diff options
| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:17:48 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:17:48 -0700 |
| commit | b71ddb877f3584b10aa560623fa84362c2ea0822 (patch) | |
| tree | 76eea6e0703070c4a792e4e416581067dc47c31d /1830-h | |
Diffstat (limited to '1830-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | 1830-h/1830-h.htm | 1674 |
1 files changed, 1674 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/1830-h/1830-h.htm b/1830-h/1830-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c3f51f8 --- /dev/null +++ b/1830-h/1830-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1674 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Wyndham Towers, by Thomas Bailey Aldrich + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Wyndham Towers, by Thomas Bailey Aldrich + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Wyndham Towers + +Author: Thomas Bailey Aldrich + +Release Date: November 23, 2008 [EBook #1830] +Last Updated: March 3, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WYNDHAM TOWERS *** + + + + +Produced by Donald Lainson, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + WYNDHAM TOWERS + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Thomas Bailey Aldrich + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> TO EDWIN BOOTH. MY DEAR BOOTH: + </p> + <p> + In offering these verses to you, I beg you to treat them (as you have many + a time advised a certain lord chamberlain to treat the players) not + according to their desert. “Use them after your own honor and dignity; the + less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty.” + </p> + <p> + These many years your friend and comrade, + </p> + <p> + T. B. ALDRICH. <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + Contents + </h3> + <table summary=""> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> NOTE </a> + </p> + <br /> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> WYNDHAM TOWERS. </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + NOTE + </h2> + <p> + The motif of the story embodied in the following poem was crudely outlined + in a brief sketch printed in an early collection of the authors verse, and + subsequently cancelled for a purpose not until now accomplished. Wyndham + Towers is not to be confused with this discarded sketch, the text of which + has furnished only a phrase, or an indirect suggestion, here and there. + That the writer's method, when recasting the poem, was more or less + influenced by the poets he had been studying—chiefly the dramatists + of the Elizabethan era—will, he hopes, be obvious. It was part of + his design, however far he may have fallen from it, to give his narrative + something of the atmosphere and color of the period in which the action + takes place, though the story is supposed to be told at a later date. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WYNDHAM TOWERS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Before you reach the slender, high-arched bridge, + Like to a heron with one foot in stream, + The hamlet breaks upon you through green boughs— + A square stone church within a place of graves + Upon the slope; gray houses oddly grouped, + With plastered gables set with crossed oak-beams, + And roofs of yellow tile and purplish slate. + That is The Falcon, with the swinging sign + And rustic bench, an ancient hostelry; + Those leaden lattices were hung on hinge + In good Queen Bess's time, so old it is. + On ridge-piece, gable-end, or dove-cot vane, + A gilded weathercock at intervals + Glimmers—an angel on the wing, most like, + Of local workmanship; for since the reign + Of pious Edward here have carvers thrived, + In saints'-heads skillful and winged cherubim + Meet for rich abbeys. From yon crumbling tower, + Whose brickwork base the cunning Romans laid— + And now of no use else except to train + The ivy of an idle legend on— + You see, such lens is this thin Devon air, + If it so chance no fog comes rolling in, + The Torridge where its branching crystal spreads + To join the Taw. Hard by from a chalk cliff + A torrent leaps: not lovelier Sappho was + Giving herself all silvery to the sea + From that Leucadian rock. Beneath your feet + Lie sand and surf in curving parallels. + Off shore, a buoy gleams like a dolphin's back + Dripping with brine, and guards a sunken reef + Whose sharp incisors have gnawed many a keel; + There frets the sea and turns white at the lip, + And in ill-weather lets the ledge show fang. + A very pleasant nook in Devon, this, + + Upon the height of old was Wyndham Towers, + Clinging to rock there, like an eagle's nest, + With moat and drawbridge once, and good for siege; + Four towers it had to front the diverse winds: + Built God knows when, all record being lost, + Locked in the memories of forgotten men. + In Caesar's day, a pagan temple; next + A monastery; then a feudal hold; + Later a manor, and at last a ruin. + Such knowledge have we of it, vaguely caught + Through whispers fallen from tradition's lip. + This shattered tower, with crenellated top + And loops for archers, alone marks the spot, + Looming forlornly—a gigantic harp + Whereon the invisible fingers of the wind + Its fitful and mysterious dirges play. + + Here dwelt, in the last Tudor's virgin reign, + One Richard Wyndham, Knight and Gentleman, + (The son of Rawdon, slain near Calais wall + When Bloody Mary lost her grip on France,) + A lonely wight that no kith had nor kin + Save one, a brother—by ill-fortune's spite + A brother, since 't were better to have none— + Of late not often seen at Wyndham Towers, + Where he in sooth but lenten welcome got + When to that gate his errant footstep strayed. + Yet held he dear those gray majestic walls, + Time-stained and crusted with the sea's salt breath; + There first his eyes took color of the sea, + There did his heart stay when fate drove him thence, + And there at last—but that we tell anon. + Darrell they named him, for an ancestor + Whose bones were whitening in Holy Land, + The other Richard; a crusader name, + Yet it was Darrell had the lion-heart. + No love and little liking served this pair, + In look and word unpaired as white and black— + Of once rich bough the last unlucky fruit. + The one, for straightness like a Norland pine + Set on some precipice's perilous edge, + Intrepid, handsome, little past blown youth, + Of all pure thought and brave deed amorous, + Moulded the court's high atmosphere to breathe, + Yet liking well the camp's more liberal air— + Poet, soldier, courtier, 't was the mode; + The other—as a glow-worm to a star— + Suspicious, morbid, passionate, self-involved, + The soul half eaten out with solitude, + Corroded, like