree, Till the great angel calls the dead To rise from earth and sea!

"'Lord James of Douglas, mark my rede! That heart shall pass once more In fiery fight against the foe, As it was wont of yore.

"'And it shall pass beneath the Cross, And save King Robert's vow; But other hands shall bear it back, Not, James of Douglas, thou!'

"Now, by thy knightly faith, I pray, Sir Simon of the Lee,-- For truer friend had never man Than thou hast been to me,--

"If ne'er upon the Holy Land 'Tis mine in life to tread, Bear thou to Scotland's kindly earth The relics of her dead."

The tear was in Sir Simon's eye As he wrung the warrior's hand,-- "Betide me weal, betide me woe, I'll hold by thy command.

"But if in battle-front, Lord James, 'Tis ours once more to ride, Nor force of man, nor craft of fiend, Shall cleave me from thy side!"

And aye we sailed and aye we sailed Across the weary sea, Until one morn the coast of Spain Rose grimly on our lee.

And as we rounded to the port, Beneath the watchtower's wall, We heard the clash of the atabals, And the trumpet's wavering call.

"Why sounds yon Eastern music here So wantonly and long, And whose the crowd of armed men That round yon standard throng?"

"The Moors have come from Africa To spoil and waste and slay, And King Alonzo of Castile Must fight with them to-day."

"Now shame it were," cried good Lord James, "Shall never be said of me That I and mine have turned aside From the Cross in jeopardie!

"Have down, have down, my merry men all,-- Have down unto the plain; We'll let the Scottish lion loose Within the fields of Spain!"

"Now welcome to me, noble lord, Thou and thy stalwart power; Dear is the sight of a Christian knight, Who comes in such an hour!

"Is it for bond or faith you come, Or yet for golden fee? Or bring ye France's lilies here, Or the flower of Burgundie?"

"God greet thee well, thou valiant king, Thee and thy belted peers,-- Sir James of Douglas am I called, And these are Scottish spears.

"We do not fight for bond or plight, Nor yet for golden fee; But for the sake of our blessed Lord, Who died upon the tree.

"We bring our great King Robert's heart Across the weltering wave. To lay it in the holy soil Hard by the Saviour's grave.

"True pilgrims we, by land and sea, Where danger bars the way; And therefore are we here, Lord King, To ride with thee this day!"

The king has bent his stately head, And the tears were in his eyne,-- "God's blessing on thee, noble knight, For this brave thought of thine!"

"I know thy name full well, Lord James; And honored may I be, That those who fought beside the Bruce Should fight this day for me!

"Take thou the leading of the van, And charge the Moors amain; There is not such a lance as thine In all the host of Spain!"

The Douglas turned towards us then, O, but his glance was high!-- "There is not one of all my men But is as bold as I.

"There is not one of my knights But bears as true a spear,-- Then onward, Scottish gentlemen, And think King Robert's here!"

The trumpets blew, the cross-bolts flew, The arrows flashed like flame, As spur in side, and spear in rest, Against the foe we came.

And many a bearded Saracen Went down, both horse and man; For through their ranks we rode like corn, So furiously we ran!

But in behind our path they closed, Though fain to let us through, For they were forty thousand men, And we were wondrous few.

We might not see a lance's length, So dense was their array, But the long fell sweep of the Scottish blade Still held them hard at bay.

"Make in! make in!" Lord Douglas cried,-- "Make in, my brethren dear! Sir William of Saint Clair is down; We may not leave him here!"

But thicker, thicker grew the swarm, And sharper shot the rain, And the horses reared amid the press, But they would not charge again.

"Now Jesu help thee," said Lord James, "Thou kind and true Saint Clair! An' if I may not bring thee off, I'll die beside thee there!"

Then in his stirrups up he stood, So lionlike and bold, And held the precious heart aloft All in its case of gold.

He flung it from him, far ahead, And never spake he more, But--"Pass thou first, thou dauntless heart, As thou wert wont of yore!"

The roar of fight rose fiercer yet, And heavier still the stour, Till the spears of Spain came shivering in, And swept away the Moor.

