SIR PATRICK SPENS
The king sits, in Dunfermline toun, Drinking the blude-red wine; "O whare will I get a skeely skipper, To sail this new ship o' mine?"
O up and spake an eldern knight, Sat at the king's right knee,— "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, That ever sailed the sea."
The king has written a braid letter, And sealed it wi' his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand.
"To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis thou maun bring her hame."
The first word that Sir Patrick read, Sae loud, loud laughèd he; The neist word that Sir Patrick read, The tear blindit his e'e.
"O wha is this has done this deed, And tauld the king o'me, To send us out, this time o' the year, To sail upon the sea?
Be't wind, be't weet, be't hail, be't sleet, Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis we must fetch her hame."
They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn, Wi' a' the speed they may; They hae landed in Noroway, Upon a Wodensday.
They hadna been a week, a week, In Noroway, but twae, When that the lords o' Noroway Began aloud to say,—
"Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud, And a' our queenis fee." "Ye lee, ye lee, ye lears loud! Fu' loud I hear ye lee!
For I brought as mickle white monie, As gane my men and me, And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goud, Out o'er the sea wi' me.
Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a'! Our gude ship sails the morn." "Now, ever alake, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm! I saw the new moon, late yestreen, Wi' the auld moon in her arm! And, if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm."
They hadna sailed a league, a league, A league, but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea.
The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, It was sic a deadly storm; And the waves cam' o'er the broken ship, Till a' her sides were torn.
"O whare will I get a gude sailor, To tak' my helm in hand, Till I gae up to the tall topmast, To see if I spy land?"
"O here am I, a sailor gude, To tak' the helm in hand, Till you gae up to the tall topmast; But I fear ye'll ne'er spy land."
He hadna gane a step, a step, A step, but barely ane, When a bolt flew out o' our goodly ship, And the salt sea it cam' in.
"Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith, Anither o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And letna the sea come in."
They fetched a web o' the silken claith, Anither o' the twine, And they wapped them roun' that gude ship's side, But still the sea cam' in.
O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords, To weet their cork-heeled shoon! But lang or a' the play was played, They wat their hats aboon.
And mony was the feather-bed, That floated o'er the faem; And mony was the gude lord's son, That never mair cam' hame.
The ladyes wrang their fingers white, The maidens tore their hair, A' for the sake of their true loves; For them they'll see na mair.
O lang, lang may the ladyes sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand!
And lang, lang may the maidens sit, Wi' their goud kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves! For them they'll see na mair. Half ower, half ower to Aberdour, 'Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.
—Old Ballad
Into how many different scenes does this drama fall? Where is each one laid? How can each one be made to stand out by itself? (Introduction, p. [10].)
KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY
An ancient story Ile tell you anon. Of a notable prince, that was called king John; And he ruled England with maine and with might, For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.
And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye, Concerning the Abbot of Canterbùrye; How for his house-keeping, and high renowne, They rode poste for him to fair London towne.
An hundred men, the king did heare say, The abbot kept in his house every day; And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt, In velvet coates waited the abbot about.
"How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee, Thou keepest a farre better house than mee, And for thy house-keeping and high renowne, I feare thou work'st treason against my crown." "My liege," quo' the abbot, "I would it were knowne, I never spend nothing, but what is my owne; And I trust, your grace will doe me no deere, For spending of my owne true-gotten geere."
"Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, And now for the same thou needest must dye; For except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.
And first," quo' the king, "when I'm in this stead, With my crowne of golde so faire on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.
Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride the whole world about. And at the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what do I think."
"O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet: But if you will give me but three weekes space, Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace."
"Now three weeks space to thee will I give, And that is the longest time thou hast to live; For if thou dost not answer my questions three, Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee."
Away rode the abbot all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise. Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, And he mett his shepheard a going to fold: "How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home; What newes do you bring us from good king John?"
"Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give; That I have but three days more to live: For if I do not answer him questions three, My head will be smitten from my bodie.