a sword-blade left in sheath + Asleep and lost to action—in a word, + A misanthrope, a miser, a soured man, + One fortune loved not and looked at askance. + Yet he a pleasant outward semblance had. + Say what you will, and paint things as you may, + The devil is not black, with horn and hoof, + As gossips picture him: he is a person + Quite scrupulous of doublet and demeanor, + As was this Master Wyndham of The Towers, + Now latterly in most unhappy case, + Because of matters to be here set forth. + + A thing of not much moment, as life goes, + A thing a man with some philosophy + Had idly brushed aside, as 't were a gnat + That winged itself between him and the light, + Had, through the crooked working of his mind, + Brought Wyndham to a very grievous pass. + Yet 't was a grapestone choked Anacreon + And hushed his song. There is no little thing + In nature: in a raindrop's compass lie + A planet's elements. This Wyndham's woe + Was one Griselda, daughter to a man + Of Bideford, a shipman once, but since + Turned soldier; now in white-haired, wrinkled age + Sitting beneath the olive, valiant still, + With sword on nail above the chimney-shelf + In case the Queen should need its edge again. + An officer he was, though lowly born. + The man aforetime, in the Netherlands + And through those ever-famous French campaigns + (Marry, in what wars bore he not a hand?) + In Rawdon Wyndham's troop of horse had served, + And when he fell that day by Calais wall + Had from the Frenchmen's pikes his body snatched, + And so much saved of him, which was not much, + The good knight being dead. For this deed's sake, + That did enlarge itself in sorrow's eye, + The widow deemed all guerdon all too small, + And held her dear lord's servant and his girl, + Born later, when that clash of steel was done, + As her own kin, till she herself was laid + I' the earth and sainted elsewhere. The two sons + Let cool the friendship: one in foreign parts + Did gold and honor seek; at hall stayed one, + The heir, and now of old friends negligent: + Thus fortune hardens the ignoble heart. + Griselda even as a little maid, + Demure, but with more crotchets in the brain, + I warrant ye, than minutes to the hour, + Had this one much misliked; in her child-thought + Confused him somehow with those cruel shapes + Of iron men that up there at The Towers + Quickened her pulse. For he was gaunt, his face, + Mature beyond the logic of his years, + Had in it something sinister and grim, + Like to the visage pregnant fancy saw + Behind the bars of each disused casque + In that east chamber where the harness hung + And dinted shields of Wyndhams gone to grace— + At Poitiers this one, this at Agincourt, + That other on the sands of Palestine: + A breed of fierce man-slayers, sire and son. + Of these seemed Richard, with his steel cross-bow + Killing the doves in very wantonness— + The gentle doves that to the ramparts came + For scattered crumbs, undreamful of all ill. + Each well-sent dart that stained a snowy breast + Straight to her own white-budding bosom went. + Fled were those summers now, and she had passed + Out of the child-world of vain fantasy + Where many a rainbow castle lay in ruin; + But to her mind, like wine-stain to a flask, + The old distrust still clung, indelible, + Holding her in her maidhood's serious prime + Well pleased from his cold eyes to move apart, + And in her humble fortunes dwell secure. + Indeed, what was she?—a poor soldier's girl, + Merely a tenant's daughter. Times were changed, + And life's bright web had sadder colors in 't: + That most sweet gentle lady—rest her soul!— + Shrunk to an epitaph beside her lord's, + And six lines shorter, which was all a shame; + Gaunt Richard heir; that other at earth's end, + (The younger son that was her sweetheart once,) + Fighting the Spaniards, getting slain perchance; + And all dear old-time uses quite forgot. + Slowly, unnoted, like the creeping rust + That spreads insidious, had estrangement come, + Until at last, one knew not how it fell, + And little cared, if sober truth were said, + She and the father no more climbed the hill + To Twelfth Night festival or May-day dance, + Nor commerce had with any at The Towers. + Yet in a formless, misty sort of way + The girl had place in Wyndham's mind—the girl, + Why, yes, beshrew him! it was even she + Whom his soft mother had made favorite of, + And well-nigh spoiled, some dozen summers gone. + + Perhaps because dull custom made her tame, + Or that she was not comely in the bud, + Her sweetness halting like a tardy May + That wraps itself in mist, and seems not fair, + For this or finer reason undivined, + His thought she touched not, and was glad withal + When she did note how others took his eye + And wore rue after. Thus was her white peace + Undarkened till, it so befell, these two + Meeting as they a hundred times had met + On hill-path or at crossing of the weir, + Her beauty broke on him like some rare flower + That was not yesterday. Ev'n so the Spring + Unclasps the girdle of its loveliness + Abruptly, in the North here: long the drifts + Linger in hollows, long on bough and briar + No slight leaf ventures, lest the frost's keen tooth + Nip it, and then all suddenly the earth + Is nought but scent and bloom. So unto him + Griselda's grace unclosed. Where lagged his wit + That guessed not of the bud that slept in stem, + Nor hint had of the flower within the bud? + If so much beauty had a tiger been, + 'T had eaten him! In all the wave-washed length + Of rocky Devon where was found her like + For excellence of wedded red and white? + Here on that smooth and sunny field, her cheek, + The hostile hues of Lancaster and York + Did meet, and, blending, make a heavenly truce, + This were indeed a rose a king might wear + Upon his bosom. By St. Dunstan, now, + Himself would wear it. Then by seeming chance + Crossed he her walks, and stayed her with discourse + Devised adroitly; spoke of common things + At first—of days when his good mother lived, + If 't were to live, to pass long dolorous hours + Before his father's effigy in church; + Of one who then used often come to hall, + Ever at Yule-tide, when the great log flamed + In chimney-place, and laugh and jest went round, + And maidens strayed beneath the mistletoe, + Making believe not see it, so got kissed— + Of one that joined not in the morrice-dance, + But in her sea-green kirtle stood at gaze, + A timid little creature that was scared + By dead men's armor. Nought there suffered change, + Those empty shells of valor grew not old, + Though something rusty. Would they fright her now + Looked she upon them? Held she in her mind— + 'T was Spring and loud the mavis piped outside— + The day the Turkish helmet slipped from peg, + And clashing on the floor, congealed her blood + And sent both hands to terror-smitten eyes, + She trembling, ready to yield up the ghost? + Right merry was it! Finally he touched + On matters nearer, things she had foreboded + And this one time must needs lend hearing to, + And end so sorry business ere woe came, + Like a true maid and honest, as she was. + So, tutoring the tremble on her lip + And holding back hot tears, she gave reply + With such discretion as straight tied his tongue, + Albeit he lacked not boldness in discourse: + + “Indeed, indeed, sir, you speak but in jest! + Lightly, not meaning it, in courtier-way. + I have heard said that ladies at the Court— + I judge them not!