Tales of a Wayside Inn by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - HTML preview

Part Third

PRELUDE

The evening came; the golden vane A moment in the sunset glanced, Then darkened, and then gleamed again, As from the east the moon advanced And touched it with a softer light;
While underneath, with flowing mane, Upon the sign the Red Horse pranced, And galloped forth into the night.

But brighter than the afternoon
That followed the dark day of rain, And brighter than the golden vane That glistened in the rising moon, Within the ruddy fire-light gleamed; And every separate window-pane, Backed by the outer darkness, showed A mirror, where the flamelets gleamed And flickered to and fro, and seemed A bonfire lighted in the road.

Amid the hospitable glow,
Like an old actor on the stage, With the uncertain voice of age, The singing chimney chanted low The homely songs of long ago.

The voice that Ossian heard of yore, When midnight winds were in his hall; A ghostly and appealing call,
A sound of days that are no more! And dark as Ossian sat the Jew, And listened to the sound, and knew The passing of the airy hosts,
The gray and misty cloud of ghosts In their interminable flight;
And listening muttered in his beard, With accent indistinct and weird, "Who are ye, children of the Night?" Beholding his mysterious face, "Tell me," the gay Sicilian said, "Why was it that in breaking bread At supper, you bent down your head And, musing, paused a little space, As one who says a silent grace?"

The Jew replied, with solemn air,
"I said the Manichaean's prayer.
It was his faith,--perhaps is mine,--
That life in all its forms is one,
And that its secret conduits run
Unseen, but in unbroken line,
From the great fountain-head divine
Through man and beast, through grain and grass. Howe'er we struggle, strive, and cry,
From death there can be no escape,
And no escape from life, alas
Because we cannot die, but pass
From one into another shape:
It is but into life we die.

"Therefore the Manichaean said
This simple prayer on breaking bread,
Lest he with hasty hand or knife
Might wound the incarcerated life,
The soul in things that we call dead:
'I did not reap thee, did not bind thee,
I did not thrash thee, did not grind thee,
Nor did I in the oven bake thee!
It was not I, it was another
Did these things unto thee, O brother;
I only have thee, hold thee, break thee!'"

"That birds have souls I can concede,"
The poet cried, with glowing cheeks;
"The flocks that from their beds of reed
Uprising north or southward fly,
And flying write upon the sky
The biforked letter of the Greeks,
As hath been said by Rucellai;
All birds that sing or chirp or cry,
Even those migratory bands,
The minor poets of the air,
The plover, peep, and sanderling,
That hardly can be said to sing, But pipe along the barren sands,-- All these have souls akin to ours; So hath the lovely race of flowers: Thus much I grant, but nothing more. The rusty hinges of a door
Are not alive because they creak; This chimney, with its dreary roar, These rattling windows, do not speak!" "To me they speak," the Jew replied; "And in the sounds that sink and soar, I hear the voices of a tide
That breaks upon an unknown shore!"

Here the Sicilian interfered:
"That was your dream, then, as you dozed A moment since, with eyes half-closed, And murmured something in your beard."

The Hebrew smiled, and answered, "Nay; Not that, but something very near; Like, and yet not the same, may seem The vision of my waking dream;
Before it wholly dies away,
Listen to me, and you shall hear."

THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE

 

AZRAEL

King Solomon, before his palace gate At evening, on the pavement tessellate Was walking with a stranger from the East, Arrayed in rich attire as for a feast,
The mighty Runjeet-Sing, a learned man, And Rajah of the realms of Hindostan. And as they walked the guest became aware Of a white figure in the twilight air,
Gazing intent, as one who with surprise His form and features seemed to recognize; And in a whisper to the king he said:
"What is yon shape, that, pallid as the dead, Is watching me, as if he sought to trace In the dim light the features of my face?" The king looked, and replied: "I know him well; It is the Angel men call Azrael,
'T is the Death Angel; what hast thou to fear?" And the guest answered: "Lest he should come near, And speak to me, and take away my breath! Save me from Azrael, save me from death! O king, that hast dominion o'er the wind,
Bid it arise and bear me hence to Ind."