The first is to tell him, there in that stead, With his crowne of golde so fair on his head, Among all his liege-men so noble of birth, To within one penny of what he is worth.
The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt, How soon he may ride this whole world about: And at the third question I must not shrinke, But tell him there truly what he does thinke."
"Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, That a fool he may learn a wise man witt? Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel, And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.
Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, I am like your lordship, as ever may bee: And if you will but lend me your gowne, There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne."
"Now horses, and serving-men thou shalt have, With sumptuous array most gallant and brave; With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope." "Now welcome, sire abbot," the king he did say, "Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day; For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.
And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, With my crown of golde so faire on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Tell me to one penny what I am worth."
"For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Amonge the false Jewes, as I have bin told; And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee."
The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, "I did not thinke I had been worth so littel! —Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride this whole world about."
"You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth againe; And then your grace need not make any doubt, But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."
The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, "I did not think, it could be gone so soone! —Now from the third question thou must not shrinke, But tell me here truly what I do thinke." "Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry: You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterbùry; But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee."
The king he laughed, and swore "by the masse, He make thee lord abbot this day in his place!" "Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, For alacke I can neither write ne reade."
"Four nobles a weeke, then, I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee; And tell the old abbot when thou comest home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good king John."
Old Ballad
Preparatory.—Divide this poem into three dramatic scenes. Who are the actors in each scene?
What is the king's attitude toward the abbot in the first scene? Toward the supposed abbot in the third scene? Where does this attitude suddenly change? Show at what points this changed attitude gradually increases in strength and where it reaches its climax. Indicate these changes by means of the voice.
What is the abbot's attitude toward the king in the first scene? How does it differ from his attitude toward the shepherd? What is the difference in vocal expression?
Where does the shepherd's attitude toward the king change? How does the voice indicate this change?
THE KEY TO HUMAN HAPPINESS
From "The Mill on the Floss"
1. At last Maggie's eyes glanced down on the books that lay on the window-shelf, and she half forsook her reverie to turn over listlessly the leaves of the "Portrait Gallery"; but she soon pushed this aside to examine the little row of books tied together with, string. "Beauties of the Spectator", "Rasselas", "Economy of Human Life", "Gregory's Letters",—she knew the sort of matter that was inside all these; the "Christian Year"—that seemed to be a hymn-book, and she laid it down again; but "Thomas à Kempis"—the name had come across her in her reading, and she felt the satisfaction, which every one knows, of getting some ideas to attach to a name that strays solitary in the memory. She took up the little, old, clumsy book with some curiosity; it had the corners turned down in many places, and some hand, now for ever quiet, had made at certain passages strong pen-and-ink marks, long since browned by time. Maggie turned from leaf to leaf, and read where the quiet hand pointed ... "Know that the love of thyself doth hurt thee more than anything in the world.... If thou seekest this or that, and would'st be here or there to enjoy thy own will and pleasure, thou shalt never be quiet nor free from care; for in everything somewhat will be wanting, and in every place there will be some that will cross thee.... Both above and below, which way soever thou dost turn thee, everywhere thou shalt find the Cross; and everywhere of necessity thou must have patience, if thou wilt have inward peace, and enjoy an everlasting crown.... It is but little thou sufferest in comparison of them that have suffered so much, were so strongly tempted, so grievously afflicted, so many ways tried and exercised. Thou oughtest therefore to call to mind the more heavy sufferings of others, that thou mayest the easier bear thy little adversities. And if they seem not little unto thee, beware lest thy impatience be the cause thereof.... Blessed are those ears that receive the whispers of the divine voice, and listen not to the whisperings of the world. Blessed are those ears which hearken not unto the voice which soundeth outwardly, but unto the Truth which teacheth inwardly...."
