Meanwhile Alden at home had built him a new habitation, Solid, substantial, of timber rough-hewn from the firs of the forest. Wooden-barred was the door, and the roof was covered with rushes; Latticed the windows were, and the window-panes were of paper, Oiled to admit the light, while wind and rain were excluded. 20 There too he dug a well, and around it planted an orchard: Still may be seen to this day some trace of the well and the orchard. Close to the house was the stall, where, safe and secure from annoyance, Raghorn, the snow-white bull, that had fallen to Alden's allotment In the division of cattle, might ruminate in the night-time Over the pastures he cropped, made frágrant by sweet pennyroyal. Oft when his labor was finished, with eager feet would the dreamer Follow the pathway that ran through the woods to the house of Priscilla, Ever of her he thought, when he read in his Bible on Sunday Praise of the virtuous woman, as she is described in the Proverbs, How the heart of her husband doth safely trust in her always, How all the days of her life she will do him good, and not evil, How she seeketh the wool and the flax and worketh with gladness, How she layeth her hand to the spindle and holdeth the distaff, How she is not afraid of the snow for herself or her household, Knowing her household are clothed with the scarlet cloth of her weaving! 40 So as she sat at her wheel one afternoon in the Autumn, Alden, who opposite sat, and was watching her dexterous fingers, As if the thread she was spinning were that of his life and his fortune, After a pause in their talk, thus spake to the sound of the spindle. Truly, Priscilla,' he said, when I see you spinning and spinning, Never idle a moment, but thrifty and thoughtful of others, Suddenly you are transformed, are visibly changed in a moment; You are no longer Priscilla, but Bertha the Beautiful Spinner.' Here the light foot on the treadle grew swifter and swifter; the spindle Uttered an angry snarl, and the thread snapped short in her fingers; While the impetuous speaker, not heeding the mischief, continued: 'You are the beautiful Bertha, the spinner, the queen of Helvetia; 50 She whose story I read at a stall in the streets of Southampton, Who, as she rode on her palfrey, o'er valley and meadow and mountain, Ever was spinning her thread from a distaff fixed to her saddle. Pleased with the praise of her thrift from him whose praise was the sweetest, Drew from the reel on the table a snowy skein of her spinning, Thus making answer, meanwhile, to the flattering phrases of Alden; 'Come, you must not be idle; if I am a pattern for housewives, Show yourself equally worthy of being the model of husbands. Hold this skein on your hands, while I wind it, ready for knitting; Then who knows but hereafter, when fash ions have changed and the manners, Fathers may talk to their sons of the good old times of John Alden!' Thus, with a jest and a laugh, the skein on his hands she adjusted, 70 He, sitting awkwardly there, with his arms extended before him, She, standing graceful, erect, and winding the thread from his fingers, Sometimes chiding a little his clumsy manner of holding, Sometimes touching his hands, as she disentangled expertly Twist or knot in the yarn, unawares how could she help it? Sending electrical thrills through every nerve in his body. Such were the tidings of evil that burst on the hearts of the hearers. Silent and statue-like stood Priscilla, her face looking backward Still at the face of the speaker, her arms uplifted in horror; But John Alden, upstarting, as if the barb of the arrow Piercing the heart of his friend had struck his own, and had sundered Once and forever the bonds that held him bound as a captive, Wild with excess of sensation, the awful delight of his freedom, Mingled with pain and regret, unconscious of what he was doing, 90 THE WEDDING-DAY FORTH from the curtain of clouds, from the tent of purple and scarlet, Issued the sun, the great High-Priest, in his garments resplendent, Holiness unto the Lord, in letters of light, on his forehead, Round the hem of his robe the golden bells and pomegranates. Blessing the world he came, and the bars of vapor beneath him Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together. Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they crossed the ford in the forest, Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream of love, through its bosom, Tremulous, floating in air, o'er the depths of the azure abysses. Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendors, Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches above them suspended, Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir-tree, Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of Eshcol. Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral ages, Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac, 90 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR1 BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, 1 The ideal commentary on this poem is found in a letter of Longfellow's To Emily A- -,' August 18, 1859: 'Your letter followed me down here by the seaside, where I am passing the summer with my three little girls. The oldest is about your age; but as little girls' ages keep changing every year, I can never remember exactly how old she is, and have to ask her mamma, who has a better memory than I have. Her name is Alice; I never forget that. She is a nice girl, and loves poetry almost as much as you do. The second is Edith, with blue eyes and beautiful Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour. golden locks which I sometimes call her "nankeen hair" to make her laugh. She is a very busy little woman, and wears gray boots. The youngest is Allegra; which, you know, means merry; and she is the merriest little thing you ever saw, always singing and laughing all over the house. I do not say anything about the two boys. They are such noisy fellows it is of no use to talk about them.' (Life, vol. ii. pp. 392-93.) Longfellow and Victor Hugo may perhaps be called the two greatest poets of childhood, and Victor Hugo's letters to his own children are strikingly like the one just quoted. I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, From my study I see in the lamplight, A whisper, and then a silence: 10 Yet I know by their merry eyes A sudden rush from the stairway, They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine! Is not a match for you all! I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, And there will I keep you forever, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 1859. PAUL REVERE'S RIDE1 20 30 40 1860. LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 1 It is possible that Mr. Longfellow derived the story from Paul Revere's account of the incident in a letter to Dr. Jeremy Belknap, printed in Mass. Hist. Coll. V. Mr. Frothingham, in his Siege of Boston, pp. 57-59, gives the story mainly according to a memorandum of Richard Devens, Revere's friend and associate. The publication of Mr. Longfellow's poem called out a protracted discussion both as to the church from which Then he said, 'Good-night!' and with Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, the signals were hung, and as to the friend who hung the lanterns. The subject is discussed and authorities cited in Memorial History of Boston, iii, 101. (Cambridge Edition, p. 668.) 'Paul Revere's Ride' is the first story in the Tales of a Wayside Inn, a series of tales in verse set in a frame-work something like that of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, and supposed to be told by a group of friends gathered at the Red-Horse Inn at Sudbury, about twenty miles from Cambridge. The story of Paul Revere is told by the landlord, whose portrait is thus drawn in the Prelude: ' But first the Landlord will I trace; A man of ancient pedigree, A Justice of the Peace was he, Known in all Sudbury as The Squire.' Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh, And in the parlor, full in view, His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, He beareth gules upon his shield, A chevron argent in the field, With three wolf's-heads, and for the crest The scroll reads, By the name of Howe.' |