Successful Recitations Part 27

"I, twice!"--"I, five times!"--"and I, fifteen."

This was too much. The master of the ceremonies was questioned. He knew nothing--and the green domino was interrupted as he was carrying a b.u.mper of claret to his lips.

"The Prince's desire is, that Monsieur who wears the green domino should unmask." The stranger hesitated.

"The command with which his Highness honours Monsieur is perfectly absolute."

Against that which is absolute there is no contending. The green man threw off his mask and domino; and proved to be a private trooper of the Irish dragoons!

"And in the name of gluttony, my good friend (not to ask how you gained admission), how have you contrived," said the Prince, "to sup to-night so many times?"

"Sire, I was but beginning to sup, with reverence be it said, when your royal message interrupted me."

"Beginning!" exclaimed the Dauphin in amazement; "then what is it I have heard and seen? Where are the herds of oxen that have disappeared, and the hampers of Burgundy? I insist upon knowing how this is!"

"It is Sire," returned the soldier, "may it please your Grace, that the troop to which I belong is to-day on guard. We have purchased one ticket among us, and provided this green domino, which fits us all.

By which means the whole of the front rank, being myself the last man, have supped, if the truth must be told, at discretion; and the leader of the rear rank, saving your Highness's commands, is now waiting outside the door to take his turn."

THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!"

That is what the vision said.

In his chamber all alone, Kneeling on the floor of stone, Prayed the Monk in deep contrition For his sins of indecision, Prayed for greater self-denial In temptation and in trial; It was noonday by the dial, And the Monk was all alone.

Suddenly, as if it lightened, An unwonted splendour brightened All within him and without him In that narrow cell of stone; And he saw the Blessed Vision Of our Lord, with light Elysian Like a vesture wrapped about Him, Like a garment round Him thrown.

Not as crucified and slain, Not in agonies of pain, Not with bleeding hands and feet, Did the Monk his Master see; But as in the village street, In the house or harvest-field, Halt and lame and blind He healed, When He walked in Galilee.

In an att.i.tude imploring, Hands upon his bosom crossed, Wondering, wors.h.i.+pping, adoring, Knelt the Monk in rapture lost.

"Lord," he thought, "in Heaven that reignest, Who am I that thus Thou deignest To reveal Thyself to me?

Who am I, that from the centre Of Thy glory Thou shouldst enter This poor cell my guest to be?"

Then amid his exaltation, Loud the convent-bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Rang through court and corridor, With persistent iteration He had never heard before.

It was now the appointed hour When alike, in s.h.i.+ne or shower, Winter's cold or summer's heat, To the convent portals came All the blind and halt and lame, All the beggars of the street, For their daily dole of food Dealt them by the brotherhood; And their almoner was he Who upon his bended knee, Wrapt in silent ecstasy Of divinest self-surrender, Saw the Vision and the splendour.

Deep distress and hesitation Mingled with his adoration; Should he go or should he stay?

Should he leave the poor to wait Hungry at the convent gate Till the Vision pa.s.sed away?

Should he slight his heavenly guest, Slight this visitant celestial, For a crowd of ragged, b.e.s.t.i.a.l Beggars at the convent gate?

Would the Vision there remain?

Would the Vision come again?

Then a voice within his breast Whispered, audible and clear, As if to the outward ear: "Do thy duty; that is best; Leave unto thy Lord the rest!"

Straightway to his feet he started, And, with longing look intent On the Blessed Vision bent, Slowly from his cell departed, Slowly on his errand went.

At the gate the poor were waiting, Looking through the iron grating, With that terror in the eye That is only seen in those Who amid their wants and woes Hear the sound of doors that close And of feet that pa.s.s them by; Grown familiar with disfavour, Grown familiar with the savour Of the bread by which men die!

But to-day, they know not why, Like the gate of Paradise Seemed the convent gate to rise, Like a sacrament divine Seemed to them the bread and wine.