"Now praised be God, the day is won! They fly o'er flood and fell,-- Why dost thou draw the rein so hard, Good knight, that fought so well?"

"O, ride ye on, Lord King!" he said, "And leave the dead to me, For I must keep the dreariest watch That ever I shall dree!

"There lies, above his master's heart, The Douglas, stark and grim; And woe is me I should be here, Not side by side with him!

"The world grows cold, my arm is old, And thin my lyart hair, And all that I loved best on earth Is stretched before me there.

"O Bothwell banks! that bloom so bright Beneath the sun of May, The heaviest cloud that ever blew Is bound for you this day.

"And Scotland! thou mayst veil thy head In sorrow and in pain: The sorest stroke upon thy brow Hath fallen this day in Spain!

"We'll bear them back unto our ship, We'll bear them o'er the sea, And lay them in the hallowed earth Within our own countrie.

"And be thou strong of heart, Lord King, For this I tell thee sure, The sod that drank the Douglas' blood Shall never bear the Moor!"

The King he lighted from his horse, He flung his brand away, And took the Douglas by the hand, So stately as he lay.

"God give thee rest, thou valiant soul! That fought so well for Spain; I'd rather half my land were gone, So that thou wert here again!"

We bore the good Lord James away, And the priceless heart we bore, And heavily we steered our ship Towards the Scottish shore.

No welcome greeted our return, Nor clang of martial tread, But all were dumb and hushed as death Before the mighty dead.

We laid our chief in Douglas Kirk, The heart in fair Melrose; And woful men were we that day,-- God grant their souls repose!

THE SKELETON IN ARMOR

_By_ HENRY W. LONGFELLOW

"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! Who with thy hollow breast Still in rude armor drest, Comest to daunt me! Wrapt not in Eastern balms, But with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking alms, Why dost thou haunt me?"

Then, from those cavernous eyes Pale flashes seemed to rise, As when the northern skies Gleam in December; And, like the water's flow Under December's snow, Came a dull voice of woe From the heart's chamber.

"I was a Viking[1] old! My deeds, though manifold, No Skald[2] in song has told, No Saga[3] taught thee!

[Footnote 1: _Vikings_ was the name given to the bold Norse seamen who in the eighth, ninth, and tenth centuries infested the northern seas. Tradition maintains that a band of these rovers discovered America centuries before Columbus.]

[Footnote 2: A skald was a Norse poet who celebrated in song the deeds of warriors.]

[Footnote 3: A saga is an ancient Scandinavian legend or tradition, relating mythical or historical events.]

"Take heed, that in thy verse Thou dost the tale rehearse, Else dread a dead man's curse; For this I sought thee.

"Far in the Northern Land, By the wild Baltic's strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the gerfalcon;[4] And, with my skates fast-bound, Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, That the poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on.

[Footnote 4: A gerfalcon is a large falcon of Northern Europe.]

"Oft to his frozen lair Tracked I the grisly bear, While from my path the hare Fled like a shadow; Oft through the forest dark Followed the werewolf's[5] bark, Until the soaring lark Sang from the meadow.

[Footnote 5: According to a popular superstition, a werewolf is a man, who, at times, is transformed into a wolf. Such a wolf is much more savage than a real wolf, and is especially fond of human flesh. This superstition has at some time existed among almost all peoples.]

"But when I older grew, Joining a corsair's[6] crew, O'er the dark sea I flew With the marauders. Wild was the life we led; Many the souls that sped,

[Footnote 6: _Corsair_ is but another name for a pirate.]

Many the hearts that bled, By our stern orders.

"Many a wassail-bout[7] Wore the long Winter out; Often our midnight shout Set the cocks crowing, As we the Berserk's[8] tale Measured in cups of ale, Draining the oaken pail, Filled to o'erflowing.

[Footnote 7: A wassail-bout is a drinking bout, or carouse.]

[Footnote 8: _Berserk_, or _Berserker_, was the name given in heathen times in Scandinavia to a wild warrior or champion. The Berserkers, it is said, had fits of madness, when they foamed at the mouth and howled like beasts, rushing into battle naked and defenseless. It was believed that at such times they were proof against wounds either from fire or from steel.]

