Journeys Through Bookland Volume V Part 29

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 Nors.e.m.e.n!-- When on the white sea-strand, Waving his armed hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty hors.e.m.e.n.

"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-s.h.i.+ps 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 sh.o.r.e 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 Nors.e.m.e.n when they visited this country.

That is the tower to which Longfellow refers here.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: THREE WEEKS WE WESTWARD BORE]

"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.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: Round Tower at Newport]

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 c.o.c.ks 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 b.u.t.ting 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 p.r.i.c.ked 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 Ha.s.selt 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: I CAST LOOSE MY BUFF-COAT]

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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: GHENT]

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 partic.i.p.ants 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 ash.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.e 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 preempted a piece of land on the east sh.o.r.e 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 gra.s.s 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 t.i.tle 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.