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 fashions have changed and the manners, Fathers may talk to their sons of the good old times of John Alden!' 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 arins 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 Lo! when the service was ended, a form appeared on the threshold, Clad in armor of steel, a sombre and sorrowful figure! 20 Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the strange apparition ? Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her face on his shoulder? Is it a phantom of air,- -a bodiless, spectral illusion? Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to forbid the betrothal ? Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited, unwelcomed; Over its clouded eyes there had passed at times an expression Softening the gloom and revealing the warm heart hidden beneath them, As when across the sky the driving rack of the rain-cloud Grows for a moment thin, and betrays the 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: 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 shail 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 On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; Who remembers that famous day and year. ΤΟ One, if by land, and two, if by sea; Then he said, 'Good-night!' and with muffled oar 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 ydbury as The Squire.' Proud was he or his name and race, Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh, And in the parlor, full in view, His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, Upon the wall in colors blazed; 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. |