"Once as I told in glee Tales of the stormy sea, Soft eyes did gaze on me, Burning yet tender; And as the white stars shine On the dark Norway pine, On that dark heart of mine Fell their soft splendor.

"I wooed the blue-eyed maid, Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest's shade Our vows were plighted. Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast, Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted.

"Bright in her father's hall Shields gleamed upon the wall, Loud sang the minstrels all, Chaunting his glory; When of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter's hand, Mute did the minstrels stand To hear my story.

"While the brown ale he quaffed, Loud then the champion laughed. And as the wind-gusts waft The sea-foam brightly, So the loud laugh of scorn, Out of those lips unshorn, From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly.

"She was a Prince's child, I but a Viking wild, And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded! Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-mew's flight, Why did they leave that night Her nest unguarded?

"Scarce had I put to sea, Bearing the maid with me,-- Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen!-- When on the white sea-strand, Waving his arméd hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen.

"Then launched they to the blast, Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind failed us; And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw,[9] So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us.

[Footnote 9: The Skaw is the most northerly point of Denmark.]

"And as to catch the gale Round veered the flapping sail, Death! was the helmsman's hail, Death without quarter! Mid-ships with iron keel Struck we her ribs of steel; Down her black hulk did reel Through the black water!

"As with his wings aslant, Sails the fierce cormorant, Seeking some rocky haunt, With his prey laden, So toward the open main, Beating to sea again, Through the wild hurricane Bore I the maiden.

"Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o'er, Cloud-like we saw the shore Stretching to lee-ward; There for my lady's bower Built I the lofty tower,[10] Which, to this very hour, Stands looking seaward.

[Footnote: 10. At Newport in Rhode Island is an old stone tower, which tradition says was built by the Norsemen when they visited this country. That is the tower to which Longfellow refers here.]

"There lived we many years; Time dried the maiden's tears; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother; Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies; Ne'er shall the sun arise On such another!

"Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen! Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful! In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, Fell I upon my spear, O, death was grateful!

"Thus, seamed with many scars Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, _Skoal_![11] the Northland! _skoal_!" --Thus the tale ended.

[Footnote 11: _Skoal_ is the customary salutation in Scandinavia when a health is drunk.]

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX

_By_ ROBERT BROWNING

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew, "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through. Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace,-- Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right, Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

'T was a moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokerem, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom a great yellow star came out to see; At Duffeld 't was morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,-- So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is time!" At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one. To stare through the midst at us galloping past; And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some blind river headland its spray; And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance; And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on.

By Hasselt Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her; We'll remember at Aix,"--for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh; 'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

"How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer,-- Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, an noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is friends flocking round. As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

When we read this poem, the first question that comes to us is "What _was_ the 'good news from Ghent?'" But we find on looking up the matter that the whole incident is a fanciful one; Browning simply imagined a very dramatic situation, and then wrote this stirring poem about it. And surely he has made it all seem very real to us. We feel the intense anxiety of the riders to reach Aix on time--for we are given to understand in the last line of the third stanza that Aix must learn the news by a certain hour; we feel the despair of the two who are forced to give up the attempt, and the increased sense of responsibility of the only remaining rider; and we fairly hold our breath in our fear that the gallant Roland will not stand the strain.

The towns mentioned are real places, all of them in Belgium.

Does the poem seem to you somewhat rough and jerky? It is a ballad, and that fact accounts in part for its style, for ballads are not usually smooth and perfect in structure.

But there is another reason for the jerkiness, if we may call it by so strong a name. Read the first two lines aloud, giving them plenty of swing. Do they not remind you of the galloping of a horse, with their regular rise and fall? A little poet might have attempted to write about this wild midnight ride in the same smooth, flowing style in which he would describe a lazy river slipping over the stones; but Browning was a great poet, and knew how to fit sound to sense. Other poets may excel him in writing of quiet, peaceful scenes, but no one who has ever written could put more dash and vigor into a poem than could Browning.

