Thou art the go-between of rustic lovers; Thy white bark has their secrets in its keeping; Thou art to me like my beloved maiden, So frankly coy, so full of trembly confidences; Ov'id, a Roman poet. Lowell thinks | Dry'ad, a wood nymph, whose life was that Ovid would have made some bound up with that of her tree. such pretty story as this about the Na'iad, a water nymph. tree. THE MIND WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE FOR 'tis the mind that makes the body rich : So honor peereth in the meanest habit. What! is the jay more precious than the lark, Or is the adder better than the eel, Because his painted skin contents the eyes? peer'eth, appears; may be seen, although poorly clothed. THE SHIPWRECK CHARLES READE This selection is from "The Cloister and the Hearth," one of the great historical novels. The event described is supposed to have taken place soon after the middle of the fifteenth century. THE natives of a little maritime place between Naples and Rome were flocking to the beach, with eyes cast seaward at a ship that labored against a stiff gale blowing dead on the shore. At times she seemed likely to weather the danger, and then the spectators congratulated her aloud; at others the wind and sea drove her visibly nearer, and the lookers-on were not without a secret satisfaction they would not have owned even to themselves. The poor ship, though not scientifically built for sailing, was admirably constructed for going ashore, with her extravagant poop that caught the wind, and her lines like a cocked hat reversed. To those on the beach, that battered, laboring frame of wood seemed alive and struggling against death with a panting heart. But could they have been transferred to her deck, they would have seen she had not one beating heart, but many, and not one nature, but a score, were coming out clear in that fearful hour. The mariners stumbled wildly about the deck, handling the ropes as each thought fit, and cursing and praying alternately. The passengers were huddled together round the mast, some sitting, some kneeling, some lying prostrate and grasping the bulwarks as the vessel rolled and pitched in the mighty waves. One comely young man whose ashy cheek, but compressed lips, showed how hard terror was battling in him with self-respect, stood a little apart, holding tight by a shroud, and wincing at each sea. It was the ill-fated Gerard. Meantime prayers and vows rose from the trembling throng amidships, and, to hear them, it seemed there were almost as many gods about as men and women. Suddenly, a more powerful gust than usual catching the sail at a disadvantage, the rotten shrouds gave way, and the sail was torn out with a loud crack and went down the wind smaller and smaller, blacker and blacker, and fluttered into the sea half a mile off like a sheet of paper; and, ere the helmsman could put the ship's head before the wind, a wave caught her on the quarter and drenched the poor wretches to the bone, and gave them a foretaste of chill death. Two petty Neapolitan traders stood shivering. One shouted at the top of his voice, "I vow to St. Christopher at Paris a waxen image of his own weight, if I win safe to land." Others lay flat, and prayed to the sea. "O most merciful sea! O sea most glorious! O bountiful sea! O beautiful sea, be gentle, be kind, preserve us in this hour of peril." And others wailed and moaned in mere animal terror each time the ill-fated ship rolled or pitched more terribly then usual; and she was now a mere plaything in the arms of the tremendous waves. A Roman woman of the humbler class sat with her child at her breast, silent amid that wailing throng, her cheek ashy pale, her eye calm; and her lips moved at times in silent prayer, but she never wept nor lamented nor bargained with the gods. Whenever the ship seemed really gone under their feet, and bearded men squeaked, she kissed her child, but that was all. And so she sat patient, and suckled him in death's jaws; for why should he lose any joy she could give him? Ay, there I do believe sat Antiquity among those medievals. Sixteen hundred years had not tainted the old Roman blood in her veins; and the instinct of a race she had perhaps scarce heard of taught her to die with decent dignity. A gigantic friar stood on the poop with feet apart like the Colossus of Rhodes, not so much defying as ignoring the peril that surrounded him. He recited verses from the canticles with a loud, unwavering voice, and invited the passengers to confess to him. Some did so on their knees, and he heard them, and laid his hands on them and absolved them, as if he had been in a snug sacristy instead of a perishing ship. Gerard got nearer and nearer to him, by the instinct that takes the wavering to the side of the impregnable. And, in truth, the courage of heroes facing fleshly odds might have paled by the side of that gigantic friar, and his still more gigantic composure. Thus, even here, two were found who maintained the dignity of our race: a woman, tender, yet heroic, and a monk steeled by religion against mortal fears. And now, the sail being gone, the sailors cut down the useless mast a foot above the board, and it fell with its remaining hamper over the ship's side. This seemed to relieve her a little. But now the hull, no longer impelled by canvas, could not keep ahead of the sea. It struck her again and again, and the tremendous blows seemed given by a rocky mountain, not by a liquid. The captain left the helm and came amidships, pale as death. "Lighten her," he cried. "Fling all overboard, or we shall founder ere we strike, and lose the one little chance we have of life." While the sailors were executing this order, the captain, pale himself, and surrounded by pale faces that demanded to know their fate, was talking as unlike an English skipper in like peril as can well be imagined. "Friends," said he, "last night, when all too fair, alas! was fair, there came a globe of fire close to the ship. When a pair of them come, it is good luck, and naught can drown her that voyage. We mariners call these fiery globes Castor and Pollux. But if Castor come without Pollux, or Pollux without Castor, she is doomed. Therefore, like good Christians, prepare to die.", These words were received with a loud wail. To a trembling inquiry how long they had to prepare, the captain replied: "She may, or may not, last half an' hour; over that, impossible. leaks like a sieve; bustle, men, lighten her." She The poor passengers seized on everything that was on deck, and flung it overboard. Presently they laid hold of a heavy sack; an old man was lying on it, seasick. They lugged it from under him. It rattled. Two of them drew it to the side; up started the owner, and, with an unearthly shriek, pounced on it. "Holy Moses! what would you do? 'Tis my all; 'tis the whole fruits of my journey: silver candlesticks, silver plates, brooches — ' "Let go, thou hoary villain," cried the others; "shall all our lives be lost for thy ill-gotten gear?" "Fling him in with it," cried one. Numbers soon wrenched it from him, and heaved it over the side. It splashed into the waves. Then its owner uttered one cry of anguish, and stood glaring, his white hair streaming in the wind; he was going to leap after it, and would, had it floated. But it sank, and was gone forever; and he staggered to and fro, tore his hair, and cursed them and the ship and the sea, and all the powers of heaven and hell alike. And now the captain cried out: "See, there is a church in sight. Steer for that church, mate, and you, friends, pray to the saint, whoe'er he be." So they steered for the church, and prayed to the unknown saint it was named |