TOMMY TOBY’S STORY OF THE FROLICSOME DUKE.
Tom Toby’s turn came next, and at the announcement of his name there was a sudden lighting up of faces. Tom’s face, which was usually rather comical, assumed a more mirth-loving expression than ever.
“You said,” he began, “that we were to visit Ghent and Bruges. I believe these towns were in old Flanders, and that Flanders was in Burgundy. One of the most clever rulers of whom I ever read was Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy, though he had some faults when he used to be young like me.
“The good Duke married Eleonora, sister to the King of Portugal. The wedding was celebrated in great pomp at Bruges, and the merry-makings lasted a week.
“Christopher Sly was a tinker, and a tinker was a man who used to ‘roam the countries around,’ crying, ‘Old brass to mend!’ and who repaired the good people’s broken pots and kettles.
“Christopher heard of the great wedding in his travels, and came to Bruges to enjoy the merry-making with the rest.
“He had only one pair of breeches, and they were made of leather. He deemed them suitable for all occasions. He had never arrived at the luxury of a coat, but in its place he wore a large leather apron, which covered his great shoulders, like the armor of a knight.
“Christopher had one bad habit. He loved ale overmuch, and he used to drink so deeply on festive occasions as to affect the steadiness both of his mind and body.
“Christopher enjoyed the gala-days. He mingled in the gay processions that followed the ducal pair to the tournament; he gazed with loyal pride on the horses with their trappings of crimson and gold; he followed the falconers to the hunting-parks, and listened to the music that led the dance at night in the torch-lit palace.
“The ducal wedding took place in the deep of winter; and one night, soon after the joyful event, and while Bruges was yet given up to festivities, there fell a great snow-storm, blocking the streets and silencing the town.
“Christopher’s money was gone, and the falling weather chilled not only his blood, but his spirits. He wandered about in the storm, going from ale-house to ale-house, and receiving hospitality, until the town of Bruges seemed to revolve around him as its inhabitants around the Duke. Still he plodded away through the streets, longing to see the warm fires glow and the torches gleam in the ducal palace. When he had nearly reached the palace, the town began to spin and whirl around him at such a rate that presently he sank in the chilly snow and knew no more.
“‘I am tired of the palace,’ said the Duke to some courtiers. ‘Let us go into the streets this blustering night: it may be that we shall meet with an adventure.’
“The Duke, with a few muffled followers, glided out of one of the palace gates, and the gleamings of their lanterns shot down the street. Presently the Duke stumbled over some object, lying half-buried in the snow.
“‘What’s here?’
“‘A dead man,’ answered a courtier.
“‘A drunken tinker,’ answered an attendant, turning over the body of a man lying like a log in the snow. ‘How he snores! Dead drunk, as I live!’
“‘He would perish here before morning,’ said the Duke.
“‘What is to be done?’ asked a courtier.
“‘Take him to the palace, and we will have some sport with him. I will cause him to be washed and dressed and perfumed, and to be laid in a chamber of state. He will awake sober in the morning, when we will persuade him that he is the Duke, and that we are his attendants. To-morrow the whole Court of Burgundy shall serve a poor tinker!’
“The attendants carried the unconscious tinker to the palace, where they washed him, and, putting upon him an elegant night-dress, laid him on a silk-curtained bed, in a very gorgeous chamber.
“The poor tinker, on waking in the morning, looked about the room in wonder. He concluded that he must be dreaming, or that he had become touched in mind, or that he had died the night before and had been so happy as to get to heaven.
“At last, the Duke entered the apartment in the habit of the ducal chamberlain.
“‘What will your Worship have this morning?’ asked the Duke.
“The tinker stared.
“‘Has your Worship no commands?’
“‘I am Christopher Sly,—Sly, the tinker. Call me not your Worship.’
“‘You have not fully recovered yet, I see. But you will be yourself again soon. What suit will your Worship wear to-day? Which doublet, and what stockings and shoes?’
AMAZEMENT OF CHRISTOPHER SLY.
“‘I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor more shoes than feet; nay, sometime, more feet than shoes. I tell you I am Christopher Sly, and I am a tinker,’ was the puzzled reply.
“But the ducal chamberlain only bowed the more.
“Sly continued to look about him in amazement. At last, he said, with much hesitation,—
“‘You may bring me my best suit. The day is pleasant. I will dress becomingly.’