The king gazed upward at the cloudless sky, Whispered a word, and raised his hand on high, And lo! the signet-ring of chrysoprase
On his uplifted finger seemed to blaze
With hidden fire, and rushing from the west There came a mighty wind, and seized the guest And lifted him from earth, and on they passed, His shining garments streaming in the blast, A silken banner o'er the walls upreared, A purple cloud, that gleamed and disappeared. Then said the Angel, smiling: "If this man Be Rajah Runjeet-Sing of Hindostan,
Thou hast done well in listening to his prayer; I was upon my way to seek him there."

INTERLUDE.

"O Edrehi, forbear to-night
Your ghostly legends of affright, And let the Talmud rest in peace; Spare us your dismal tales of death That almost take away one's breath; So doing, may your tribe increase."

Thus the Sicilian said; then went And on the spinet's rattling keys Played Marianina, like a breeze From Naples and the Southern seas, That brings us the delicious scent Of citron and of orange trees, And memories of soft days of ease At Capri and Amalfi spent.

"Not so," the eager Poet said; "At least, not so before I tell
The story of my Azrael,
An angel mortal as ourselves,
Which in an ancient tome I found Upon a convent's dusty shelves,
Chained with an iron chain, and bound In parchment, and with clasps of brass, Lest from its prison, some dark day, It might be stolen or steal away,
While the good friars were singing mass.

"It is a tale of Charlemagne,
When like a thunder-cloud, that lowers And sweeps from mountain-crest to coast, With lightning flaming through its showers, He swept across the Lombard plain, Beleaguering with his warlike train Pavia, the country's pride and boast, The City of the Hundred Towers."
Thus heralded the tale began,
And thus in sober measure ran.

THE POET'S TALE

 

CHARLEMAGNE

Olger the Dane and Desiderio,
King of the Lombards, on a lofty tower Stood gazing northward o'er the rolling plains, League after league of harvests, to the foot Of the snow-crested Alps, and saw approach A mighty army, thronging all the roads That led into the city. And the King
Said unto Olger, who had passed his youth As hostage at the court of France, and knew The Emperor's form and face "Is Charlemagne Among that host?" And Olger answered: "No."

And still the innumerable multitude
Flowed onward and increased, until the King Cried in amazement: "Surely Charlemagne Is coming in the midst of all these knights!" And Olger answered slowly: "No; not yet; He will not come so soon." Then much disturbed King Desiderio asked: "What shall we do, if he approach with a still greater army!" And Olger answered: "When he shall appear, You will behold what manner of man he is; But what will then befall us I know not."

Then came the guard that never knew repose, The Paladins of France; and at the sight The Lombard King o'ercome with terror cried: "This must be Charlemagne!" and as before Did Olger answer: "No; not yet, not yet."

And then appeared in panoply complete The Bishops and the Abbots and the Priests Of the imperial chapel, and the Counts And Desiderio could no more endure
The light of day, nor yet encounter death, But sobbed aloud and said: "Let us go down And hide us in the bosom of the earth, Far from the sight and anger of a foe
So terrible as this!" And Olger said:
"When you behold the harvests in the fields Shaking with fear, the Po and the Ticino Lashing the city walls with iron waves, Then may you know that Charlemagne is come. And even as he spake, in the northwest, Lo! there uprose a black and threatening cloud, Out of whose bosom flashed the light of arms Upon the people pent up in the city;
A light more terrible than any darkness; And Charlemagne appeared;--a Man of Iron!

His helmet was of iron, and his gloves
Of iron, and his breastplate and his greaves And tassets were of iron, and his shield.
In his left hand he held an iron spear,
In his right hand his sword invincible.
The horse he rode on had the strength of iron, And color of iron. All who went before him Beside him and behind him, his whole host, Were armed with iron, and their hearts within them Were stronger than the armor that they wore. The fields and all the roads were filled with iron, And points of iron glistened in the sun
And shed a terror through the city streets.

