[image not available
Between broad fields of wheat and cornIs the lowly home where I was born;The peach tree leans against the wall,And the woodbine wanders over all;There is the shaded doorway still,But a stranger’s foot has crossed the sill.There is the barn—and, as of yore,I can smell the hay from the open door,And see the busy swallows throng,And hear the pewee’s mournful song;But the stranger comes—oh! painful proof—His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.There is the orchard—the very treesWhere my childhood knew long hours of ease,And watched the shadowy moments runTill my life imbibed more shade than sun;The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,But the stranger’s children are swinging there.Oh, ye who daily cross the sill,Step lightly, for I love it still;And when you crowd the old barn eaves,Then think what countless harvest sheavesHave passed within that scented doorTo gladden eyes that are no more.Deal kindly with these orchard trees;And when your children crowd their kneesTheir sweetest fruit they shall impart,As if old memories stirred their heart;To youthful sport still leave the swing,And in sweet reverence hold the spring.The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds,The meadows with their lowing herds,The woodbine on the cottage wall—My heart still lingers with them all.Ye strangers on my native sill,Step lightly, for I love it still.—Thomas Buchanan Mead.
Between broad fields of wheat and cornIs the lowly home where I was born;The peach tree leans against the wall,And the woodbine wanders over all;There is the shaded doorway still,But a stranger’s foot has crossed the sill.There is the barn—and, as of yore,I can smell the hay from the open door,And see the busy swallows throng,And hear the pewee’s mournful song;But the stranger comes—oh! painful proof—His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.There is the orchard—the very treesWhere my childhood knew long hours of ease,And watched the shadowy moments runTill my life imbibed more shade than sun;The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,But the stranger’s children are swinging there.Oh, ye who daily cross the sill,Step lightly, for I love it still;And when you crowd the old barn eaves,Then think what countless harvest sheavesHave passed within that scented doorTo gladden eyes that are no more.Deal kindly with these orchard trees;And when your children crowd their kneesTheir sweetest fruit they shall impart,As if old memories stirred their heart;To youthful sport still leave the swing,And in sweet reverence hold the spring.The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds,The meadows with their lowing herds,The woodbine on the cottage wall—My heart still lingers with them all.Ye strangers on my native sill,Step lightly, for I love it still.—Thomas Buchanan Mead.
Between broad fields of wheat and cornIs the lowly home where I was born;The peach tree leans against the wall,And the woodbine wanders over all;There is the shaded doorway still,But a stranger’s foot has crossed the sill.
There is the barn—and, as of yore,I can smell the hay from the open door,And see the busy swallows throng,And hear the pewee’s mournful song;But the stranger comes—oh! painful proof—His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.
There is the orchard—the very treesWhere my childhood knew long hours of ease,And watched the shadowy moments runTill my life imbibed more shade than sun;The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,But the stranger’s children are swinging there.
Oh, ye who daily cross the sill,Step lightly, for I love it still;And when you crowd the old barn eaves,Then think what countless harvest sheavesHave passed within that scented doorTo gladden eyes that are no more.
Deal kindly with these orchard trees;And when your children crowd their kneesTheir sweetest fruit they shall impart,As if old memories stirred their heart;To youthful sport still leave the swing,And in sweet reverence hold the spring.
The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds,The meadows with their lowing herds,The woodbine on the cottage wall—My heart still lingers with them all.Ye strangers on my native sill,Step lightly, for I love it still.—Thomas Buchanan Mead.
Sweet clime of my kindred, blest land of my birth!The fairest, the dearest, the brightest on earth!Where’er I may roam—howe’er blest I may be,My spirit instinctively turns unto thee!
Sweet clime of my kindred, blest land of my birth!The fairest, the dearest, the brightest on earth!Where’er I may roam—howe’er blest I may be,My spirit instinctively turns unto thee!
Sweet clime of my kindred, blest land of my birth!The fairest, the dearest, the brightest on earth!Where’er I may roam—howe’er blest I may be,My spirit instinctively turns unto thee!
We cannot honor our country with too deep a reverence; we cannot love her with an affection too pure and fervent; we cannot serve her with an energy of purpose or a faithfulness of zeal too steadfast and ardent. And whatisour country? It is not the East, with her hills and her valleys, with her countless sails, and the rocky ramparts of her shores. It is not the North, with her thousand villages and her harvest home, with her frontiers of the lakes and the ocean. It is not the West, with her forest sea and her inland isles, with her luxuriant expanses, clothed in the verdant corn; with her beautiful Ohio and her verdant Missouri. Nor is it yet the South, opulent in the mimic snow of the cotton, in the rich plantations of the rustling cane, and in the golden robes of the rice field.What are these but the sister families of one greater, better, holier family,OUR COUNTRY?
—Thomas Grimke.
