Fourth Reader

Who looks towards the beach,
And, looking, sees it not.
She will never watch again!
Never watch and weep at night!
For those pretty, saintly eyes
Look beyond the stormy skies,
And they see the Beacon Light.

    – Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
    By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Company.
This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.

THE CARRONADE

A frightful thing had just happened; one of the carronades of the battery, a twenty-four pound cannon, had become loose.

This is perhaps the most dreadful thing that can take place at sea. Nothing more terrible can happen to a man-of-war under full sail. A cannon that breaks loose from its fastenings is suddenly transformed into a supernatural beast. It is a monster developed from a machine. This mass rolls along on its wheels as easily as a billiard ball; it rolls with the rolling, pitches with the pitching, comes and goes, stops and seems to meditate, begins anew, darts like an arrow from one end of the ship to the other, whirls around, turns aside, evades, rears, hits out, crushes, kills, exterminates.

It has the air of having lost its patience, and of taking a mysterious, dull revenge. The mad mass leaps like a panther; it has the weight of an elephant, the agility of a mouse, the obstinacy of an axe; it takes one by surprise like the surge of the sea; it flashes like lightning; it is deaf as the tomb; it weighs ten thousand pounds, and it bounds like a child’s ball. How can one guard against these terrible movements?

The ship had within its depths, so to speak, imprisoned lightning struggling to escape; something like the rumbling of thunder during an earthquake. In an instant the crew were on their feet. Brave men though they were, they paused, silent, pale, and undecided, looking down at the gun deck. Some one pushed them aside with his elbow and descended. It was their passenger, the peasant, the man about whom they had been talking a minute ago.

Having reached the foot of the ladder he halted. The cannon was rolling to and fro on the gun deck. A dim wavering of lights and shadows was added to this spectacle by the marine lantern swinging under the deck. The outlines of the cannon were becoming indistinguishable by reason of the rapidity of its motion; sometimes it looked black when the light shone upon it, then again it would cast pale, glimmering reflections in the darkness.

It was still pursuing its work of destruction. It had already shattered four other pieces, and made two breaches in the ship’s side, fortunately above the water line. It rushed frantically against the timbers; the stout riders resisted, – curved timbers have great strength; but one could hear them crack under this tremendous assault. The whole ship was filled with the tumult.

The captain, who had rapidly recovered his self-possession, had given orders to throw down the hatchway all that could abate the rage and check the mad onslaught of this infuriated gun, – mattresses, hammocks, spare sails, coils of rope, and bales of paper. But what availed these rags? No one dared to go down to arrange them, and in a few moments they were reduced to lint. Meanwhile the havoc increased. The mizzenmast was split and even the mainmast was damaged by the convulsive blows of the cannon. The fractures in the side grew larger and the ship began to leak.

The old passenger, who had descended to the gun deck, looked like one carved in stone, as he stood motionless at the foot of the ladder. Suddenly, as the escaped cannon was tossing from side to side, a man appeared, grasping an iron bar. It was the chief gunner, whose criminal negligence was the cause of the catastrophe. Having brought about the evil, he now intended to repair it. Holding a handspike in one hand, and in the other a rope with a noose in it, he had jumped through the hatchway to the deck below.

Then began a terrible struggle; a contest between mind and matter; a duel between man and the inanimate. The man stood in one corner holding in his hands the bar and the rope; calm, livid, and tragic, he stood firmly on his legs that were like two pillars of steel. He was waiting for the cannon to approach him. The gunner knew his piece, and he felt as if it must know him. They had lived together a long time. How often had he put his hand into its mouth! He began to talk to it as he would to a dog. “Come,” said he. Possibly he loved it.

When, in the act of accepting this awful hand-to-hand struggle, the gunner approached to challenge the cannon, it happened that the surging sea held the gun motionless for an instant, as if stupefied. “Come on!” said the man. It seemed to listen. Suddenly it leaped towards him. The man dodged. Then the struggle began, – a contest unheard of; the human warrior attacking the brazen beast; blind force on one side, soul on the other. It was as if a gigantic insect of iron was endowed with the will of a demon. Now and then this colossal grasshopper would strike the low ceiling of the gun deck, then falling back on its four wheels, like a tiger on all fours, would rush upon the man. He – supple, agile, adroit – writhed like a serpent before these lightning movements.

A piece of broken chain remained attached to the carronade; one end was fastened to the gun carriage; the other end thrashed wildly around, aggravating the danger with every bound of the cannon. The screw held it as in a clenched hand, and this chain, multiplying the strokes of the battering ram by those of the thong, made a terrible whirlwind around the gun, – a lash of iron in a fist of brass. The chain complicated the combat.

Despite all this, the man fought. Suddenly the cannon seemed to say to itself: “Now, then, there must be an end to this.” And it stopped. A crisis was felt to be at hand. All at once it hurled itself upon the gunner, who sprang aside with a laugh as the cannon passed him. Then, as though blind and beside itself, it turned from the man and rolled from stern to stem, splintering the latter and causing a breach in the walls of the prow.

The gunner took refuge at the foot of the ladder, a short distance from the old man, who stood watching. Without taking the trouble to turn, the cannon rushed backwards on the man, as swift as the blow of an axe. The gunner, if driven against the side of the ship, would be lost. A cry arose from the crew.

The old passenger, who until this moment had stood motionless, sprang forwards more swiftly than all those mad whirls. He had seized a bale of paper, and at the risk of being crushed succeeded in throwing it between the wheels of the carronade.

