Of Authors Great and Gone

Of Authors Great and Gone
~By John Horn

'Twas as a boy I loved to read,
And to the classics gave I heed,
To knights of yore, and tables round,
My youthful mind would lightly bound.

To tales of boys who thought like men,
As steady with the sword, as pen,
Whose noble deeds shone evermore,
Regardless, whether rich or poor.

I ask your patience for a time,
Peruse, for me, this little rhyme,
In which, unworthily, 'tis true,
I paint the authors, grand, and few.



The wordy prose of Verne is full,
With concepts grand, alluring pull,
Where scientific thought prevails,
And future's present he unveils.

His men are hearty, bold, and fierce,
Whose open minds knowledge has pierced,
They conquer lands unseen before,
Descending to earth's molten core.

Across the frozen wastes they glide,
Circling the globe with noble stride,
Beneath the waves a path they find,
Though dangers lurk, they are not blind.

Into his men Verne inculcates,
Grand, thoughtful, careful, noble, traits,
And power which could almost be,
Possessed by super-humanry.

And yet, his books contain a charm,
Adventure's strong, uncovered arm,
And boy doth read with bated breath,
'Till right hath caused the villain's death.



Now leave we Verne's prophetic works,
To tread ground where the savage lurks,
And gallant sailors, ships do save,
With "Cooper of the wind and wave."

The sun-bronzed woodsman tracks his prey,
Through gloomy night and shining day,
While painted warriors watch his path,
Prepared on him to wreak their wrath.

With hawkish eye the hunter fires,
Contributing to savage pyres,
His hand is firm, it doth not shake,
His eye as bright as crystal lake,

His limbs like iron bars suspend,
His cause the weaker to defend,
His tongue, unguided, without lie,
His heart prepared, if needs, to die.

The woodland forests stretch to meet,
The mighty ocean's watery street,
Upon the tides sail ships of fame,
Sailored by men of noble frame.

Romanticized the seas have been,
By rivers of J. Cooper's pen,
And pirates lift their bloody flag,
A Spanish galleon soon to bag.

With great precaution journeyed they,
A spy might find their pirate bay,
And 'pon the gallows stark they'd be,
A gruesome picture of the sea.



The gloomy woods and sparkling sea,
Depart we now for G. Henty,
The prince of story-tellers, long,
Holds fast the heart of boy-hood strong.

With armies, brave, the pages flow,
And England's banners proudly show.
His horseman's sword he never stays,
For stallions charge, not dappled drays.

The jockeys are not dressed for show,
Accoutered stern, spears row on row,
The art of war they have long known
Professors grim, with hearts of stone.

The history of each tribe he tells,
Their wars, their peace, and what propels
Their quest for ne'er diminished pow'r,
For which are killed, of youth, their flow'r.

Meanwhile, the hero, brave and young,
A boy of which songs will be sung,
Doth battle life with courtesy.
And thus the pen of George Henty.



The historyed wars and long campaigns,
Dissolve into antiquos rains,
As "Ballantyne the Brave" comes forth,
To prove the world his noble worth.

With gravity and joyous mien,
The earth's remotest parts they've seen,
From desert plains to Arctic wastes,
And sparkling coral seas he hastes,

Into Brazilian jungles thick,
Their paths, his boyish heroes pick,
As well the streets of London town,
They tread 'neath skies of foggy brown.

Himself a man of count'nance firm,
His men unlike the sinnish worm,
Instead their thoughts to ethereal skies,
Soar nobly as the eagle flies.

A boyish laugh, a humored strain,
A conscience clear, left without stain,
A purpose firm, a Christian love,
A deep belief in Him above,

Thus carefully they thread life's toils,
Acquainted with earth's humble soils,
Bereft of pride's eroding hate,
With good sense placed inside their pate.

Aye, Ballantyne a master is,
The art of painting greatness his,
And with respect we turn the page,
Upon this grand, enduring sage.



'Twas Robert Louis Stevenson,
With fingers deft his stories spun,
For Ballantyne he read while young,
And on each word breathless he hung,

Then as a man he soon became,
Himself an author, gained great fame.
"Pieces of eight," the parrot cried,
Treasures of hate, and many died,

As on that classic, dreaded isle,
Lurked pirates fierce, besmeared and vile,
By years debauched, senseless of right,
Dark shadows cast by flick'ring light.

'Twas also on the Scottish moors,
That Balfour met with kingly lures,
Caught 'twixt the Stuart hierarchy,
And England's German monarchy.

Yes, blood was spilt upon the sands,
Some innocent, by wicked hands,
Some shed in hope of better days,
When bright would shine enduring rays.

And so a heritage he twined,
With murderous scenes, and love combined,
With deft hands, weaving mortal threads,
To enter Britain's youthful heads.



If Stevenson ambitiously,
Wrote tales of kings and piracy,
Then Dickens of humanity,
Recorded sorrows dutifully.