“‘Now you are yourself again. I must hasten to inform the Court of your recovery. I must fly to her Grace the Duchess, and say, “The Duke, the Duke is himself again!”’
“‘The Duke! I tell you I am Christopher Sly,—old Sly’s son, of Burton Heath,—by birth a peddler and by trade a tinker. Duke Sly! No. Duke Christopher! or, better, Duke Christophero! Marry, friend! wouldn’t that sound well? It may be I am a duke, for all. Go ask Marian Hacket, the buxom inn-keeper of Wincot, if she don’t know Christopher Sly,—Duke Christophero; and if she say I do not owe her fourteen pence for small ale, then call me the biggest liar and knave in Christendom!’
“The servants presently brought the poor tinker a silver basin, ‘full of rose-water, and bestrewed with flowers.’ Then they brought him a suit of crimson, trimmed with lace and starred. The bewildered fellow stared awhile in silence; then he slowly put on the gorgeous apparel.
“The tinker next was conducted to a magnificent banqueting-hall, where was spread a rich feast. The tables smoked with venison and sparkled with wine. He was led to a high seat beneath a canopy of silk and gold, the Duchess following, and seating herself by his side. Knights and ladies filled the tables, and the tinker began to feast and to sip wine like a duke indeed.
“‘I wish’—said he, suddenly.
“‘What is your wish?’ asked the Duchess.
“‘I wish that old Stephen Sly was here, and John Naps and Peter Turf, and my wife Joan, and Marian Hacket: wouldn’t it be jolly?’
“Christopher had never smacked his lips over such wine before, and he drank so deeply that his ideas became mixed again. The feast ended. The ladies sung and the musicians played, but Christopher continued drinking as long as he could hold a beaker. He began to be sleepy, and presently tumbled from his high seat beneath the silken canopy to the floor,
‘Where he sleeping did snore,
Being seven times drunker than ever before.’
“And here the reign of Duke Christophero came to a sudden end. The real Duke ordered the attendants to take him away, and to put upon him his ‘old leather garments again.’
“‘When the night is well advanced,’ said the Duke, ‘take him back to the place where we found him, and there watch his behavior when he awakes.’
“Poor Christopher Sly woke in the morning to find his glory gone. The sun shone on the snow-covered gables of Bruges. He looked around him with woe in his face, as he saw the snow beneath him instead of a couch of down, and the sky above him, instead of a silken canopy, sprinkled with gold. He snuffed the frosty air, and, heaving a deep groan, he said, ‘And I am old Stephen Sly’s son, after all. I have seen a vision. I will go home, and take my scolding from Joan.’”
“When we visit Bruges,” added Tommy, “I hope we may all visit the resting-place of Duke Christopher Sly.”
Tommy’s story, although not of great value to the young travellers, was loudly applauded by the Club.
“I have heard,” said Wyllys, “that there is a spire in Bruges four hundred and fifty feet high, and a tower that contains forty-eight bells; but I never heard before of Duke Christopher.”
Ernest Wynn, who spoke French well and took a lively interest in French poetry, sang a Norman seaside song, which is a favorite in some of the coast towns, and is especially employed by the fishermen of Étretat, when a ship goes out to sea in a storm. It began—
Le matin, quand je me réveille,
Je vois mon Jésus venir,
Il est beau à merveille,
C’est lui qui me réveille.
C’est Jésus!
C’est Jésus!
Mon aimable Jésus!
Je le vois, mon Jésus, je le vois
Porter sa brillante croix,
Là haut sur cette montagne:
Sa mère l’accompagne.
C’est Jésus,
C’est Jésus,
Mon aimable Jésus.
In the morn, when I awake,
My Jesus near I see.
He is wonderfully beautiful—
It is He that wakens me.
It is Jesus,
It is Jesus,
My lovable Jesus!
I see, I see my Jesus
Bear over the mountain high
His cross of light, accompanied
The Holy Mother by.
It is Jesus,
It is Jesus,
My lovable Jesus!
The selection was a rare one, and was mentioned by Master Lewis as being exceptionally creditable.
George Howe and Leander Towle presented acceptable exercises on “Norman Industries” and “Peasant Customs.” The last topic seemed to excite Tommy Toby to try to throw some farther light on this romantic and interesting country.
“Would you like to know what lovely-looking creatures these Norman peasant girls are, and how they look?” said he. “Well, they look [going to the blackboard and drawing with a crayon a moment] just like those.”
