Journeys Through Bookland, Vol. 5 by Charles Sylvester

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"Bright in her father's hall
Shields gleamed upon the wall,
Loud sang the minstrels all,
Chaunting his glory;
When of old Hildebrand
I asked his daughter's hand,
Mute did the minstrels stand
To hear my story.

"While the brown ale he quaffed,
Loud then the champion laughed.
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 Norsemen!--
When on the white sea-strand,
Waving his armed hand,
Saw we old Hildebrand,
With twenty horsemen.

"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-ships 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 shore
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 Norsemen when they visited this country.
That is the tower to which Longfellow refers here.]

[Illustration: 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.]

[Illustration: 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 cocks 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 butting 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 pricked 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 Hasselt 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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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
participants 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 ashore 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 shore 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 shore 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
grass 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 title 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.

My mother was ill in bed, and the terrified maid summoned my father from
outside, with the story that the baby's ankle was out of joint. He
hurried in, gave it one look, and, being a hasty, impetuous man, he
declared, "Yes, the child's ankle is out of joint; I must go for a
doctor;" and in another moment he would have been off on a seven-mile
tramp through the dark to Watertown. But the mother, a level-headed
woman, experienced in emergencies, called out from her bed, "Wait a
minute; bring me the child and a candle;" and a minute later she had
discovered a little sliver which pricked him when he set his foot down,
and extricated it between thumb and finger. "There," said she; "I don't
think you need walk to Water-town to-night."

Indians were so numerous that I don't remember when they first came out
of the haze into my consciousness, but probably in my third year. They
were Winnebago and Pottawatomi, the river being a common inheritance of
both tribes. In the winter of 1839-40, about thirty families of the
former tribe camped for several weeks opposite our home and were very
sociable and friendly. Diligent hunters and trappers, they accumulated
fully a hundred dollars worth of otter, beaver, bear, deer, and other
skins. But a trader came up from Watertown in the spring and got the
whole lot in exchange for a four-gallon keg of whisky. That was a wild
night that followed. Some of the noisiest came over to our house, and
when denied admittance threatened to knock the door down, but my father
told them he had two guns ready for them, and they finally left. He
afterwards said that he depended more on a heavy hickory club which he
had on hand than on the guns--it could be fired faster.

An ugly squaw whose nose had been bitten off years before in a fight,
stabbed her brother that night, because he refused her more whisky. He
had, according to custom, been left on guard, and was entirely sober.
The next day the Indians horrified my mother by declaring that they
should cut the squaw into inch pieces if her brother died. They went
down to Lake Koshkonong two days later, but he died the first day out.
The squaw escaped and lived a lonely life for years after, being known
up and down the river as "Old Mag."

At any time of the year we were liable to receive visits from Indians
passing to and fro between Lakes Horicon and Koshkonong. They would come
into the house without ceremony further than staring into the windows
before entering. Being used only to town life in the East, my mother was
afraid of them, but she always carried a bold face and would never give
them bread, which they always demanded, unless she could readily spare
it.

One summer afternoon, when she had finished her housework and had sat
down to sew, half a dozen Indians, male and female, suddenly bolted in
and clamored for bread. She shook her head and told them she had none
for them. When she came West she had brought yeast cakes which, by
careful renewal, she kept in succession until the family home was broken
up in 1880. Upon the afternoon referred to, she had a large pan of yeast
cakes drying before the fireplace. Seeing them, the Indians scowled at
her, called her a lying woman, and made a rush for the cakes, each one
taking a huge bite. Those familiar with the article know how bitter is
the mixture of raw meal, hops, and yeast, and so will not wonder that
presently a look of horror came over the Indians' faces and that then
they sputtered the unsavory stuff out all over the newly scrubbed floor.
My mother used to say that if they had killed her she could not have
kept from laughing. They looked very angry at first, but finally
concluded that they had not been poisoned and had only "sold"
themselves, they huddled together and went out chattering and laughing,
leaving my mother a good share of her day's work to do over again.