—have most forgiving ears, + And list right willingly to idle words, + Listen and smile and never stain a cheek. + Yet not such words your father's son should use + With me, my father's daughter. You forget + What should most precious be to memory's heart, + Love that dared death; and so, farewell.” Farewell + It was in sooth; for after that one time, + Though he had fain with passion-breathed vows + Besieged that marble citadel her breast, + He got no speech of her: she chose her walks; + Let only moon and star look on the face + That could well risk the candor of the sun; + Ran not to lattice at each sound of hoof; + By stream or hedge-row plucked no pansies more, + Mistrusting Proserpina's cruel fate, + Herself up-gathered in Sicilian fields; + At chapel—for one needs to chapel go + A-Sunday—glanced not either right or left, + But with black eyelash wedded to white cheek + Knelt there impassive, like the marble girl + That at the foot-end of his father's tomb, + Inside the chancel where the Wyndhams lay, + Through the long years her icy vigil kept. + + As leaves turn into flame at the frost's touch, + So Richard's heart on coldness fed its fire, + And burned with surfeit of indifference. + All flavor and complexion of content + Went out of life; what served once served no more. + His hound and falcon ceased to pleasure him; + He read—some musty folios there were + On shelf—but even in brave Froissart's page, + Where, God knows, there be wounds enough, no herb + Nor potion found he to purge sadness with. + The gray dust gathered on the leaf unturned, + And then the spider drew his thread across. + Certain bright coins that he was used to count + With thrill at fingers' ends uncounted lay, + Suddenly worthless, like the conjurer's gold + That midst the jeers and laughter of the crowd + Turns into ashes in the rustic's hand. + Soft idleness itself bore now a thorn + Two-pronged with meditation and desire. + The cold Griselda that would none of him! + The fair Griselda! Not alone by day, + With this most solid earth beneath his feet, + But in the weird and unsubstantial sphere + Of slumber did her beauty hold him thrall. + Herself of late he saw not; 't was a wraith + He worshipped, a vain shadow. Thus he pined + From dawn to dusk, and then from dusk to dawn, + Of that miraculous infection caught + From any-colored eyes, so they be sweet. + Strange that a man should let a maid's slim foot + Stamp on his happiness and quench it quite! + + With what snail-pace the traitor time creeps by + When one is out with fortune and undone! + how tauntingly upon the dial's plate + The shadow's finger points the dismal hour! + Thus Wyndham, with hands clasped behind his back, + Watching the languid and reluctant sun + Fade from the metal disk beside the door. + The hours hung heavy up there on the hill, + Where life was little various at best + And merriment had long since ta'en its flight. + Sometimes he sat and conned the flying clouds + Till on dusk's bosom nestled her one star, + And spoke no word, nor seemed alive at all, + But a mere shape and counterfeit of life; + Or, urged by some swift hunger for green boughs, + Would bid the hound to heel, and disappear + Into the forest, with himself communing + For lack of gossip. So do lonely men + Make themselves tedious to their tedious selves. + Thus passed he once in a white blaze of noon + Under his oaks, and muttered as he went: + + “'My father's daughter' and 'your father's son'! + Faith, but it was a shrewd and nimble phrase, + And left me with no fitting word at tongue. + The wench hath wit and matter of her own, + And beauty, that doth seldom mate with wit, + Nature hath painted her a proper brown— + A russet-colored wench that knows her worth. + And mincing, too—should have her ruff propt up + With supertasses, like a dame at Court, + And go in cloth-of-gold. I'll get a suit + Of Genoa velvet, and so take her eye. + Has she a heart? The ladies of Whitehall + Are not so skittish, else does Darrell lie + Most villainously. Often hath he said + The art of blushing 's a lost art at Court. + If so, good riddance! This one here lets love + Play beggar to her prudery, and starve, + Feeding him ever on looks turned aside. + To be so young, so fair, and wise withal! + Lets love starve? Nay, I think starves merely me. + For when was ever woman logical + Both day and night-time? Not since Adam fell! + I doubt a lover somewhere. What shrewd bee + Hath buzzed betimes about this clover-top? + Belike some scrivener's clerk at Bideford, + With long goose-quill and inkhorn at his thigh— + Methinks I see the parchment face of him; + Or one of those swashbuckler Devon lads + That haunt the inn there, with red Spanish gold, + Rank scurvy knaves, ripe fruit for gallows-tree; + Or else the sexton's son”—here Wyndham laughed, + Though not a man of mirth—indeed, a man + Of niggard humor; but that sexton's son— + Lean as the shadow cast by a church spire, + Eyes deep in the sockets, noseless, high cheek-boned, + Like nothing in the circle of this earth + But a death's-head that from a mural slab + Within the chancel leers through sermon-time, + Making a mock of poor mortality. + The fancy touched him, and he laughed a laugh + That from his noonday slumber roused an owl + Snug in his oaken hermitage hard by. + A very rare conceit—the sexton's son! + + Not he, forsooth; he smacked of churchyard mould + And musty odors of moth-eaten palls— + A living death, a walking epitaph! + No lover that for tingling flesh and blood + To rest soft cheek on and change kisses with. + Yet lover somewhere; from his sly cocoon + Time would unshell him. In the interim + What was to do but wait, and mark who strolled + Of evenings up the hill-path and made halt + This side the coppice at a certain gate? + For by that chance which ever serves ill ends, + Within the slanted shadow of The Towers + The maid Griselda dwelt. Her gray scarred sire + Had for cloth doublet changed