“I am very gratified,” said Master Lewis, “at the amount of historic study our proposed tour has already stimulated. One must read and study to see. Dr. Johnson used the comparison that ‘some people would see more in a single ride in a Hempstead stage-coach than others would in a tour round the world.’ Thoreau said,—
‘If with fancy unfurled
You leave your abode,
You may go round the world
By the old Marlboro’ road.’
“You might have added many charming stories to those already told. In Calais, the last town of the Gallic dominions of the Plantagenets, we shall visit the scene of the siege of Edward III. and of the immortal Five who offered their lives as a ransom for their city, and whom good Queen Philippa spared. At Falaise, we may see the ruin of the castle from whose window Duke Robert, the father of the Conqueror, first saw Arletta, the tanner’s daughter, and was enchanted with her beauty. At Rouen, we shall stand in the square where the Maid of Orleans was burned, and, in all places, in contrast with the dark romances of the past, will appear sunny hills, bowery valleys, and picturesque streams.
“I think it was Victor Hugo who said that ‘Europe was the finest nation on the earth, France the finest country, and Normandy the finest part of France.’ I do not ask you to accept his opinion, but Normandy is very beautiful.”
Meetings of the Club were held every two weeks.
The boys tried to learn the secret which Tommy had been instructed to select. But he claimed that he had been instructed also to keep it.
“It would not be creditable to the Club to tell it now,” he said.
CHAPTER IV.
ON THE ATLANTIC.
The Steerage.—Pilot Boats.—Tommy meets Rough Weather.—His Letter and Postscript.—Queer Passengers.—Games and Story-telling.—Story of Joan of Arc.—Signalling at Sea.—Land!
AN ocean steamer! Though a speck upon the waters, what a world it seems! What symmetry, what strength, what a triumph of human skill! What a cheerful sense of security one feels as one looks upon the oak and the iron, and hears the wind whistle through the motionless forest of cordage! There society in all its grades is seen, and human nature in all its phases.
The cool upper deck of the steamer was more inviting to our tourists than the hot streets and hotels of New York, and early in the afternoon they met on the North River Pier, and went on board of their ocean home. First, they examined the elegant saloons, then their snug state-rooms, and at last the steerage apartment, where George and Leander were to have their quarters.
The steerage was not a wholly uninviting apartment. It was a plain cabin, amidships, well lighted and ventilated, and very clean. A stanch-looking pair of stairs led down to it. On each side were bunks in little rooms; those on the right hand for women, and on the left for men. These were lighted and aired by port-holes. Each passenger provided his own bedding and eating utensils.
“I like this,” said Tommy Toby to the steward. “Are the passengers here more likely to be sick than in the first cabin?”
“No,” said the steward. “This is the steadiest part of the ship.”
“Then what is the difference between the cabin and the steerage?”
“Well, the difference is in the folks, and the furniture, and the way you eat your victuals.”
The steerage passengers were allowed the freedom of the decks, but not of the grand saloons. Master Lewis and the boys seated themselves in a group on the upper deck, when they had well visited the different parts of the ship.
Early in the evening, the immense ship moved slowly and steadily away from the sultry wharves into the calm sea and cool air. The great city with its gleaming spires seemed sinking in the sea, and the hills of Neversink to be burying themselves in the shadows.
Pilot boats several times crossed the track of the steamer, with their numbers conspicuously painted on their sails.
“Why does a captain, who navigates a ship across the ocean,” asked Frank of Master Lewis, “need the assistance of pilots and pilot-boats when he is in sight of land?”
“It is because the harbor is more dangerous than the open ocean, and pilots make these dangers the study of their lives.
“See yonder pilot-boat skimming with the grace of a sea-bird along the sea. It has the stanchness of a ship built for the longest voyages. It is doubtless made of the best oak, is sheathed with the best copper, and may have cost twenty thousand dollars.”
“The life of a pilot must be an adventurous one,” said Frank, “and there must be also much pleasure in it.”
“It requires special education and hard training to become a pilot. It is expected that the candidate for the position shall have been an apprentice four years, during which he shall have performed all the duties of a common sailor, even to the washing of the decks and the tarring of the rigging. This is his college life. If he is an apt student, he then obtains a certificate of qualification from a board of commissioners by whom he has been rigidly examined.
“The pilot-boats themselves are exposed to great dangers in foggy weather. A calm comes on, and they cannot move. In this situation, they are liable to be struck by one of the great iron vessels or ocean steamers. During the last twenty-five years, some thirty pilot-boats have been lost on this coast.”
