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39
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2020
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Publié par
Date de parution
14 août 2020
Nombre de lectures
1
EAN13
9781528790727
Langue
English
Poids de l'ouvrage
3 Mo
Publié par
Date de parution
14 août 2020
Nombre de lectures
1
EAN13
9781528790727
Langue
English
Poids de l'ouvrage
3 Mo
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH
By
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Illustrated By
N. C. WYETH
First published in 1858
Copyright © 2020 Read & Co. History
This edition is published by Read & Co. History, an imprint of Read & Co.
This book is copyright and may not be reproduced or copied in any way without the express permission of the publisher in writing.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Read & Co. is part of Read Books Ltd. For more information visit www.readandcobooks.co.uk
Contents
Henry Wadswort h Longfellow
I MIL ES STANDISH
II LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP
III THE LOV ER'S ERRAND
IV JOHN ALDEN
V THE SAILING OF THE MAY FLOWER
V I PRISCILLA
VII THE MARCH OF MIL ES STANDISH
VIII THE SPI NNING-WHEEL
IX THE WEDDING-DAY
Illustrations
Long at the Window he Stood, and Wistfully Gazed on t he Landscape
So Through the Plymouth Woods John Alden went o n his Errand
Said in a Tremulous Voice "Why Don't you Speak for Your self, John?"
Near them was Standing an Indian, in Attitude Stern and Defiant
Eager, with Tearful Eyes, to Say Farewell to the Mayflower, Homeward Bound O'er the Sea, and Leaving them Here i n the Desert
So the Maiden went on, and Little Divined or Imagined what was at Work in his Heart, that Made him so Awkward an d Speechless
Headlong he Leaped on the Boaster, and, Snatching his Knife from its Scabbard
So Through the Plymouth Woods Passed Onward the Brida l Procession
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born in Portland, Maine on February 27th, 1807. His mother, Zilpah Wadsworth, was the daughter of a Revolutionary War hero and his father, Stephen Longfellow, was a prominent Portland lawyer and later a member of Congress. As a young man, Longfellow was a voracious reader, and after graduating from Bowdoin College, Longfellow studied modern languages in Europe for three years, before returning returned to Bowdoin to teach them.
In 1831 Longfellow published his first book, a description of his European travels, titled Overseas . He spent a year in Germany and Switzerland, stricken with grief following the death of his young wife, before taking a position at Harvard in 1836. Over the next five years, he published his first two collection of poems, Voices of the Night (1839) and Ballads and Other Poems (1841). Many of the poems featured people triumphing over adversity, a theme which chimed with a still-young United States of America.
In 1843, Longfellow remarried, ushering in the happiest eighteen years of his life. Over the following few years, he penned Evangeline (1847), a book-length poem which proved extremely popular, and secured his reputation as the finest living American poet. In 1854, Longfellow decided to quit teaching to devote all his time to poetry. He published Hiawatha (1855), a long poem about Native American life, and The Courtship of Miles Standish and Other Poems (1858). Both books were immensely successful.
A few months after the American Civil War began in 1861, Longfellow's wife perished. Profoundly saddened, Longfellow published nothing for the next two years. He found comfort in reading Dante’s Divine Comedy (and would later produce its first American translation). Tales of a Wayside Inn was published in 1863, consolidating further his reputation. When the Civil War ended in 1865, the poet was 58. His most important work was behind him, but he was by now the most famous American of his day. His admirers included Abraham Lincoln, Charles Dickens, and Charles Baudelaire. From 1866 to 1880, Longfellow published seven more books of poetry, and his seventy-fifth birthday in 1882 was celebrated across the country. His health was deteriorating though, and he died the following month, aged 75. Although in more recent times Longfellow's reputation has declined, he remains an important literary figure in the American popular imagination.
I
MILES STANDISH
In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims,
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber,—
Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend, and household companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window;
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles, but Angels."
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.
Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.
"Look at these arms," he said, "the warlike weapons that hang here
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,
Well I remember the day! once saved my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses."
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:
"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!"
Long at the Windo w he Stood, and Wistfully Gazed on t he Landscape
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:
"See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!"
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:
"Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted
High on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks to the purpose,
Steady, straight-forward, and strong, with irresistible logic,
Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts of the heathen.
Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the Indians;
Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they try it the better,—
Let them come if they like, be it sagamore, sachem, or pow-wow,
Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon!"
Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed on the landscape,
Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory breath of the east-wind,