the steel cuirass, + The sword for gardener's fork, and so henceforth + In the mild autumn and sundown of life, + Moving erect among his curves and squares + Of lily, rose, and purple flower-de-luce, + Set none but harmless squadrons in the field— + Save now and then at tavern, where he posed, + Tankard in hand and prattling of old days, + A white-mustached epitome of wars. + + How runs the proverb touching him who waits? + Who waits shall have the world. Time's heir is he, + Be he but patient. Thus the thing befell + Wherefrom grew all this history of woe: + Haunting the grounds one night, as his use was + Who loved the dark as bats and owlets do, + Wyndham got sound of voices in the air + That did such strange and goblin changes ring + As left him doubtful whence the murmurs came, + Now here, now there, as they were winged things— + Such trick plays Echo upon hapless wight + Chance-caught in lonely places where she dwells, + Anon a laugh rang out, melodious, + Like the merle's note when its ecstatic heart + Is packed with summer-time; then all was still— + So still the soul of silence seemed to grieve + The loss of that sweet laughter. In his tracks + The man stopped short, and listened. As he leaned + And craned his neck, and peered into the gloom, + And would the fabulous hundred eyes were his + That Argus in the Grecian legend had, + He saw two figures moving through a drift + Of moonlight that lay stretched across the lawn: + A man's tall shape, a slim shape close at side, + Her palm in tender fashion pressed to his, + The woven snood about her shoulders fallen, + And from the sombre midnight of her hair + An ardent face out-looking like a star— + As in a vision saw he this, for straight + They vanished. Where those silvery shadows were + Was nothing. Had he dreamed it? Had he gone + Mad with much thinking on her, and so made + Ghosts of his own sick fancies? Like a man + Carved out of alabaster and set up + Within a woodland, he stood rooted there, + Glimmering wanly under pendent boughs. + Spell-bound he stood, in very woeful plight, + Bewildered; and then presently with shock + Of rapid pulses hammering at heart, + As mad besiegers hammer at a gate, + To life came back, and turned on heel to fly + From that accursed spot and all that was, + When once more the girl's laugh made rich the night, + And melted, and the silence grieved anew. + Like lead his feet were, and he needs must halt. + Close upon this, but further off, a voice + From somewhere—Echo at her trick again!— + Took up the rhyme of Sweetheart, sigh no more. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It was with doubt and trembling + I whispered in her ear. + Go, take her answer, bird-on-bough, + That all the world may hear— + Sweetheart, sigh no more! + + Sing it, sing it, tawny throat, + Upon the wayside tree, + How fair she is, how true she is, + How dear she is to me— + Sweetheart sigh no more! + + Sing it, sing it, tawny throat, + And through the summer long + The winds among the clover-tops, + And brooks, for all their silvery stops, + Shall envy you the song— + Sweetheart, sigh no more. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'T is said the Malays have an arrow steeped + In some strange drug whose subtile properties + Are such that if the point but prick the skin + Death stays there. Like to that fell cruel shaft + This slender rhyme was. Through the purple dark + Straight home it sped, and into Wyndham's veins + Its drop of sudden poison did distill. + Now no sound was, save when a dry twig snapped + And rustled softly down from branch to branch, + Or on its pebbly shoals the meagre brook + Made intermittent murmur. “So, 't is he!” + Thus Wyndham breathing thickly, with his eyes + Dilating in the darkness, “Darrell—he! + I set my springe for other game than this; + Of hare or rabbit dreamed I, not of wolf. + His frequent visitations have of late + Perplexed me; now the riddle reads itself. + A proper man, a very proper man! + A fellow that burns Trinidado leaf + And sends smoke through his nostril like a flue! + A fop, a hanger-on of willing skirts— + A murrain on him! Would Elizabeth + In some mad freak had clapped him in the Tower— + Ay, through the Traitor's Gate. Would he were dead. + Within the year what worthy men have died, + Persons of substance, civic ornaments, + And here 's this gilt court-butterfly on wing! + O thou most potent lightning in the cloud, + Prick me this fellow from the face of earth! + I would the Moors had got him in Algiers + What time he harried them on land and sea, + And done their will with scimitar or cord + Or flame of fagot, and so made an end; + Or that some shot from petronel or bow + Had winged him in the folly of his flight. + Well had it been if the Inquisitors, + With rack and screw, had laid black claw on him!” + In days whose chronicle is writ in blood + The richest ever flowed in English veins + Some foul mischance in this sort might have been; + For at dark Fortune's feet had Darrell flung + In his youth's flower a daring gauntlet down. + + A beardless stripling, at that solemn hour + When, breaking its frail filaments of clay, + The mother's spirit soared invisible, + The younger son, unhoused as well he knew, + Had taken horse by night to London town, + With right sore heart and nought else in his scrip + But boyish hope to footing find at Court— + A page's place, belike, with some great lord, + Or some small lord, that other proving shy + Of merit that had not yet clipt its shell. + Day after day, in weather foul or fair, + With lackeys, hucksters, and the commoner sort, + At Whitehall and Westminster he stood guard, + Reading men's faces with most anxious eye. + There the lords swarmed, some waspish and some bland, + But none would pause at plucking of the sleeve + To hearken to him, and the lad had died + On London stones for lack of crust to gnaw + But that he caught the age's malady, + The something magical that was in air, + And made men poets, heroes, demi-gods— + Made Shakespeare, Rawleigh, Grenvile, Oxenham, + And set them stars in the fore-front of Time. + In fine, young Darrell drew of that same air + A valiant breath, and shipped with Francis Drake, + Of Tavistock, to sail the Spanish seas + And teach the heathen manners, with God's aid; + And so, among lean Papists and black Moors, + He, with the din of battle in his ears, + Struck fortune. Who would tamely bide at home + At beck and call of some proud swollen lord + Not worth his biscuit, or at Beauty's feet + Sit making sonnets, when was work to do + Out yonder, sinking Philip's caravels + At sea, and then by way of episode + Setting quick torch* to pirate-nests ashore? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * Sir Francis Drake called this “singeing the + King of Spayne's beard.” + </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brave sport to singe the beard o' the King of Spain! + Brave sport, but in the end dreamed he of home— + Of where the trout-brook lisped among the reeds, + Of great chalk cliffs and leagues of yellow gorse, + Of peaceful lanes, of London's roaring streets, + The crowds, the shops, the pageants in Cheapside, + And heard the trumpets blaring for the Queen + When 't was the wind that whistled in the shrouds + Off Cadiz. Ah, and softer dreams he had + Of an unnamed and sweetest mystery, + And from the marble of his soul's desire + Hewed out the white ideal of his love— + A new Pygmalion! All things drew him home, + This mainly. Foot on English earth once more, + Dear earth of England his propitious fame + A thorn in none but crooked Envy's side, + He went cross-gartered, with a silken rose + At golden lovelock, diamond brooch at hat + Looping one side up very gallantly, + And changed his doublet's color twice a day. + Ill fare had given his softer senses edge; + Good fortune, later, bade him come to dine, + Mild Spenser's scholar, Philip Sidney's friend. + So took he now his ease; in Devonshire, + When Town was dull, or he had need at heart + For sight of Wyndham Towers against the sky; + But chiefly did he bask him by the Thames, + For there 't was that Young England froze and thawed + By turns in GLORIANA'S frown and smile. + + As some wild animal that gets a wound, + And prescience hath of death, will drag itself + Back to its cavern sullenly to die, + And would not have heaven's airs for witnesses, + So Wyndham, shrinking from the very stars + And tell-tale places where the moonlight fell, + Crept through the huddled shadows back to hall, + And in a lonely room where no light was, + Save what the moon made at the casement there, + Sat pondering his hurt, and in the dark + Gave audience to a host of grievances. + For never comes reflection, gay or grave, + But it brings with it comrades of its hue. + So did he fall to thinking how his day + Declined, and how his narrow life had run + Obscurely through an age of great events + Such as men never saw, nor will again + Until the globe be riven by God's fire. + Others had ventured for the Golden Fleece, + Knaves of no parts at all, and got renown, + (By force of circumstance and not desert,) + While he up there on that rock-bastioned coast + Had rotted like some old hulk's skeleton, + Whose naked and bleached ribs the lazy tide + Laps day by day, and no man thinks of more. + Then was jade Fortune in her lavish mood. + Why had he not for distant Colchis sailed + And been the Jason of these Argonauts? + True, some had come to block on Tower Hill, + Or quittance made in a less noble sort; + Still they had lived, from life's high-mantling cup + Had blown the bead. In such case, if one's head + Be of its momentary laurel stripped + And made a show of stuck on Temple Bar + Or at the Southwark end of London Bridge, + What mattered it? At worst man dies but once— + So far as known. One may not master death, + But life should be one's lackey. He had been + Time's dupe and bondsman; ever since his birth + Had walked this planet with his eye oblique, + Grasped what was worthless, what were most dear missed; + Missed love and fame, and all the sum of things + Fame gets a man in England—the Queen's smile, + Which means, when she 's in humor, abbey-lands, + Appointments, stars and ribbons for the breast, + And that sleek adulation that takes shape + I' the down-drooping of obsequious lids + When one ascends a stair or walks the pave. + Good Lord! but it was excellent to see + How Expectation in the ante-room + Crooks back to Greatness passing to the Queen— + “Kind sir!” “Sweet sir!” “I prithee speed my suit!” + 'T was somewhat to be flattered, though by fools, + For even a fool's coin hath a kind of ring. + Yet after all—thus did the grapes turn sour + To master Fox, in fable—who would care + To moil and toil to gain a little fame, + And have each rascal that prowls under heaven + Stab one for getting it? Had he wished power, + The thing was in the market-place for sale + At stated rates—so much for a man's soul! + His was a haughty spirit that bent not, + And one to rise had need to cringe and creep. + So had his brother into favor crawled, + Like slug into the bosom of a rose, + And battened in the sun. At thought of him, + Forgotten for a moment, Wyndham winced, + And felt his wound. “Why bides he not in Town + With his blond lovelock and wench-luring ways— + There runs his fox! What foul fiend sends him here + To Wyndham Towers? Is there not space enough + In this our England he needs crowd me so? + Has London sack upon his palate staled, + That he must come to sip my Devon cream? + Are all maids shut in nunneries save this one? + What magic philtre hath he given her + To thaw the ice that melted not for me? + Rich is he now that at his setting forth + Had not two silver pieces to his purse. + It is his brave apparel dazzles her. + Thus puts he bound and barrier to my love. + Another man were he abused as I... + I'll have no more of him! If I but dared— + Nay, I dare not. I have fawn's blood, I think; + I would, and dare not!” Thrice the hooded clock + Solemnly, like some old Carthusian monk + With meagre face half seen beneath his cowl, + Intoned the quarter. Memory went not back + When this was not a most familiar sound, + Yet as each stroke on the dead silence fell + Wyndham turned, startled. Now the sanguine moon, + To clouded opal changing momently, + Rose sheer above the pine-trees' ragged edge, + And through the wide-flung casement reaching hand + With cold and spectral finger touched the plates + Of his dead father's armor till it gleamed + One mass of silver. There it stood complete, + That august panoply which once struck dread + To foemen on the sunny plains of France, + Menacing, terrible, this instant stood, + With vizard down and jousting-lance at charge + As if that crumbled knight were quick within. + + A footfall on the shingle walk below + Grated, a footfall light as Mercury's + Disdaining earth, and Wyndham in the dark, + Half crouched upon the settle with his nails + Indenting the soft wood-work, held his breath. + Then suddenly a blind rage like a flame + Swept over him and hurled him to his feet— + Such rage as must have seized the soul of Cain + Meeting his brother in the stubble-field. + Anon came one that hummed a blithe sea-song, + As he were fresh from tavern and brave cheer, + And held the stars that blinked there in the blue + Boon comrades. Singing in high-hearted way, + His true-love's