The bleakness of the times he wrote,
The flowing tears of men, did note,
Oppressed by knaves, reincarnate,
Of ancient warlords, spreading hate,

Whose riches gained, by tyranny,
O'er feeble wretches gave them glee,
Soci'ties poor, England's outcasts,
Necessedly in constant fasts,

For food is dear, and wages low,
Thus writes Dickens, and he should know,
Himself rescued from vile slums,
By dint of small and hard-earned sums.

And yet upon life's softer side,
He doth occasion'lly abide,
Where crimson bloom the cheeks of maids,
When into sight their love parades.

And so dear reader, you have come,
Through years of scratching pencils' hum,
Unto the last of my chosen,
I thank your patience once again,

For journ'ying with the authors great,
Who long are gone, and yet whose slate,
Is covered with the joyous thanks,
Of those like me in boyhood's ranks.


Copyright, John Horn, 2010

Ballantyne the Brave Blog

What I'm Reading: Red Rooney by R.M. Ballantyne

I'm reading this book right now which will be thirteenth by R.M. Ballantyne I have read.

The story opens in the Arctic Circle, as young Red Rooney embarks on a voyage from Greenland. His adventures begin early on in this tale when his boat is crushed by ice and sinks. He is left on the ice to perish until an Eskimo named Okiok finds him. This is the story of his time with the Eskimo community and the spiritual battle between the Angekok (false priest) and Christian missionaries. Written to show life among the Greenland and Artic Eskimoes, Ballantyne gives a glimpse into the pagan lifestyle of these natives, their ingenuity and life at sea, while also showing the effects of the Gospel when missionaries bring the good news of Jesus, transforming life and culture. Filled with interesting aspects of Eskimo life including whale hunts, feasting on blubber, and survival in the frigid Arctic regions. (summary by The Vision Forum.)

Andrew Jackson: Steady Through Sorrow

Here is a post I pulled off of the Ballantyne the Brave  blog, and I wanted to share with everybody.         
 

Andrew Jackson is known for his Indian campaigns, the victorious battle of New Orleans, and two terms of presidency. His rugged exterior, noble heart, and fiery temper have all become legendary. What is not so well known is the sorrow-stricken childhood he experienced.

A month before Andrew Jackson, the famous soldier and politician was born, his father, also named Andrew Jackson, strained himself while at work on their farm and died. His wife was left with two boys, which quickly became three as Andy saw the light of his first day.

Jackson was born in the tumultuous year of 1767. The passions of American colonists mounted as the years rolled towards that glorious day in 1776 when our rights would be declared inviolable as a separate country from Great Britain. When fighting broke out, Andy's elder brother, Hugh, quickly entered the contest and was killed in battle against the redcoats. Passionate young Andrew, fully engaged in the feelings of his countrymen and devoted to American independence, joined the army as a courier in 1780 at the tender age of thirteen, along with his sixteen-year-old brother.

Andrew made himself useful carrying dispatches and orders along the southern roads from commander to commander. During one of the frequent British raids, he and his brother were captured and taken prisoners of war. When commanded to black the commanding officer's boots, Jackson refused, receiving a deep saber cut for his response. His brother was also wounded by the same soldier, after which both were placed in the rotting, fever-infested prison quarters at Camden, South Carolina.

Both lads became ill during their interment, and their brave mother, determining not to let her boys suffer alone, convinced the commanding British officer to let her nurse her sons. Eventually they were released, but Robert, Andrew's only remaining brother, died in quick succession as a result of is incarceration. As a final blow, Elizabeth Jackson also succumbed to the disease, leaving Andrew Jackson as the sole member of his family by the age of fourteen.

These times must have been very black indeed to a young boy just starting in life. However, he buckled to his tasks, and, endowed with a decent amount of capital from his father's estate, provided for himself. He could have wallowed in his misery, bemoaning his losses and feeling sorry for himself. Instead, he "girded up his loins" like a man, and set out on the rough road of life.

Although I don't agree with everything Andrew Jackson did, or believed in, he is an example of a young man who lived through tremendous hardship and grief without giving in. His will was inflexible, his sense of honor impeccable, his temper a glowing ember. However, he had an enormous love for children, and, although not blessed with any progeny, he played a father's role in many children's lives, including that of the famous Sam Houston. Remembering the pain as a child of lacking a father, Jackson filled this role to many of the children who grew up around his home.

Andrew Jackson is another example of an imperfect but noble man, who rose above the conditions in which he found himself, showing indomitable courage, unquenchable energy, and untarnished honor. It is my hope that we all will bear in mind his example!

R.M. Ballantyne

I like what Ballantyne says in the preface of one of his best books, The Coral Island. It is so true as well as humorous.

 “If there is any boy or man who loves to be melancholy and morose, and who cannot enter into the regions of fun, let me seriously advise him to shut my book and put it away. It was not meant for him.”

    —R.M. Ballantyne, from the preface to The Coral Islands