[Illustration: HALF A DOZEN INDIANS BOLTED IN]

One day I saw a big Indian shake her by the shoulder because she
wouldn't give him bread. She was ironing at the time, and threatened him
with a hot flat iron till he hurried out. Another came in one warm
summer afternoon, shut the door behind him, and leaned against it,
glowering at her. For once she was thoroughly frightened. He had with
him a tomahawk, having a hollow handle and head, that could be used as a
pipe. However, her wits did not desert her. Seeing the cat sleeping
peacefully in the corner, she cried, "How did that cat get in here!" and
catching up the broom she chased pussy around till she reached the door,
when seizing the heavy iron latch she pulled it wide open, sending Mr.
Indian into the middle of the room; she then pushed the door back
against the wall and set a chair against it. The Indian stood still for
a minute, then uttered a grunt and took himself off, probably thinking
she was too dangerous a person for him to attempt to bully.

The Indians used to offer for sale venison, fish, and maple sugar, but
the line was always drawn on the latter, for it was commonly reported
that they strained the sap through their blankets. And you should have
seen their blankets! About 1846 a company of civilized Oneidas, some of
whom my father had known in the East, camped near by and manufactured a
large number of handsome and serviceable baskets. From wild berries they
would make dyes that never faded, and print them on the baskets with
stamps cut from potatoes. Some of their designs were quite artistic. A
small basket and a rattle which they gave my year-old sister showed
their good will.

I soon learned to have no fear of the tribesmen, although sometimes a
fleet of fifty canoes would be in sight at once, passing down the river
to Koshkonong; but the first Germans who came to our parts nearly scared
the life out of me. Their heavy beards, long coats, broad-visored caps,
and arm-long pipes, made me certain that nothing less than a fat boy of
five would satisfy their appetites; and whenever they appeared I would
hunt my mother. They had bought a considerable tract of land about five
miles from our place, and always wanted to know of us the road thither.
The result was just such a "jabber match" as could be expected where
neither side knew the other's tongue; but by pointing and motioning my
mother was always able to direct them. Sometimes they wished to come in
and make tea or coffee on our stove, and eat the luncheon of bread and
meat that they had brought across the water. They would then always urge
their food upon me, so I came to like their black bread very much and
soon revised my first estimate of their character. All those people cut
fine farms out of the heavy timber and died rich.

The first settlers were mostly Americans, from New York and New England;
but before leaving the old farm we used to hear of English, Irish,
Dutch, Norwegian, and Welsh settlements. The latter people enveloped and
overflowed our own particular community and came to form a good portion
of the population.

Besides the numerous nationalities on this front edge of advancing
settlement, there were people of many and diverse individualities--the
uneasy, the unlucky, the adventurous, the men without money but full of
hope, the natural hunters, the trappers, the lovers of woods and
solitudes, and occasionally one who had left his country for his
country's good; all these classes were represented. But on the whole the
frontier's people were an honest, kindly, generous class, ready to help
in trouble or need of any kind.

If there was sickness, watchers by the bedside and harvesters in the
field were promptly forthcoming. If a new house or barn was to be
raised, every available man came. If a cow was mired, and such was often
the case, her owner easily got all the help he wanted. Husking and
logging and quilting bees were common, and in the autumn there were bees
for candle-dipping, when the family supply of candles would be made for
a year; and all such events would of course be followed by a supper, and
perhaps a frolic. Visits among the women folk were all-day affairs; if
the husbands were invited, it would be of an evening, and the call then
would last till midnight with a supper at ten. There was a word of
comfort and good cheer in those forest homes. I doubt if any child in
modern palaces enjoys happier hours than were mine on winter evenings,
when I rested on the broad stone hearth in front of the big fireplace,
with its blazing four-foot log, the dog on one side and the cat on the
other, while my father told stories that had to be repeated as the stock
ran out, and I was gradually lulled to sleep by the soft thunder of my
mother's spinning wheel. What could be more luxurious for any youngster?

I remember that when I was about six I saw my first apple. Half of it
came to me, and I absorbed it as if to the manor born. What a revelation
it was to a lad who could be satisfied with choke-cherries and crab
apples! In those times, when a visitor called it was common to bring out
a dish of well-washed turnips, with plate and case knife, and he could
slice them up or scrape them as he chose.