kiss a memory on his lip, + Straight on he came to unrenowned end + Whose dream had been in good chain-mail to die + On some well-foughten field, at set of sun, + With glorious peal of trumpets on his ear + Proclaiming victory. So had he dreamed. + And there, within an arch at the stair-top + And screened behind a painted hanging-cloth + Of coiled gold serpents ready to make spring, + Ignoble Death stood, his convulsive hand + Grasping a rapier part-way down the blade + To deal the blow with deadly-jewelled hilt— + Black Death, turned white with horror of himself. + Straight on came he that sang the blithe sea-song; + And now his step was on the stair, and now + He neared the blazoned hanging-cloth, and now... + + The lights were out, and all life lay in trance + On floor or pallet, blanketed to chin, + Each in his mask of sullen-seeming death— + Fond souls that recked not what was in the air, + Else had the dead man's scabbard as it clashed + Against the balustrade, then on the tiles, + Brought awkward witness. One base hind there was + Had stolen a venison-pasty on the shelf, + And now did penance; him the fall half roused + From dreadful nightmare; once he turned and gasped, + Then straightway snored again. No other sound + Within the dream-enchanted house was heard, + Save that the mastiff, lying at the gate + With visionary bone, snarled in his sleep. + Secret as bridal-kiss may murder be, + + Done was the deed that could not be undone + Throughout eternity. O silent tongue + That would blab all with silence! What to do? + How hide this speechless witness from men's gaze? + Living, that body vexed us; being dead + 'T is like to give us trouble and to spare. + O for a cavern in deep-bowelled earth! + Quick, ere the dusky petals of the night + Unclosing bare the fiery heart of dawn + And thus undo us with its garish light, + Let us this mute and pale accusing clay + In some undreamed-of sepulchre bestow, + But where? Hold back thy fleet-wing'd coursers, Time, + Whilst we bethink us! Ah—such place there is! + Close, too, at hand—a place wherein a man + Might lie till doomsday safer from the touch + Of prying clown than is the spiced dust + Of an Egyptian in his pyramid. + + At a dark alcove's end of that long hall, + The ancient armor-room in the east wing, + A certain door (whereof no mortal knew + save Wyndham, now that other lay a-cold) + Was to the panels of the wall so set, + And with such devilish shrewdness overlaid + By carvings of wild-flower and curled grape-leaf, + That one not in the favor of the trick, + Albeit he knew such mechanism was, + Ere he put finger on the secret spring + Had need of Job for ancestor, in faith! + You pressed a rose, a least suspected rose, + And two doors turned on hinge, the inner door + Closing a space of say some six feet square, + Unlighted, sheathed with iron. Doubtless here + The mediaeval Wyndhams hid their plate + When things looked wicked from the outer wall, + Or, on occasion, a grim ruthless lord + Immured some inconvenient two-faced friend— + To banquet bidden, and kept over night. + Such pranks were played in Merrie England then. + Sealed in the narrow compass of that cell, + Shut from God's light and his most precious air, + A man might have of life a half-hour's lease + If he were hale and well-breathed at the start. + + Hither did Richard bear his brother's corse + And fling it down. Upon the stone-paved floor + In a thin strip of moonlight flung it down, + And then drew breath. Perhaps he paused to glance + At the white face there, with the strange half-smile + Out-living death, the brightness of the hair + Lying in loops and tangles round the brow— + A seraph's face of silver set in gold, + Such as the deft Italians know to carve; + Perhaps his tiger's blood cooled then, perhaps + Swift pity at his very heart-strings tugged, + And he in that black moment of remorse, + Seeing how there his nobler self lay slain, + Had bartered all this jewel-studded earth + To win life's color back to that wan cheek. + Ah, let us hope it, and some mercy feel, + Since each at compt shall need of mercy have. + Now how it happened, whether 't was the wind, + Or whether 't was some incorporeal hand + That reached down through the dark and did the thing, + Man knoweth not, but suddenly both doors, + Ere one could utter cry or put forth arm, + Closed with dull clang, and there in his own trap + Incontinent was red-stained Richard caught, + And as by flash of lightning saw his doom. + Call, an thou wilt, but every ear is stuffed + With slumber! Shriek, and run quick frenzied hands + Along the iron sheathing of thy grave— + For 't is thy grave—no egress shalt thou find, + No lock to break, no subtile-sliding bolt, + No careless rivet, no half loosened plate + For dagger's point to fret at and pry off + And let a stifling mortal get to air! + + Angels of Light! what were a thousand years + Of rankling envy and contemned love + And all the bitter draughts a man may drink + To that half hour of Richard's with his Dead? + + Through silence, gloom, and star-strown paths of Night + The breathless hours like phantoms stole away. + Black lay the earth, in primal blackness wrapt + Ere the great miracle once more was wrought. + A chill wind freshened in the pallid East + And brought sea-smell of newly blossomed foam, + And stirred the leaves and branch-hung nests of birds. + Fainter the glow-worm's lantern glimmered now + In the marsh land and on the forest's hem, + And the slow dawn with purple laced the sky + Where sky and sea lay sharply edge to edge. + The purple melted, changed to violet, + And that to every delicate sea-shell tinge, + Blush-pink, deep cinnabar; then no change was, + Save that the air had in it sense of wings, + Till suddenly the heavens were all aflame, + And it was morning. O great miracle! + O radiance and splendor of the Throne, + Daily vouchsafed to us! Yet saith the fool, + “There is no God!” And now a level gleam, + Thrust like a spear-head through the tangled boughs, + Smote Wyndham's turrets, and the spell was broke. + + And one by one, on pallet stretched or floor, + The sleepers wakened; each took up afresh + His load of life; but two there were woke not, + Nor knew 't was daybreak. From the rusty nail + The gateman snatched his bunch of ancient keys, + And, yawning, vowed the sun an hour too soon; + The scullion, with face shining like his pans, + Hose down at heel and jerkin half unlaced, + On hearthstone knelt to coax the smouldering log; + The keeper fetched the yelping hounds their meat; + The hostler whistled in the stalls; anon, + With rustling skirt and slumber-freshened cheek, + The kerchief'd housemaid tripped from room to room + (Sweet Gillian, she that broke the groom his heart), + While, wroth within, behind a high-backed chair + The withered butler for his master waited, + Cursing the cook. That day the brewis spoiled. + + That day came neither kinsman to break bread. + When it was seen that both had lain abroad, + The wolf-skins of their couches made that plain + As pike-staff, or the mole on Gillian's cheek, + The servants stared. Some journey called them hence; + At dead of night some messenger had come + Of secret import, may be from the Queen, + And they paused not for change of raiment even. + And yet, in faith, that were but little like; + Sir Richard had scant dealings with the Court. + Still—if Northumberland were in arms again. + 'T was passing strange. No beast had gone from rack. + How had they gone, then? Who looked on them last? + Up rose the withered butler, he it was: + They supped together, of no journey spoke, + Spoke little, 't was their custom; after meal + The master's brother sallied forth alone, + The master stayed within. “That did he not,” + Quoth one, “I saw Sir Richard in the close + I' the moonrise.” “'T was eleven on the stroke,” + Said Gillian softly, “he, or 't was his ghost— + Methought his face was whiter than my smock— + Passed through the courtyard, and so into house. + Yet slept he not there!” And that other one, + The guest unwelcome, kinsman little loved + (How these shrewd varlets turn us inside out + At kitchen-conclaves, over our own wine!) + Him had no eye seen since he issued forth + As curfew sounded. “Call me lying knave”— + He of the venison-pasty had the word— + “And let me nevermore dip beak in ale + Or sit at trencher with good smoking meat, + If I heard not, in middle of the night, + The cock crow thrice, and took it for a sign.” + “So, marry, 't was—that thou wert drunk again.” + But no one laughed save he that made the jest, + Which often happens. The long hours wore on, + And gloaming fell. Then came another day, + And then another, until seven dawns + In Time's slow crucible ran ruddy gold + And overflowed the gray horizon's edge; + And yet no hosts at table—an ill thing! + And now 't was on the eve of Michaelmas. + + What could it mean? From out their lethargy + At last awaking, searchers in hot haste, + Some in the saddle, some afoot with hounds, + Scoured moor and woodland, dragged the neighboring weirs + And salmon-streams, and watched the wily hawk + Slip from his azure ambush overhead, + With ever a keen eye for carrion: + But no man found, nor aught that once was man. + By land they went not; went they water-ways? + Might be, from Bideford or Ilfracombe. + Mayhap they were in London, who could tell? + God help us! do men melt into the air? + Yet one there was whose dumb unlanguaged love + Had all revealed, had they but given heed. + Across the threshold of the armor-room + The savage mastiff stretched himself, and starved. + + Now where lags he, upon what alehouse bench + 'Twixt here and London, who shall lift this weight? + Were he not slain upon the Queen's highway + Ere he reached Town, or tumbled into ford + With too much sack-and-sugar under belt, + Then was his face set homeward this same hour, + Why lingers he? Ill news, 't is said, flies fast, + And good news creeps; then his must needs be good + That lets the tortoise pass him on the road. + Ride, Dawkins, ride! by flashing tarn and fen + And haunted hollow! Look not where in chains + On Hounslow heath the malefactor hangs, + A lasting terror! Give thy roan jade spur, + And spare her not! All Devon waits for thee, + Thou, for the moment, most important man! + A sevennight later, when the rider sent + To Town drew rein before The Falcon inn + Under the creaking of the windy sign, + And slipped from saddle with most valorous call + For beer to wash his throat out, then confessed + He brought no scrap of any honest news, + The last hope died, and so the quest was done. + “They far'd afoot,” quoth one, “but where God wot.” + + The blackthorn bloomed anew, and the long grass + Was starred with flowers that once Griselda prized, + But plucked not. She, poor wench, from moon to moon + Waxed pale and paler: of no known disease, + The village-leech averred, with lips pursed out + And cane at chin; some inward fire, he thought, + Consumed. A dark inexplicable blight + Had touched her, thinned her, till of that sweet earth + Scarce more was left than would have served to grow + A lily. Later, at a fresh-turned grave, + From out the maiden strewments, as it were, + A whisper rose, of most pathetic breath, + Of how one maid had been by two men loved— + No names, God's mercy!—and that neither man + Would wed her: why?—conjecture faltered there, + For whiter was she than new-drifted snow, + Or bleached lamb's wool, or any purest thing, + Such stuff in sooth as Heaven shapes angels of; + And how from their warm, comfortable beds + These two men wandered out into the night, + Sore stricken and distempered in their mind, + And being by Satan blinded and urged on + Did fling them headlong from a certain crag + That up Clovelly way o'erhangs the sea— + O'erhangs the sea to tempt unhappy folk. + From door to door the piteous legend passed, + And like a thrifty beggar took from each. + And when the long autumnal season came + To that bleak, bitter coast, and when at night + The deep was shaken, and the pent cloud broke + Crashing among the lurid hills of heaven, + And in brief sudden swoonings of the gale + Contentious voices rose from the sand-dunes, + Then to low sobs and murmurs died away, + The fishwives, with their lean and sallow cheeks + Lit by the flickering driftwood's ruddy glow, + Drew closer to the crane, and under breath + To awestruck maidens told the fearful tale. + + The red leaf withered and the green leaf grew. + 'T was said that once the Queen reached out her hand— + This was at Richmond in her palace there— + And let it rest on Burleigh's velvet sleeve, + And spoke—right stately was she in her rouge: + “Prithee, good Master Cecil, tell us now + Was 't ever known what ill befell those men, + Those Wyndhams? Were they never, never found? + Look you, 't will be three years come Michaelmas: + 'T were well to have at least the bones of them. + 'Fore God, sir! this is something should be seen! + When the Armada, which God smote and sunk, + Threatened our Realm, our buckler and our shield + Were such stout hearts as that young Wyndham was. + The elder brother—well, Heaven fashioned him. + Our subjects are our subjects, mark you that. + Not found, forsooth! Why, then, they should be found!” + Fain had my good Lord Burleigh solved the thing, + And smoothed that ominous wrinkle on the brow + Of her Most Sweet Imperious Majesty. + Full many a problem his statecraft had solved— + How strangle treason, how soothe turbulent peers, + How foil the Pope and Spain, how pay the Fleet— + Mere temporal matters; but this business smelt + Strongly of brimstone. Bring back vanished folk! + That could not Master Cecil an he would. + + The red leaf withered and the green leaf grew. + Dark were the days that came to Wyndham Towers + With that grim secret rusting in its heart. + On the sea's side along the fissured wall + The lichen spread in patches of dull gold + Up to the battlements, at times assailed + By sheeted ghosts of mist blown from the sea, + Now by the whistling arrows of the sleet + Pelted, and thrice of lightning scorched and seamed, + But stoutly held from dreary year to year + By legions of most venerable rooks, + Shrill black-robed prelates of the fighting sort. + In the wide moat, run dry with summer droughts + Great scarlet poppies lay in drifts and heaps, + Like bodies fall'n there in some vain assault. + Within, decay and dolor had their court— + Dolor, decay, and silence, lords of all. + From room to room the wind went shuddering + On some vague endless quest; now pausing here + To lift an arras, and then hurrying on, + To some fresh clue, belike! The sharp-nosed mouse + Through joist and floor discreetly gnawed her way, + And for her glossy young a lodging made + In a cracked corselet that once held a heart. + The meditative spider undisturbed + Wove his gray tapestry from sill to sill. + Over the transom the stone eagle drooped, + With one wing gone, in most dejected state + Moulting his feathers. A blue poisonous vine, + Whose lucent berry, hard as Indian jade, + No squirrel tried his tooth on, June by June + On the south hill-slope festered in the sun. + Man's foot came not there. It was haunted ground. + + The red leaf withered and the green leaf grew. + An oak stood where an acorn tumbled once, + Ages ago, and all the world was strange. + Now, in that year King Charles the Second left + Forever the soft arms of Mistress Gwynn + And wrapt him in that marble where he lies, + The moulder'd pile with its entombed Crime + Passed to the keep of a brave new-fledged lord, + Who, liking much the sane and wholesome air + That bent the boughs and fanned the turret's top, + Cried, “Here dwell I!” So fell it on a day + The stroke of mallets and the screech of saws + In those bleak chambers made such din as stopped + The careful spider half-way up his thread, + And panic sent to myriad furtive things + That dwelt in wainscots and loved not the sun. + Vainly in broken phalanx clamorous + Did the scared rooks protest, and all in vain + The moths on indolent white damask wings + At door and casement rallied. Wyndham Towers + Should have a bride, and ghosts had word to quit. + + And now, behold what strange thing came to pass. + A certain workman, in the eastern wing + Plying his craft alone as the day waned— + One Gregory Nokes, a very honest soul, + By trade wood-carver—stumbled on a door + Leading to nowhere at an alcove's end, + A double door that of itself swung back + In such strange way as no man ever saw; + And there, within a closet, on the flags + Were two grim shapes which, vaguely seen at first + In the half light, grew presently distinct— + Two gnomes or vampires seemed they, or dire imps + Straight from the Pit, in guise fantastical + Of hose and doublet: one stretched out full length + Supine, and one in terror-stricken sort + Half toppled forward on the bended knee, + Grasping with vise-like grip the other's wrist, + As who should say, Arouse thee, sleep no more! + But said it not. If they were quick or dead, + No sign they gave beyond this sad dumb show. + Blurred one face was, yet luminous, like the moon + Caught in the fleecy network of a cloud, + Or seen glassed on the surface of a tarn + When the wind crinkles it and makes all dim; + The other, drawn and wrenched by mortal throes, + And in the aspect such beseeching look + As might befall some poor wretch called to compt + On the sudden, even as he kneels at prayer, + With Mercy! turned to frost upon the lip. + + Thus much saw Nokes within the closet there + Ere he drew breath; then backing step by step, + The chisel clutched in still uplifted hand, + His eyes still fixed upon the ghosts, he reached + An open window giving on the court + Where the stone-cutters were; to them he called + Softly, in whispers under his curved palm, + Lest peradventure a loud word should rouse + The phantoms; but ere foot could climb the stair, + Or the heart's pulses count the sum of ten, + Through both dread shapes, as at God's finger-touch, + A shiver ran, the wavering outlines broke, + And suddenly a chill and mist-like breath + Touched Nokes's cheek as he at casement leaned, + And nought was left of that most piteous pair + Save two long rapiers of some foreign make + Lying there crossed, a mass of flaky rust. + + O luckless carver of dead images, + Saint's-head or gargoyle, thou hast seen a sight + Shall last thee to the confines of the grave! + Ill were thy stars or ever thou wert born + That thou shouldst look upon a thing forbid! + Now in thine eye shall it forever live, + And the waste solitudes of night inhabit + With direful shadows of the nether world, + Yet leave thee lonely in the throng of men— + Not of them, thou, but creature set apart + Under a ban, and doomed henceforth to know + The wise man's scorn, the dull man's sorry jest. + For who could credence give to that mad tale + Of churchyard folk appearing in broad day, + And drifting out at casement like a mist? + Marry, not they who crowded up the stair + In haste, and peered into that empty cell, + And had half mind to buffet Master Nokes, + Standing with finger laid across his palm + In argumentative, appealing way, + Distraught, of countenance most woe-begone. + “See!—the two swords. As I 'm a Christian soul!” + “Odds, man!” cried one, “thou 'st been a-dreamin', man. + Cleave to thy beer, an' let strong drink alone!” + + So runs the legend. So from their long sleep + Those ghosts arose and fled into the night. + But never bride came to that dark abode, + For wild flames swept it ere a month was gone, + And nothing spared but that forlorn old tower + Whereon the invisible fingers of the wind + Its fitful and mysterious dirges play. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Wyndham Towers, by Thomas Bailey Aldrich + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WYNDHAM TOWERS *** + +***** This file should be named 1830-h.htm or 1830-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/3/1830/ + +Produced by Donald Lainson, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + +</pre> + </body> +</html> |