PILOT-BOAT.
The night was beautiful, calm, cool, starry. In the morning, the sun rose red from the sea. Land had disappeared. The boys all met on the deck, in fine health and spirits.
Towards evening, the sea grew rough, and there were premonitions of sea-sickness among the passengers. Tommy Toby, in an amusing letter which he wrote to his parents, gave a stereoscopic pen-picture of the condition of our travellers at this period of the voyage. He afterwards added a characteristic postscript. We give Tommy’s letter and postscript entire:—
My Dear Parents:
If I can only get safely back to Boston, I will never start on a voyage again.
I knew it would be so. I have been seasick.
The first night and day we had very pleasant weather and a light sea.
On the evening of the second day, I was on deck with the boys.
All at once the boat gave a great lurch. Then another. Then another.
“We are getting into rough water,” said Master Lewis.
Wyllys Wynn, who is a poet, was repeating some beautiful rhymes, when suddenly he grew white in the face, and said, “And so it goes on for several lines.” He meant the poetry. Then he began to wander to and fro in search of the cabin and his state-room.
Frank Gray began to tell a story, but stopped short, and said, “The rest of it is like unto that!” He meant the rest of the story. Then he went to the cabin, “making very crooked steerage,” one of the deck-hands said.
Ernest Wynn followed him, in the same strange gait.
“The Zigzag Club,” said the deck-hand. He was a very sarcastic man.
The ship gave another dreadful lurch, and I began to feel very strange.
I went to my state-room. I felt worse on the way.
The ship seemed to have lost all her steadiness.
I cannot describe the night that followed. The ship creaked, and seemed just about to roll over after every lurch. Sometimes she went up. I was so dizzy, it seemed to me that she went up almost to the moon. Then she came down. She always came down. It seemed to me she must be going down to the bottom of the sea.
In the morning, the steward came.
“It ’as been a ’eavy blow, ruther.”
“A heavy blow!” said I. “Did you ever know any thing like it in your life? Do you think we shall ever see land again?”
“Nothin’ alarmin’,” said the steward.
A dreadful day followed. I did not leave my room. I wished I had never left home. I felt like the Frenchman who said, “I would kees ze land, if I could only see any land to kees.”
The next day I was better, only there was a light feeling in my head.
I went up on deck. The sun was shining. The wind blew, but the air was very refreshing.
This is the fourth day out. I have been able to eat to-day. I am feeling very hungry.
I find that all the boys have been obliged to keep their rooms, except George Howe, who is in the steerage.
How fearful I am we shall have another night like that! How glad I shall be to see land again! The land is the place, after all. I wish I were sure we would have good weather, when we return.
Your thoughtful son,
Thomas Toby.
P. S. Three days after. I am well now. I never felt so bright and happy in my life. The steward says that people are seldom sick twice during the same voyage. An ocean trip is just the thing, after all.
There were a few rather odd characters among the passengers: among them a portly, self-satisfied Englishman, returning from a tour of the States, with an increased respect for fine old English society; a glib-tongued Frenchman, who was delighted with “Ze States,—deelightéd!” and whose talk was like a row of exclamation points; and a sentimental Italian fiddler, in very poor dress, going back to the beauties of Naples and the dreamy airs and skies of “Etalee.”
Tommy Toby seemed to gravitate towards these people, when his sea-sickness was over.
“I likes zis American poy,” said the Frenchman. “Intelegent! Has ze activitee; agilitee; very great prom-ese!”
“Our country must be very different from yours,” said Tommy, one day.
“Veery, veery different indeed! Wonderful countree,—delightful! What grand rivers! what waterfalls,—Niag-e-ra! what lakes! Room for all ze world! Hospitalitee for all ze nations!”
“The Frenchman says our country is the most wonderful in all the world,” said Tommy to the portly Englishman.
The latter looked very solemn; seemed about to speak, then made a long pause as though the opinion he was about to utter was a very weighty one.
“Poverty to riches, riches to poverty; now up, now down, but the animating principle always the same,—riches, riches. Wonderful people! progress! each one living to outdo the other. To-day an alderman, to-morrow in the penitentiary; to-day my Lady of Lynne, to-morrow John o’ the Scales’s wife!”
Tommy had an idea of what his lugubrious acquaintance meant to say, though the latter’s wisdom was rather above his intellectual stature.