REMINISCENCES OF A PIONEER[1]

_By_ EDWIN D. COE

My father left his old home in Oneida County, New York, in June, 1839, a young man in his twenty-fourth year. The beauty and fertility of the Rock River valley, in Wisconsin, had been widely proclaimed by participants in the Black Hawk War and in the glowing reports of Government engineers. In fact, the latter declared it to be a very Canaan of promise. As a consequence, hundreds of young people, restless and ambitious, and very many older ones whom the panic of the late 30's had separated from their business moorings, turned their thoughts and then their steps toward the new promised land.

When my father was rowed ashore from the steamer at Milwaukee, he could have taken up "government land" within the present limits of that city, but the bluffs and swamps of the future metropolis had no charms for him compared with the vision he had in mind of the Rock River country. So he crossed Milwaukee River on a ferry at the foot of Wisconsin Street, walked out on a sidewalk quavering on stilts until solid ground was reached at Third Street, and then struck the trail for the west.

[Footnote 1: From the Proceedings of the State Historical Society of Wisconsin, 1907.]

Along the shore of Pewaukee Lake, the traveler met a wolf which bristled and snarled but at last surrendered the right of way before the superior bluff, which was put up against him, backed by a "big stick." That night he stayed with a friend named Terry, who had come West the year before, and preëmpted a piece of land on the east shore rock, about seven miles above Watertown. The next morning he saw on the opposite bank a gently rising slope covered with stately maples and oaks; beneath were the grass and flowers of mid June, and the swift flowing river, clear as a spring brook, was in front, making the scene one of entrancing beauty. It was fully equal to his highest expectations, and he never rested until he had secured title to that particular block of land.

He at once prepared to build a log house, and, after a few days, the neighborhood was invited to the raising. Some men came eight and ten miles, and a big laugh went around when it was found that logs a foot and a half and two feet in diameter had been cut for the house. Four large ones were rolled together for a foundation, and then the inexperienced young man was told that for a house he needed to cut logs half as large, and they would return in a week and raise them. This they did, showing the kindly, helpful spirit of the early settlers.

In August my mother came and brought the household furniture from their Oneida County home, together with a year's provisions. The trip from Milwaukee to their log house, nearly forty miles, took nearly three days by ox team. She was delighted and happy with the building and its surroundings, and never faltered in her love for that first home in the West. A barrel of pork was among the supplies she had brought, and people came as far as twenty miles to beg a little of it, so tired were they of fresh meat from the woods, and fish from the river; and they never went away empty-handed, as long as it lasted.

They came, as I have said, in 1839, and I the year following. There is a vague, misty period at the beginning of every life, as memory rises from mere nothingness to full strength, when it is not easy to say whether the things remembered may not have been heard from the lips of others. But I distinctly recall some very early events, and particularly the disturbance created by my year-old brother, two years younger than myself, when he screamed with pain one evening and held his bare foot up, twisted to one side.

My mother was ill in bed, and the terrified maid summoned my father from outside, with the story that the baby's ankle was out of joint. He hurried in, gave it one look, and, being a hasty, impetuous man, he declared, "Yes, the child's ankle is out of joint; I must go for a doctor;" and in another moment he would have been off on a seven-mile tramp through the dark to Watertown. But the mother, a level-headed woman, experienced in emergencies, called out from her bed, "Wait a minute; bring me the child and a candle;" and a minute later she had discovered a little sliver which pricked him when he set his foot down, and extricated it between thumb and finger. "There," said she; "I don't think you need walk to Water-town to-night."

Indians were so numerous that I don't remember when they first came out of the haze into my consciousness, but probably in my third year. They were Winnebago and Pottawatomi, the river being a common inheritance of both tribes. In the winter of 1839-40, about thirty families of the former tribe camped for several weeks opposite our home and were very sociable and friendly. Diligent hunters and trappers, they accumulated fully a hundred dollars worth of otter, beaver, bear, deer, and other skins. But a trader came up from Watertown in the spring and got the whole lot in exchange for a four-gallon keg of whisky. That was a wild night that followed. Some of the noisiest came over to our house, and when denied admittance threatened to knock the door down, but my father told them he had two guns ready for them, and they finally left. He afterwards said that he depended more on a heavy hickory club which he had on hand than on the guns--it could be fired faster.