The woods abounded in wild fruits, which the women made the most of for
the winter season. Berries, grapes, plums, and crab apples were all
utilized. The latter were especially delicious for preserves. The boy
who ate them raw off the tree could not get his face back into line the
same day; but he would eat them. However, pumpkins were our main
reliance for present and future pies and sauce; such pumpkins do not
grow now in these latter days. There were two sugar bushes on our place,
and a good supply of maple sugar was put up every spring. Many other
dainties were added to our regular menu, and a boy with such a cook for
a mother as I had, needed no sympathy from any one the whole world
round.

The river was three hundred feet wide opposite our house, and about two
feet deep, so teams could be driven across at ordinary stages, but foot
passengers depended on our boat, a large "dugout." I remember how
beautiful it was, when first scooped out from a huge basswood log,
clean, white, and sweet-smelling. Strangers and neighbors alike would
call across, "Bring over the boat;" and if they were going from our side
they would take it over and leave the job of hollering to us. At five
years of age I could pole it around very nicely.

One day, when I was first trusted to go in the boat alone, a stranger
called over, and as my father was busy, he told me to go after him. The
man expressed much wonderment, and some hesitancy to trusting himself to
the skill and strength of a bare-footed boy of five; but I assured him I
was a veteran at the business. He finally got in very gingerly, and sat
down flat on the bottom. All the way over he kept wondering at and
praising my work until I was ready to melt with mingled embarrassment
and delight. At the shore he asked me unctuously how much he should pay.
"Oh, nothing," I said. "But let me pay you. I'd be glad to," said he.
"Oh, no, we never take pay," I replied, and dug my toes into the sand,
not knowing how to get out of the scrape, yet well pleased at his high
estimate of my service. All the time he was plunging down first into one
pocket of his barn-door trousers and then the other, till at last he
fished out an old "bungtown" cent, which with much graciousness and
pomposity he pressed upon me, until my feeble refusals were overcome. I
took the coin and scampered away so fast that I must have been invisible
in the dust I raised. Showing it to my father, I was told that I ought
not to have taken it; but I explained how helpless I had been, and
repeated word for word what the man had said, and, unintentionally,
somewhat copied his tone and manner. The twinkle in my father's eye
showed that he understood. That copper was my first-earned money; if it
had only been put out at compound interest, I ought, if the
mathematicians are right, to be now living in _otium cum dignitate_,[2]
perhaps.

[Footnote 2: _Otium cum dignitate_ is a Latin expression meaning _ease
with dignity_.]

[Illustration: HE FISHED OUT AN OLD BUNGTOWN CENT]

Steve Peck was one of the most notable of the marked characters above
hinted at. He was a roistering blade, who captained all the harumscarums
of the section. Peck was a surveyor and had helped at the laying out of
Milwaukee. Many were the stories told of his escapades, but space will
not permit of their rehearsal here. He had selected a choice piece of
land and built a good house; then he induced the daughter of an Aberdeen
ex-merchant of aristocratic family but broken fortune, who had sought a
new chance in the wilds of Wisconsin, to share them with him. But wife
and children could not hold him to a settled life, and he sold out one
day to a German immigrant, gave his wife a few dollars and disappeared,
not to be seen or heard of in those parts again.

Another character was a man named Needham, who also was somewhat of a
mystery. The women considered that he had been "crossed in love." He
affected a sombre style, rather imitating the manners and habits of the
Indians. His cabin was near the river, and he was a constant hunter.
Many times when playing by the shore I would become conscious of a
strange, noiseless presence, and looking up would see Needham paddling
by, swift and silent. It always gave me the shudders and sent me to the
house. One day, on coming home from school, I saw a great platter of red
meat on the table. I asked who had killed the beef; it was a practice to
share the meat with the neighbors, whenever a large animal was killed,
taking pay in kind. I was told it was not beef, and being unable to
guess was at last informed that it was bear meat, which Mr. Needham had
left. As he had killed the animal near where I hunted the cows every
night, the news gave me a sensation.

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