“We have no castles in America,” said Tommy.
“Castles! No; an American family could not keep a castle: it would be sold in five years for a mill.”
Tommy’s face was always very bright after talking with the Frenchman, but lengthened out during the interview with his English friend. He usually retired discomforted from the latter, to seek comfort in the steerage from the lively Italian’s fiddle.
There was a bright girl on board, named Agnes,—the daughter of a Boston gentleman, who was going abroad for a year. She was a social miss; witty, yet polite; speaking to every one freely, without being intrusive.
On the evening of the sixth day, nearly all the passengers were in the saloon. Agnes was asked to sing. She winningly said,—
“I will do my best, if agreeable to all.” She asked to be excused a moment, and presently returned with a broad-rimmed hat and a basket, and wandering carelessly up and down the saloon sang “The Beggar Girl.”
“Over the mountain, and over the moor,
Hungry and barefoot I wander forlorn.
My father is dead and my mother is poor,
And she grieves for the days that will never return.
Pity, kind gentlefolk,
Friends of humanity,
Keen blows the blast and night’s coming on;
O give me some food
For my mother, for charity;
Give me food for my mother, and I will be gone.”
Agnes presented her basket to one and another of the passengers, as if to solicit contributions as the song went on. All were pleased with the diversion, and it was proposed to have some other amusements during the evening.
Agnes arranged some impromptu charades: one on Ingratiate (in grey she ate); another on Cowhiding (cow hiding, in which she personated a milk-maid calling “Co boss, co boss!” and afterwards the same maid cowhiding a boy for hiding her cow). Agnes selected Tommy Toby to assist her in this last amusing tableau.
Agnes next appeared as a mind-reader. Before this last rôle, however, she was observed having a confidential chat with Tommy Toby.
“Now,” said she, “if any of you are interested in clairvoyance, I shall be pleased to give an exhibition of the science. You may not know I am a mind-reader.”
“She probably has been reading Master Toby’s mind already,” said her father, smilingly looking over his paper.
“Oh, father!”
“If each of you will write a word on a slip of paper, I will have the slips collected and put on my forehead; and I will take them from my forehead one by one, but before I take each one down, I will tell what is written upon it.”
All wrote some word.
“Will some one collect the slips?” she asked.
“I will,” said her father.
“I think as Thomas Toby is spry, I shall have to ask him to do me the favor.”
“How I wish I were spry!” said her father.
The slips were collected. Tommy put them all on her forehead. She put up her fingers and held them there, and Tommy took a seat with his friends.
Agnes seemed in reverie. Then she said emphatically,—
“On the first slip is written ‘Boston!’ Who wrote that?”
“I,” said Tommy Toby.
“Then it is correct?”
“Yes.”
She took the slip from her forehead and laid it in her lap, saying as she did so,—
“It is not written very plainly, either.”
So one by one she read all the slips. Each passenger acknowledged the writing of each announced word, after it had been correctly given by Agnes. First, the correct readings awakened wonder, then positive excitement. The experiment was repeated at the request of all, with the same wonderful result.
The diversion was reproduced on the following evening, and even Master Lewis failed to see how the girl read the slips. It was noticed, however, that Tommy Toby always collected the slips, and acknowledged writing the first word. Agnes also examined each slip closely as she took it down, as if to verify the results of her very penetrating mind.
JOAN OF ARC.
The secret of the trick was that Tommy always placed what he had written at the bottom of the slips, or last; but he acknowledged to have written what was taken from the forehead first. This gave Agnes the [!-- original location of 'Joan of Arc' --] [!-- blank page --] opportunity of reading each slip as she laid it in her lap, and of announcing what she read as though it were written on the next slip on her forehead.
One evening, when Master Lewis and the boys were talking of the historical places they expected to visit, Agnes approached pleasantly and said, “I have a conundrum for you.”
“What is it?” asked Master Lewis.
“What was Joan of Arc made of?”
The boys were unable to guess.
“Suppose you tell us the story of Joan of Arc, Master Lewis,” said Wyllys. “Then, perhaps, we will be able to decide.”
“Yes, please,” said Agnes. “I should be delighted to hear the story.”
“As we expect to visit Rouen, where the Maid of Orleans”—
“I think she was Maid of”—said Tommy Toby. “I will tell you after the story.”
Then Master Lewis related the story of the unfortunate shepherd girl.