The bale had the effect of a plug. The carronade stumbled, and the gunner thrust his iron bar between the spokes of the back wheels. Pitching forwards, the cannon stopped; and the man, using his bar for a lever, rocked it backwards and forwards. The heavy mass upset, with the resonant sound of a bell that crashes in its fall. The man flung himself upon it, and passed the slip noose round the neck of the defeated monster.

The combat was ended. The man had conquered. The ant had overcome the mastodon; the pigmy had imprisoned the thunderbolt.

    – From the French of Victor Hugo.

THE VISION OF MIRZA

On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after having offered up my morning devotions, I ascended to the high hills of Bagdad, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound contemplation on the vanity of human life; and passing from one thought to another, “Surely,” said I, “man is but a shadow, and life a dream.” Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a little musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him, he applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different from anything I had ever heard. My heart melted away in secret raptures.

I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a genius, and that several had been entertained with that music who had passed by it, but never heard that the musician had before made himself visible. When he had raised my thoughts by those transporting airs which he played to taste the pleasures of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he beckoned to me, and by the waving of his hand, directed me to approach to the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence which is due to a superior nature; and as my heart was entirely subdued by the captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and wept. The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion that familiarized him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all the fears with which I approached him. He lifted me from the ground, and taking me by the hand, “Mirza,” said he, “I have heard thee in thy soliloquies; follow me.”

He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing me on the top of it. “Cast thy eyes eastward,” said he, “and tell me what thou seest.” – “I see,” said I, “a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it.” “The valley that thou seest,” said he, “is the vale of Misery; and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great tide of Eternity.” “What is the reason,” said I, “that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other?” “What thou seest,” said he, “is that portion of Eternity which is called Time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation.”

“Examine now,” said he, “this sea that is bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it.” “I see a bridge,” said I, “standing in the midst of the tide.” “The bridge thou seest,” said he, “is Human life; consider it attentively.” Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with several broken arches, which, added to those that were entire, made up the number to about an hundred. As I was counting the arches, the genius told me that this bridge first consisted of a thousand arches; but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it.

“But tell me further,” said he, “what thou discoverest on it.” “I see multitudes of people passing over it,” said I, “and a black cloud hanging on each end of it.” As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that flowed underneath it; and upon further examination, perceived there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon but they fell through them into the tide, and immediately disappeared. These hidden pitfalls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer together towards the end of the arches that were entire. There were, indeed, some persons, but their number was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through, one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk.

I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy, to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at everything that stood by them to save themselves; some were looking up towards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight; multitudes were busy in the pursuit of bubbles, that glittered in their eyes, and danced before them, but often when they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed, and down they sank. In this confusion of objects I observed some with scimiters in their hands, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons upon trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have escaped had they not been thus forced upon them.

The genius seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it. “Take thine eyes off the bridge,” said he, “and tell me if thou seest any thing that thou dost not comprehend.” Upon looking up, “What mean,” said I, “those great flocks of birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settling upon it from time to time? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and, among many other feathered creatures, several little winged boys, that perch in great numbers upon the middle arches.” “These,” said the genius, “are Envy, Avarice, Superstition, Despair, Love, with the like cares and passions that infest human life.”

I here fetched a deep sigh: “Alas,” said I, “man was made in vain! how is he given away to misery and mortality, tortured in life, and swallowed up in death!” The genius being moved with compassion towards me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. “Look no more,” said he, “on man in the first stage of his existence, in his setting out for eternity, but cast thine eye on that thick mist into which the tide bears the several generations of mortals that fall into it.” I directed my sight as I was ordered, and I saw the valley opening at the farther end, and spreading into an immense ocean, that had a huge rock of adamant running through the midst of it, and dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested on one half of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it; but the other appeared to me a vast ocean, planted with innumerable islands that were covered with fruits and flowers, and interwoven with a thousand little shining seas that rang among them. I could see persons dressed in glorious habits, with garlands upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the side of fountains, or resting on beds of flowers, and could hear a confused harmony of singing birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical instruments.

Gladness grew in me at the discovery of so delightful a scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy seats; but the genius told me there was no passage to them, except through the gates of death that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. “The islands,” said he, “that lie so fresh and green before thee, and with which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted, as far as thou canst see, are more in number than the sand on the sea-shore: there are myriads of islands behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching farther than thine eye, or even thine imagination, can extend itself. These are the mansions of good men after death, who, according to the degree and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed among these several islands, which abound with pleasures of different kinds and degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfections of those who are settled in them; every island is a paradise, accommodated to its respective inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirza, habitations worth contending for? Does life appear miserable, that gives thee opportunities of earning such a reward? Is death to be feared, that will convey thee to so happy an existence? Think not man was made in vain, who has such an eternity reserved for him.”

I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on these happy islands. At length said I, “Show me now, I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds which cover the ocean, on the other side of the rock of adamant.” The genius making me no answer, I turned about to address myself to him a second time, but I found he had left me. I then turned again to the vision I had been so long contemplating; but instead of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the long, hollow valley of Bagdad, with oxen, sheep, and camels grazing upon the sides of it. – Joseph Addison.

THE PRAIRIES

These are the gardens of the desert, these
The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful,
For which the speech of England has no name —
The Prairies. I behold them for the first,
And my heart swells, while the dilated sight
Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch
In airy undulations, far away,
As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell,
Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed,
And motionless forever. Motionless? —
No – they are all unchained again. The clouds
Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath,
The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye;
Dark hollows seem to glide along, and chase
The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South!
Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers,
And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high,
Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not, – ye have played
Among the palms of Mexico and vines
Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks
That from the fountains of Sonora glide
Into the calm Pacific – have ye fanned
A nobler or a lovelier scene than this?
Man hath no part in all this glorious work:
The Hand that built the firmament hath heaved
And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes