Elson Grammer School Literature, Book Four.

W >> William H. Elson and Christine Keck >> Elson Grammer School Literature, Book Four.

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HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes and Questions.

What does the word nautilus mean?

What thought must have been in the mind of those who gave the chambered
nautilus this name?

Who does Holmes tell us have given expression to this fancy?

Can you think of any bodies of water which might be called "enchanted
gulfs"?

Give reasons for your answer.

What are coral reefs? Where are they found?

What kind of beings--were "sea-maids" supposed to be?

What are they more commonly called?

To whom is the poet speaking?

What name do we give to such a speech?

How does the soul build mansions?

In what directions must a dome be extended to make it "more vast"?

What does the poet mean by the "outgrown shell" of the soul?

What is the lesson of the poem?

Which stanza do you like best? Why?

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl"
"dim dreaming life"
"sunless crypt"
"caves of thought"
"lustrous coil"
"cast from her lap forlorn"
"low-vaulted past"
"irised ceiling"
"life's unresting sea"

* * * * *

THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE: OR THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY"

A LOGICAL STORY

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It 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-town
Saw 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-day
That 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 plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where 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 axe 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 hide
Found 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 guess
She 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 shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;--it came and found
The 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 came fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.

Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without 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 art
Had made it so like in every part
That 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 doubt
In 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 perplexed
At 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.

HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes and Questions.

How does Holmes account for the fact "that a chaise breaks down, but
doesn't wear out"?

What kind of chaise did the Deacon decide to build?

On what principle did he expect to do this?

Read the lines in which the Deacon states the result of his experience with
chaises.

What do you think of his reasoning?

To what besides the building of a chaise might this principle be applied?

To what does the poet compare the breaking down of the chaise?

Read lines which show the serious side of the poet's nature.

Read the lines by means of which he passes from seriousness to jest.

Do you think Holmes expects his readers to believe this story? Give reason
for your answer.

What was his purpose in writing it?

What has the reading of this poem done for you?

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"Georgius Secundus"
"Lisbon earthquake day"
"from the German hive"
"Braddock's army"

* * * * *

OLD IRONSIDES

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky:
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon's roar:--
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee;--
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

O better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave:
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!

HELPS TO STUDY.

Historical: Old Ironsides was the name given the frigate Constitution. It
was proposed by the Secretary of the Navy to dispose of the ship as it had
become unfit for service. Popular sentiment did not approve of this. It was
said a ship which was the pride of the nation should continue to be the
property of the Navy and be rebuilt for service when needed. Holmes wrote
this poem at the time of this discussion.

Notes and Questions.

Of what does the first stanza treat?

The second?

What does the third stanza tell you?

To what does "tattered ensign" refer?

What is "The meteor of the ocean air"?

What is meant by lines 15 and 16?

Where does Holmes say should be the grave of Old Ironsides? Why?

Explain lines 23 and 24.

Which lines do you like best? Why?

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"sweep the clouds"
"conquered knee"
"mighty deep"
"vanquished foe"
"The god of storms"
"threadbare sail"
"victor's tread"
"shattered hulk"

* * * * *

THE BOYS

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?
If there has, take him out, without making a noise.
Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite!
Old Time is a liar! We're twenty tonight!

We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more?
He's tipsy,--young jackanapes!--show him the door!
"Gray temples at twenty?"--Yes! _white_ if we please;
Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze!

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!
Look close,--you will see not a sign of a flake!
We want some new garlands for those we have shed,--
And these are white roses in place of the red.

We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told,
Of talking (in public) as if we were old:--
That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge";
It's a neat little fiction,--of course it's all fudge.

That fellow's the "Speaker,"--the one on the right;
"Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you tonight?
That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff;
There's the "Reverend" What's his name?--don't make me laugh.

That boy with the grave mathematical look
Made believe he had written a wonderful book,
And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was _true!_
So they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too!

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain,
That could harness a team with a logical chain;
When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire,
We called him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire."

And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith,--
Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith;
But he shouted a song for the brave and the free,--
Just read on his medal, "My country, ... of thee!"

You hear that boy laughing?--You think he's all fun;
But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done;
The children laugh loud as they troop to his call,
And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!

Yes, we're boys,--always playing with tongue or with pen,--
And I sometimes have asked,--Shall we ever be men?
Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay,
Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?

Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!
The stars of its winter, the dews of its May!
And when we have done with our life-lasting toys,
Dear Father, take care of thy children, THE BOYS.

HELPS TO STUDY.

Historical: This poem was read by Oliver Wendell Holmes at a reunion of his
college class thirty years after their graduation.

Notes and Questions.

Who were "the boys"?

What was the "Almanac's cheat"?

What catalogue do you think Holmes meant?

How could it be interpreted as showing spite against "the boys"?

How did the poet defend "gray temples at twenty"?

What was the significance in early times of the garland or wreath upon the
head?

What do you think the garlands which the poet imagines his classmates "have
shed" represent?

Of what does Holmes say their new garlands were made?

What might the "new garlands" represent?

What fancy does the poet carry out in the next stanza?

What song did the "nice youngster" write?

What is his full name?

What word is omitted from the line of the song quoted by Holmes?

How do you think Holmes felt toward the laughing "boy"? Why do you think
so?

Can you name anything besides, "tongue and pen" with which men may be said
to play?

What time of life is meant by the "gold"? By the "gray"?

How much of this poem is fun?

Which stanza do you like best? Why?

What do you know about Oliver Wendell Holmes from this poem?

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"Royal Society"
"three-decker brain"
"excellent pith"
"life-lasting toys"

* * * * *

THE LAST LEAF

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

I saw him once before,
As he passed by the door,
And again
The pavement stones resound,
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.

They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the Crier on his round
Through the town.

But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets
Sad and wan,
And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
"They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has prest
In their bloom,
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said,--
Poor old lady, she is dead
Long ago,--
That he had a Roman nose
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff,
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.

I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here;
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer!

And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.

HELPS TO STUDY.

Notes and Questions.

What was the office of the Crier?

What has done away with the necessity for such service?

At what time was the costume described in the seventh stanza worn?

What great men can you mention who are pictured in this dress?

What makes the description of the old man so vivid?

How does he resemble "the last leaf on the tree"?

Of whom is Holmes thinking when he says "Let them smile"?

What is added to the picture of the last leaf by the words "Is the spring"?

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"pruning knife of Time"
"mossy marbles"

* * * * *

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL was born at Cambridge in the beautiful house known as
Elmwood. He was more fortunate than most Americans, for in this same house
he lived and died. The dwelling at Elmwood was like Craigie House, an
historic place of Revolutionary memories. The secluded, ample grounds made
a fine rural refuge for a youth of poetic fancies. Nor was there only
wealth for the nature-lover of outdoors; there were also treasures for the
lover of books within. The Lowell library was the accumulation of several
generations of scholarly men, and Lowell from early youth was familiar with
books which Whittier even in the studious leisure of old age never looked
into.

Lowell was twelve years younger than Longfellow and was a sophomore when
Longfellow went to Harvard as professor of Romance languages. At Harvard
Lowell distinguished himself especially in literary matters. In the last
year of his residence he was one of the editors of the college magazine and
was also elected class poet. Although he studied law, he was never
attracted to the practice of it.

Lowell, like Whittier, could turn from the heat and strife of public
affairs to the solace of pure poetry. Inspired by the legend of the Holy
Grail, he wrote within forty-eight hours, so we are told, the poem of
knightly aspiration and brotherly love, "The Vision of Sir Launfal."

In 1856, upon Longfellow's resignation, Lowell was appointed professor of
Romance Languages at Harvard, and, like Longfellow, he remained for twenty
years. In 1857 a new magazine to which Holmes had given the name "Atlantic
Monthly" was established and Lowell was its first editor.

In 1877 Lowell was appointed minister to Spain, where Irving had been sent
more than thirty years before; and in 1880 he was transferred to the court
of St. James. Here he distinguished himself by tact, courtesy, and wisdom
and won the admiration of the English people.

Returning to America in 1885 Lowell continued to write, and delivered
addresses when his strength would permit. He spent his time among his books
and lived peacefully at Elmwood, where he died in 1891 at the age of
seventy-two.

* * * * *

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

PRELUDE TO PART FIRST

Over his keys the musing organist.
Beginning doubtfully and far away,
First lets his fingers wander as they list,
And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay:

Then, as the touch of his loved instrument
Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme,
First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent
Along the wavering vista of his dream.