I profess, sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in view the prosperity and the honor of the whole country, and the preservation of the Federal Union. I have not allowed myself to look beyond the Union, to see what might lie hidden in the dark recess behind; I have not coolly weighed the chances of preserving liberty, when the bonds that unite us together shall be broken asunder; I have not accustomed myself to hang over the precipice of disunion, to see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the depths of the abyss below; nor could I regard him as a safe counselor in the affairs of this government, whose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how the Union should be preserved, but how tolerable might be the condition of the people when it shall be broken up and destroyed.
While the Union lasts we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that, I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant that in my day, at least, that curtain may not rise! God grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies behind!
When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the last time, the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious Union; on States dissevered, discordant,belligerent; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood. Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gorgeous ensign of the Republic, now known and honored throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original luster, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star obscured; bearing for its motto no such miserable interrogatory as, “What is all this worth?” nor those other words of delusion and folly, “Liberty first, and Union afterwards”; but everywhere spread all over in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds as they float over the sea, and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart, “Liberty and Union, now and forever, one and inseparable.”
—Daniel Webster.
A peaceful intercourse with the nations of the earth points to that inspiring day which philosophers have hoped for, which poets have seen in their bright dreams of fancy, and which prophets have beheld in holy vision—when men shall learn war no more. Who can contemplate a state of the world like this and not feel his heart exult at the prospect? I am against war, because peace—peace is, aboveeverything else, our policy. Our great mission as a people is to occupy this vast dominion—to level the forests and let in upon their solitudes the light of day; to clear the swamps and make them ready for the plow and the sickle; to spread over hill and dale the echoes of human labor and human happiness; to fill the land with cities and towns; to unite its most distant points by turnpikes and railroads; to scoop out canals and open rivers that may serve as highways for trade.
If we can preserve peace, who shall set bounds to our prosperity or our success? With one foot planted on the Atlantic and the other on the Pacific, we occupy a position between the two old continents of the world—a position which necessarily secures to us the commerce and the influence of both. If we abide by the counsels of common sense, if we succeed in preserving our liberties, we shall in the end exhibit a spectacle such as the world never saw.
I know that this one great mission is encompassed with many difficulties; but such is the energy of our political system, and such is its expansive capability, that it may be made to govern the widest space. If by war we become great, we cannot be free; if we will be both great and free, our policy is peace.
—John C. Calhoun.
[image not availableWashington Irving.
Washington Irving.
Washington Irving.
“The Sketch Book” is a collection of short tales, sketches, and essays, written by Washington Irving, and published in 1820. Most of the sketches are descriptive of English manners and scenery, but the popularity of the book in this country is chiefly due to two well-known stories of American life, “Rip Van Winkle” and “A Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” The scenes of both stories are located in the valley of the Hudson River, not far from New York. They are most picturesquely told, and rank high among the best productions of their kind in American literature. Here is the “Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” which we have abridged in order to adapt it to the readers of this volume:—
In a remote period of American history, there lived in Sleepy Hollow a worthy man whose name was Ichabod Crane. He sojourned, or, as he expressed it, “tarried” in that quiet little valley for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity.He was a native of Connecticut. He was tall, but very lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, and feet that might have served as shovels. His head was small, with huge ears, large glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose. To see him striding along the crest of a hill on a windy day, with his ill-fitting clothes fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for some scarecrow escaped from a cornfield.
His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely built of logs. It stood in a rather lonely but pleasant place, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a birch tree growing near one end of it. From this place of learning the low murmur of children’s voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard on a drowsy summer day like the hum of a beehive. Now and then this was interrupted by the stern voice of the master, or perhaps by the appalling sound of a birch twig, as some loiterer was urged along the flowery path of knowledge.
When school hours were over, the teacher forgot that he was the master, and was even the companion and playmate of the older boys; and on holiday afternoons, he liked to go home with some of the smaller ones who happened to have pretty sisters, or mothers noted for their skill in cooking. Indeed, itwas a wise thing for him to keep on good terms with his pupils. He earned so little by teaching school, that he would scarcely have had enough to eat, had he not, according to country custom, boarded at the houses of the children whom he instructed. With these he lived, by turns, a week at a time, thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly goods tied up in a cotton handkerchief.
He had many ways of making himself both useful and agreeable. He helped the farmers in the lighter labors of their farms, raked the hay at harvest time, is mended the fences, took the horses to water, drove the cows from pasture, and cut wood for the winter fire. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers by petting the children, particularly the youngest; and he would often sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together.
[image not availableIchabod Crane.
Ichabod Crane.
Ichabod Crane.
He was a man of some importance among the women of the neighborhood, being looked upon as a kind of idle, gentlemanlike personage of finer tastesand better manners than the rough young men who had been brought up in the country. He was always welcome at the tea table of a farmhouse; and his presence was almost sure to bring out an extra dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or the parade of a silver teapot. He was happy, too, in the smiles of all the young ladies. He would walk with them in the churchyard, between services on Sundays; gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun the surrounding trees; or sauntering with a whole bevy of them along the banks of the adjacent mill pond; while the bashful country youngsters hung sheepishly back and hated him for his fine manners.