This at a single glance Olger the Dane Saw from the tower, and turning to the King Exclaimed in haste: "Behold! this is the man You looked for with such eagerness!" and then Fell as one dead at Desiderio's feet.

INTERLUDE

Well pleased all listened to the tale, That drew, the Student said, its pith And marrow from the ancient myth Of some one with an iron flail;
Or that portentous Man of Brass
Hephaestus made in days of yore,
Who stalked about the Cretan shore, And saw the ships appear and pass, And threw stones at the Argonauts, Being filled with indiscriminate ire
That tangled and perplexed his thoughts; But, like a hospitable host,
When strangers landed on the coast, Heated himself red-hot with fire,
And hugged them in his arms, and pressed Their bodies to his burning breast.

The Poet answered: "No, not thus The legend rose; it sprang at first Out of the hunger and the thirst
In all men for the marvellous.
And thus it filled and satisfied
The imagination of mankind,
And this ideal to the mind
Was truer than historic fact.
Fancy enlarged and multiplied
The tenors of the awful name
Of Charlemagne, till he became
Armipotent in every act,
And, clothed in mystery, appeared Not what men saw, but what they feared. Besides, unless my memory fail,
Your some one with an iron flail
Is not an ancient myth at all,
But comes much later on the scene As Talus in the Faerie Queene,
The iron groom of Artegall,
Who threshed out falsehood and deceit, And truth upheld, and righted wrong, As was, as is the swallow, fleet, And as the lion is, was strong."

The Theologian said: "Perchance Your chronicler in writing this
Had in his mind the Anabasis,
Where Xenophon describes the advance Of Artaxerxes to the fight;
At first the low gray cloud of dust, And then a blackness o'er the fields As of a passing thunder-gust,
Then flash of brazen armor bright, And ranks of men, and spears up-thrust, Bowmen and troops with wicker shields, And cavalry equipped in white,
And chariots ranged in front of these With scythes upon their axle-trees."

To this the Student answered: "Well, I also have a tale to tell
Of Charlemagne; a tale that throws A softer light, more tinged with rose, Than your grim apparition cast Upon the darkness of the past. Listen, and hear in English rhyme What the good Monk of Lauresheim Gives as the gossip of his time, In mediaeval Latin prose."

THE STUDENT'S TALE

 

EMMA AND EGINHARD

When Alcuin taught the sons of Charlemagne, In the free schools of Aix, how kings should reign, And with them taught the children of the poor How subjects should be patient and endure, He touched the lips of some, as best befit, With honey from the hives of Holy Writ;
Others intoxicated with the wine
Of ancient history, sweet but less divine; Some with the wholesome fruits of grammar fed; Others with mysteries of the stars o'er-head, That hang suspended in the vaulted sky Like lamps in some fair palace vast and high.

In sooth, it was a pleasant sight to see That Saxon monk, with hood and rosary, With inkhorn at his belt, and pen and book, And mingled lore and reverence in his look, Or hear the cloister and the court repeat The measured footfalls of his sandaled feet, Or watch him with the pupils of his school, Gentle of speech, but absolute of rule.

Among them, always earliest in his place. Was Eginhard, a youth of Frankish race, Whose face was bright with flashes that forerun The splendors of a yet unrisen sun.
To him all things were possible, and seemed Not what he had accomplished, but had dreamed, And what were tasks to others were his play, The pastime of an idle holiday.

Smaragdo, Abbot of St. Michael's, said,
With many a shrug and shaking of the head, Surely some demon must possess the lad, Who showed more wit than ever schoolboy had, And learned his Trivium thus without the rod; But Alcuin said it was the grace of God.

Thus he grew up, in Logic point-device,
Perfect in Grammar, and in Rhetoric nice; Science of Numbers, Geometric art,
And lore of Stars, and Music knew by heart; A Minnesinger, long before the times
Of those who sang their love in Suabian rhymes.