* * * * *

Not only around our infancy
Doth heaven with all its splendors lie;
Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,
We Sinais climb and know it not.
Over our manhood bend the skies;
Against our fallen and traitor lives
The great winds utter prophecies;
With our faint hearts the mountain strives;
Its arms outstretched, the Druid wood
Waits with its benedicite;
And to our age's drowsy blood
Still shouts the inspiring sea.
Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us;
The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in,
The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us.
We bargain for the graves we lie in;
At the Devil's booth are all things sold,
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;
For a cap and bells our lives we pay,
Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking:
'Tis heaven alone that is given away,
'Tis only God may be had for the asking;
No price is set on the lavish summer;
June may be had by the poorest comer.

And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf or a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,--
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;
The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For other couriers we should not lack;
We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,--
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how:
Everything is happy now,
Everything is upward striving;
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,--
'Tis the natural way of living:
Who knows whither the clouds have fled?
In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake;
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;
The soul partakes the season's youth,
And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.
What wonder if Sir Launfal now
Remembered the keeping of his vow?

PART FIRST

I.

"My golden spurs now bring to me,
And bring to me my richest mail,
For tomorrow I go over land and sea
In search of the Holy Grail;
Shall never a bed for me be spread,
Nor shall a pillow be under my head,
Till I begin my vow to keep;
Here on the rushes will I sleep,
And perchance there may come a vision true
Ere day create the world anew."
Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim,
Slumber fell like a cloud on him,
And into his soul the vision flew.

II.

The crows flapped over by twos and threes,
In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees,
The little birds sang as if it were
The one day of summer in all the year,
And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees;
The castle alone in the landscape lay
Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray:
'Twas the proudest hall in the North Countree,
And never its gates might opened be,
Save to lord or lady of high degree;
Summer besieged it on every side,
But the churlish stone her assaults defied;
She could not scale the chilly wall,
Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall
Stretched left and right,
Over the hills and out of sight;
Green and broad was every tent,
And out of each a murmur went
Till the breeze fell off at night.

III.

The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang,
And through the dark arch a charger sprang,
Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight,
In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright
It seemed the dark castle had gathered all
Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall
In his siege of three hundred summers long,
And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf,
Had cast them forth: so, young and strong,
And lightsome as a locust-leaf,
Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail,
To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail.

IV.

It was morning on hill and stream and tree,
And morning in the young knight's heart;
Only the castle moodily
Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free,
And gloomed by itself apart;
The season brimmed all other things up
Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup.

V.

As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate,
He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by the same,
Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate;
And a loathing over Sir Launfal came;
The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill,
The flesh 'neath his armor did shrink and crawl,
And midway its leap his heart stood still
Like a frozen waterfall;
For this man, so foul and bent of stature,
Rasped harshly against his dainty nature,
And seemed the one blot on the summer morn,--
So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.

VI.

The leper raised not the gold from the dust:
"Better to me the poor man's crust,
Better the blessing of the poor,
Though I turn me empty from his door;
That is no true alms which the hand can hold;
He gives nothing but worthless gold
Who gives from a sense of duty;
But he who gives but a slender mite,
And gives to that which is out of sight,
That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty
Which runs through all and doth all unite,--
The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms,
The heart outstretches its eager palms,
For a god goes with it and makes it store
To the soul that was starving in darkness before."

PRELUDE TO PART SECOND

Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak,
From the snow five thousand summers old;
On open wold and hilltop bleak
It had gathered all the cold,
And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek;
It carried a shiver everywhere
From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare;
The little brook heard it and built a roof
'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof;
All night by the white stars' frosty gleams
He groined his arches and matched his beams;
Slender and clear were his crystal spars
As the lashes of light that trim the stars;
He sculptured every summer delight
In his halls and chambers out of sight;
Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt
Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt,
Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees
Bending to counterfeit a breeze;
Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew
But silvery mosses that downward grew;
Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief
With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf;
Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear
For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here
He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops
And hung them thickly with diamond-drops,
That crystalled the beams of moon and sun,
And made a star of every one:
No mortal builder's most rare device
Could match this winter-palace of ice;
'Twas as if every image that mirrored lay
In his depths serene through the summer day,
Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky,
Lest the happy model should be lost,
Had been mimicked in fairy masonry
By the elfin builders of the frost.

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