In his heart the Monk was praying, Thinking of the homeless poor, What they suffer and endure; What we see not, what we see; And the inward voice was saying: "Whatsoever thing thou doest To the least of Mine and lowest That thou doest unto Me."

Unto Me! But had the Vision Come to him in beggar's clothing, Come a mendicant imploring, Would he then have knelt adoring, Or have listened with derision And have turned away with loathing?

Thus his conscience put the question, Full of troublesome suggestion, As at length, with hurried pace, Toward his cell he turned his face, And beheld the convent bright With a supernatural light, Like a luminous cloud expanding Over floor and wall and ceiling.

But he paused with awe-struck feeling At the threshold of his door; For the Vision still was standing As he left it there before, When the convent bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Summoned him to feed the poor.

Through the long hour intervening It had waited his return, And he felt his bosom burn, Comprehending all the meaning, When the Blessed Vision said: "Hadst thou stayed I must have fled!"

THE BELL OF ATRI.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown, One of those little places that have run Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun, And then sat down to rest, as if to say, "I climb no further upward, come what may,"-- The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame, So many monarchs since have borne the name, Had a great bell hung in the market-place Beneath a roof, projecting some small s.p.a.ce, By way of shelter from the sun and rain.

Then rode he through the streets with all his train, And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long; Made proclamation, that whenever wrong Was done to any man, he should but ring The great bell in the square, and he, the King, Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon.

Such was the proclamation of King John.

How swift the happy days in Atri sped, What wrongs were righted, need not here be said.

Suffice it that, as all things must decay, The hempen rope at length was worn away, Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand, Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand, Till one, who noted this in pa.s.sing by, Mended the rope with braids of briony, So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine Hung like a votive garland at a shrine.

By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt, Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods, Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods, Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports And prodigalities of camps and courts;-- Loved, or had loved them; for at last, grown old, His only pa.s.sion was the love of gold.

He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds, Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds, Kept but one steed, his favourite steed of all, To starve and s.h.i.+ver in a naked stall, And day by day sat brooding in his chair, Devising plans how best to h.o.a.rd and spare.

At length he said: "What is the use or need To keep at my own cost this lazy steed, Eating his head off in my stables here, When rents are low and provender is dear?

Let him go feed upon the public ways: I want him only for the holidays."

So the old steed was turned into the heat Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street; And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn, Barked at by dogs, and torn by briar and thorn.

One afternoon, as in that sultry clime It is the custom in the summer time, With bolted doors and window-shutters closed, The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed; When suddenly upon their senses fell The loud alarum of the accusing bell!

The Syndic started from his deep repose, Turned on his coach, and listened, and then rose And donned his robes, and with reluctant pace Went panting forth into the market-place, Where the great bell upon its cross-beam swung, Reiterating with persistent tongue, In half-articulate jargon, the old song: "Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong!"

But ere he reached the belfry's light arcade, He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade, No shape of human form of woman born, But a poor steed dejected and forlorn, Who with uplifted head and eager eye Was tugging at the vines of briony.

"Domeneddio!" cried the Syndic straight, "This is the Knight of Atri's steed of state!

He calls for justice, being sore distressed, And pleads his cause as loudly as the best."

Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd Had rolled together like a summer cloud, And told the story of the wretched beast In five-and-twenty different ways at least, With much gesticulation and appeal To heathen G.o.ds, in their excessive zeal.

The Knight was called and questioned; in reply Did not confess the fact, did not deny;

Treated the matter as a pleasant jest, And set at nought the Syndic and the rest, Maintaining, in an angry undertone, That he should do what pleased him with his own.

And thereupon the Syndic gravely read The proclamation of the King; then said: "Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay, But cometh back on foot, and begs its way; Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds Of flowers of chivalry, and not of weeds!

These are familiar proverbs; but I fear They never yet have reached your knightly ear.

What fair renown, what honour, what repute Can come to you from starving this poor brute?

He who serves well and speaks not, merits more Than they who clamour loudest at the door.