The Emperor, when he heard this good report Of Eginhard much buzzed about the court, Said to bimself, "This stripling seems to be Purposely sent into the world for me;
He shall become my scribe, and shall be schooled In all the arts whereby the world is ruled." Thus did the gentle Eginhard attain
To honor in the court of Charlemagne;
Became the sovereign's favorite, his right hand, So that his fame was great in all the land, And all men loved him for his modest grace And comeliness of figure and of face.
An inmate of the palace, yet recluse,
A man of books, yet sacred from abuse Among the armed knights with spur on heel, The tramp of horses and the clang of steel; And as the Emperor promised he was schooled In all the arts by which the world is ruled. But the one art supreme, whose law is fate, The Emperor never dreamed of till too late.

Home from her convent to the palace came The lovely Princess Emma, whose sweet name, Whispered by seneschal or sung by bard, Had often touched the soul of Eginhard. He saw her from his window, as in state She came, by knights attended through the gate; He saw her at the banquet of that day,
Fresh as the morn, and beautiful as May; He saw her in the garden, as she strayed Among the flowers of summer with her maid, And said to him, "O Eginhard, disclose
The meaning and the mystery of the rose"; And trembling he made answer: "In good sooth, Its mystery is love, its meaning youth!"

How can I tell the signals and the signs By which one heart another heart divines? How can I tell the many thousand ways By which it keeps the secret it betrays?

O mystery of love! O strange romance!
Among the Peers and Paladins of France, Shining in steel, and prancing on gay steeds, Noble by birth, yet nobler by great deeds, The Princess Emma had no words nor looks But for this clerk, this man of thought and books.

The summer passed, the autumn came; the stalks Of lilies blackened in the garden walks;
The leaves fell, russet-golden and blood-red, Love-letters thought the poet fancy-led,
Or Jove descending in a shower of gold
Into the lap of Danae of old;
For poets cherish many a strange conceit, And love transmutes all nature by its heat. No more the garden lessons, nor the dark And hurried meetings in the twilight park; But now the studious lamp, and the delights Of firesides in the silent winter nights,
And watching from his window hour by hour The light that burned in Princess Emma's tower.

At length one night, while musing by the fire, O'ercome at last by his insane desire,--
For what will reckless love not do and dare?-- He crossed the court, and climbed the winding stair, With some feigned message in the Emperor's name; But when he to the lady's presence came
He knelt down at her feet, until she laid
Her hand upon him, like a naked blade,
And whispered in his ear: "Arise, Sir Knight, To my heart's level, O my heart's delight."

And there he lingered till the crowing cock, The Alectryon of the farmyard and the flock, Sang his aubade with lusty voice and clear, To tell the sleeping world that dawn was near. And then they parted; but at parting, lo!
They saw the palace courtyard white with snow, And, placid as a nun, the moon on high
Gazing from cloudy cloisters of the sky.
"Alas!" he said, "how hide the fatal line
Of footprints leading from thy door to mine, And none returning!" Ah, he little knew
What woman's wit, when put to proof, can do!

That night the Emperor, sleepless with the cares And troubles that attend on state affairs, Had risen before the dawn, and musing gazed Into the silent night, as one amazed
To see the calm that reigned o'er all supreme, When his own reign was but a troubled dream. The moon lit up the gables capped with snow, And the white roofs, and half the court below, And he beheld a form, that seemed to cower Beneath a burden, come from Emma's tower,-- A woman, who upon her shoulders bore Clerk Eginhard to his own private door, And then returned in haste, but still essayed To tread the footprints she herself had made; And as she passed across the lighted space, The Emperor saw his daughter Emma's face!

He started not; he did not speak or moan, But seemed as one who hath been turned to stone; And stood there like a statue, nor awoke
Out of his trance of pain, till morning broke, Till the stars faded, and the moon went down, And o'er the towers and steeples of the town Came the gray daylight; then the sun, who took The empire of the world with sovereign look, Suffusing with a soft and golden glow
All the dead landscape in its shroud of snow, Touching with flame the tapering chapel spires, Windows and roofs, and smoke of household fires, And kindling park and palace as he came; The stork's nest on the chimney seemed in flame. And thus he stood till Eginhard appeared, Demure and modest with his comely beard And flowing flaxen tresses, come to ask,
As was his wont, the day's appointed task.

The Emperor looked upon him with a smile, And gently said: "My son, wait yet awhile; This hour my council meets upon some great And very urgent business of the state.
Come back within the hour. On thy return The work appointed for thee shalt thou learn.

Having dismissed this gallant Troubadour, He summoned straight his council, and secure And steadfast in his purpose, from the throne All the adventure of the night made known; Then asked for sentence; and with eager breath Some answered banishment, and others death.

Then spake the king: "Your sentence is not mine; Life is the gift of God, and is divine;
Nor from these palace walls shall one depart Who carries such a secret in his heart;
My better judgment points another way. Good Alcuin, I remember how one day
When my Pepino asked you, 'What are men?' You wrote upon his tablets with your pen, 'Guests of the grave and travellers that pass!' This being true of all men, we, alas!
Being all fashioned of the selfsame dust, Let us be merciful as well as just;
This passing traveller, who hath stolen away The brightest jewel of my crown to-day,
Shall of himself the precious gem restore; By giving it, I make it mine once more.
Over those fatal footprints I will throw
My ermine mantle like another snow."

Then Eginhard was summoned to the hall, And entered, and in presence of them all, The Emperor said: "My son, for thou to me Hast been a son, and evermore shalt be, Long hast thou served thy sovereign, and thy zeal Pleads to me with importunate appeal,
While I have been forgetful to requite
Thy service and affection as was right.
But now the hour is come, when I, thy Lord, Will crown thy love with such supreme reward, A gift so precious kings have striven in vain To win it from the hands of Charlemagne."

Then sprang the portals of the chamber wide, And Princess Emma entered, in the pride Of birth and beauty, that in part o'er-came The conscious terror and the blush of shame. And the good Emperor rose up from his throne, And taking her white hand within his own Placed it in Eginhard's, and said: "My son This is the gift thy constant zeal hath won; Thus I repay the royal debt I owe,
And cover up the footprints in the snow."

INTERLUDE

Tnus ran the Student's pleasant rhyme Of Eginhard and love and youth; Some doubted its historic truth, But while they doubted, ne'ertheless Saw in it gleams of truthfulness, And thanked the Monk of Lauresheim.

This they discussed in various mood; Then in the silence that ensued Was heard a sharp and sudden sound As of a bowstring snapped in air;
And the Musician with a bound
Sprang up in terror from his chair, And for a moment listening stood, Then strode across the room, and found His dear, his darling violin
Still lying safe asleep within
Its little cradle, like a child
That gives a sudden cry of pain,
And wakes to fall asleep again;
And as he looked at it and smiled, By the uncertain light beguiled,
Despair! two strings were broken in twain.

While all lamented and made moan, With many a sympathetic word
As if the loss had been their own,
Deeming the tones they might have heard Sweeter than they had heard before, They saw the Landlord at the door, The missing man, the portly Squire! He had not entered, but he stood
With both arms full of seasoned wood, To feed the much-devouring fire,
That like a lion in a cage
Lashed its long tail and roared with rage.

The missing man! Ah, yes, they said, Missing, but whither had he fled? Where had he hidden himself away? No farther than the barn or shed; He had not hidden himself, nor fled; How should he pass the rainy day But in his barn with hens and hay, Or mending harness, cart, or sled? Now, having come, he needs must stay And tell his tale as well as they.