2. A strange thrill of awe passed through Maggie while she read, as if she had been awakened in the night by a strain of solemn music, telling of beings whose souls had been astir while hers was in stupor. She went on from one brown mark to another, where the quiet hand seemed to point, hardly conscious that she was reading—seeming rather to listen while a low voice said:—
3. "Why dost thou here gaze about, since this is not the place of thy rest? In heaven ought to be thy dwelling, and all earthly things are to be looked on as they forward thy journey thither. All things pass away, and thou together with them. Beware thou cleave not unto them, lest thou be entangled and perish.... If a man should give all his substance yet it is as nothing. And, if he should do great penances, yet they are but little. And if he should attain to all knowledge, he is yet far off. And if he should be of great virtue, and very fervent devotion, yet is there much wanting—to wit, one thing, which is most necessary for him. What is that? That having left all, he leave himself, and go wholly out of himself, and retain nothing of self-love.... I have often said unto thee, and now again I say the same: Forsake thyself, resign thyself, and thou shalt enjoy much inward peace.... Then shall all vain imaginations, evil perturbations, and superfluous cares fly away; then shall immoderate fear leave thee, and inordinate love shall die."
4. Maggie drew a long breath and pushed her heavy hair back as if to see a sudden vision more clearly. Here, then, was a secret of life that would enable her to renounce all other secrets; here was a sublime height to be reached without the help of outward things; here was insight, and strength and conquest, to be won by means entirely within her own soul, where a supreme Teacher was waiting to be heard. It flashed through her, like the suddenly apprehended solution of a problem, that all the miseries of her young life had come from fixing her heart on her own pleasure, as if that were the central necessity of the universe; and for the first time she saw the possibility of shifting the position from which she looked at the gratification of her own desires, of taking her stand out of herself, and looking at her own life as an insignificant part of a divinely-guided whole. She read on and on in the old book, devouring eagerly the dialogues with the invisible Teacher, the pattern of sorrow, the source of all strength, returning to it after she had been called away, and reading till the sun went down behind the willows. With all the hurry of an imagination that could never rest in the present, she sat in the deepening twilight forming plans of self-humiliation and entire devotedness; and, in the ardour of first discovery, renunciation seemed to her the entrance into that satisfaction which she had so long been craving in vain. She had not perceived—how could she until she had lived longer?—the inmost truth of the old monk's outpourings, that renunciation remains sorrow, though a sorrow borne willingly. Maggie was still panting for happiness, and was in ecstasy because she had found the key to it. She knew nothing of doctrines and systems—of mysticism or quietism; but this voice out of the far-off Middle Ages was the direct communication of a human soul's belief and experience, and came to Maggie as an unquestioned message.
5. I suppose that is the reason why the small, old-fashioned book, for which you need pay only sixpence at a book-stall, works miracles to this day, turning bitter waters into sweetness; while expensive sermons and treatises, newly issued, leave all things as they were before. It was written down by a hand that waited for the heart's prompting; it is the chronicle of a solitary hidden anguish, struggle, trust, and triumph—not written on velvet cushions to teach endurance to those who are treading with bleeding feet on the stones. And so it remains to all time a lasting record of human needs and human consolations—the voice of a brother who, ages ago, felt and suffered and renounced in the cloister, perhaps, with serge gown and tonsured head, with much chanting and long fasts, and with a fashion of speech different from ours, but under the same silent far-off heavens, and with the same passionate desires, the same strivings, the same failures, the same weariness.
—George Eliot
Par. 1. If thou seekest ... pleasure. What principle of Inflection does this clause illustrate? Give similar examples from Par. 3.
Both above and below ... everywhere. Which phrase in this series has the strongest Emphasis?
THOU SUFFEREST. Which word is emphatic? (Introduction, p. [30].) What phrases are contrasted with it?
Account for the Inflection used in the last two sentences. (Introduction, p. [20].)
Par. 4. Indicate the Grouping in sentences 3 and 5.
HOW COULD SHE, ETC. What is the Inflection and Shading? (Introduction, pp. [24] and [25].)
Par. 5. What is the Inflection on NOT WRITTEN ... STONES? (Introduction p. [18].)