The Landlord answered only: "These Are logs from the dead apple-trees Of the old orchard planted here
By the first Howe of Sudbury.
Nor oak nor maple has so clear A flame, or burns so quietly,
Or leaves an ash so clean and white"; Thinking by this to put aside
The impending tale that terrified; When suddenly, to his delight,
The Theologian interposed,
Saying that when the door was closed, And they had stopped that draft of cold, Unpleasant night air, he proposed To tell a tale world-wide apart
From that the Student had just told; World-wide apart, and yet akin,
As showing that the human heart Beats on forever as of old,
As well beneath the snow-white fold Of Quaker kerchief, as within
Sendal or silk or cloth of gold,
And without preface would begin.

And then the clamorous clock struck eight, Deliberate, with sonorous chime
Slow measuring out the march of time, Like some grave Consul of old Rome In Jupiter's temple driving home
The nails that marked the year and date. Thus interrupted in his rhyme,
The Theologian needs must wait;
But quoted Horace, where he sings The dire Necessity of things,
That drives into the roofs sublime
Of new-built houses of the great
The adamantine nails of Fate.

When ceased the little carillon To herald from its wooden tower The important transit of the hour, The Theologian hastened on, Content to be all owed at last To sing his Idyl of the Past.

THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE

 

ELIZABETH

I "Ah, how short are the days! How soon the night overtakes us! In the old country the twilight is longer; but here in the forest
Suddenly comes the dark, with hardly a pause in its coming,
Hardly a moment between the two lights, the day and the lamplight; Yet how grand is the winter! How spotless the snow is, and perfect!"

Thus spake Elizabeth Haddon at nightfall to Hannah the housemaid, As in the farm-house kitchen, that served for kitchen and parlor, By the window she sat with her work, and looked on a landscape White as the great white sheet that Peter saw in his vision,
By the four corners let down and descending out of the heavens. Covered with snow were the forests of pine, and the fields and the meadows. Nothing was dark but the sky, and the distant Delaware flowing Down from its native hills, a peaceful and bountiful river.

Then with a smile on her lips made answer Hannah the housemaid: "Beautiful winter! yea, the winter is beautiful, surely,
If one could only walk like a fly with one's feet on the ceiling.
But the great Delaware River is not like the Thames, as we saw it Out of our upper windows in Rotherhithe Street in the Borough, Crowded with masts and sails of vessels coming and going;
Here there is nothing but pines, with patches of snow on their branches. There is snow in the air, and see! it is falling already;
All the roads will be blocked, and I pity Joseph to-morrow,
Breaking his way through the drifts, with his sled and oxen; and then, too, How in all the world shall we get to Meeting on First-Day?"

But Elizabeth checked her, and answered, mildly reproving:
"Surely the Lord will provide; for unto the snow he sayeth,
Be thou on the earth, the good Lord sayeth; he is it
Giveth snow like wool, like ashes scatters the hoar-frost."
So she folded her work and laid it away in her basket.

Meanwhile Hannah the housemaid had closed and fastened the shutters, Spread the cloth, and lighted the lamp on the table, and placed there Plates and cups from the dresser, the brown rye loaf, and the butter Fresh from the dairy, and then, protecting her hand with a holder, Took from the crane in the chimney the steaming and simmering kettle, Poised it aloft in the air, and filled up the earthen teapot,
Made in Delft, and adorned with quaint and wonderful figures.

Then Elizabeth said, "Lo! Joseph is long on his errand.
I have sent him away with a hamper of food and of clothing
For the poor in the village. A good lad and cheerful is Joseph; In the right place is his heart, and his hand is ready and willing."

Thus in praise of her servant she spake, and Hannah the housemaid Laughed with her eyes, as she listened, but governed her tongue, and was silent, While her mistress went on: "The house is far from the village;
We should be lonely here, were it not for Friends that in passing
Sometimes tarry o'ernight, and make us glad by their coming."

Thereupon answered Hannah the housemaid, the thrifty, the frugal: "Yea, they come and they tarry, as if thy house were a tavern;
Open to all are its doors, and they come and go like the pigeons
In and out of the holes of the pigeon-house over the hayloft,
Cooing and smoothing their feathers and basking themselves in the sunshine."

But in meekness of spirit, and calmly, Elizabeth answered:
"All I ha