Another of his sources of pleasure was to pass long winter evenings with the wives of the Dutch farmers, as they sat spinning by the fire with a long row of apples roasting and sputtering along the hearth. He listened to their wondrous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or “Galloping Hessian of the Hollow,” as they sometimes called him. And then he would entertain them with stories of witchcraft, and would frighten them with woeful speculations about comets and shooting stars, and by telling them that the world did really turn round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy.
There was pleasure in all this while snugly cuddling in the chimney corner of a room that was lighted by the ruddy glow from a crackling wood fire, and where no ghost dared show its face; but it was a pleasure dearly bought by the terrors which would beset him during his walk homewards. How fearful were the shapes and shadows that fell across his way in the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night! How often was he appalled by some shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted specter, beset his very path! How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet, and dread to look over his shoulder lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him! and how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings!
On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence he watched the doings of his little school. In his hand he held a ferule, that scepter of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed on three nails behind the stool, a constant terror to evil doers; while on the desk were sundry contraband articlestaken from idle urchins, such as half-eaten apples, popguns, whirligigs, and fly cages. His scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the master, and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the schoolroom.
This stillness was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro, in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, who, mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, came clattering up to the schoolhouse door. He brought an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merrymaking, or “quilting frolic,” to be held that evening at the house of Mynheer Van Tassel; and having delivered his message, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his mission.
All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet schoolroom. The scholars were hurried through their lessons. Those who were nimble skipped over half without being noticed; and those who were slow were hurried along by a smart application of the rod. Then books were flung aside without being put away on the shelves; inkstands were overturned, benches thrown down; and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual time, the children yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at their early freedom.
The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing his best and only suit of rusty black, and arranging his looks by a bit of broken looking-glass that hung up in the schoolhouse. That he might make his appearance at the party in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was boarding, and, thus gallantly mounted, rode forth, like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plow horse, that had outlived almost everything but his viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a slender neck, and a head like a hammer. His mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burs. One eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, but the other still gleamed with genuine wickedness. He must have had plenty of fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from his name, which was Gunpowder.
Ichabod was a rider suited for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle; his elbows stuck out like a grasshopper’s; and as the horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called; and the skirts of hisblack coat fluttered out almost to the horse’s tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed as they shambled along the highway; and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight.
It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day. The sky was clear and serene. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frost into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air. The bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubblefields.
[image not availableIchabod and Gunpowder.
Ichabod and Gunpowder.
Ichabod and Gunpowder.
The small birds fluttered, chirping and frolicking from bush to bush, and tree to tree, gay and happy because of the plenty and variety around them. There were the twittering blackbirds, flying in sable clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker, with hiscrimson crest and splendid plumage; and the cedar bird, with its red-tipped wings and yellow-tipped tail; and the blue jay, in his gay, light-blue coat and white underclothes, screaming and chattering, nodding and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of the grove.
As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn, On all sides he beheld vast store of apples,—some still hanging on the trees, some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market, others heaped up in rich piles for the cider press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty pudding. There, too, were multitudes of yellow pumpkins turning up their yellow sides to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies. And anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odor of the beehive; and as he beheld them, he dreamed of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina, the daughter of Mynheer Van Tassel.
Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and “sugared suppositions,” he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which look out upon someof the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down into the west. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine, golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple-green, and from that into the deep-blue of the midheaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides.
It was toward evening when Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Herr Van Tassel. He found it thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country,—old farmers, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles; their brisk little dames, in close-crimped caps, long-waisted gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside; buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, showed signs of city innovations; the sons, in short, square-skirted coats with rows of huge brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially if an eel-skin could be hadfor that purpose, it being esteemed as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair.
What a world of charms burst upon the gaze of my hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel’s mansion—the ample charms of a Dutch country tea table, in the sumptuous time of autumn! Such heaped-up platters of cakes, of various and indescribable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty doughnut, and the crisp, crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes; and then there were apple pies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies; and slices of ham and smoked beef; and dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens, together with bowls of milk and cream; all mingled, higgledy-piggledy,—with the motherly teapot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst! I want breath and time to describe this banquet as I ought, and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry, but did ample justice to every dainty.
And now, supper being ended, the sound of music from the common room summoned to the dance. The musician was an old, gray-headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhoodfor more than half a century. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater part of the time he scraped away on two or three strings, moving his head with every movement of the bow, and stamping his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start.
Ichabod prided himself on his dancing. Not a limb, not a fiber about him was idle. How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? And pretty Katrina Van Tassel, the lady of his heart, was his partner in the dance, smiling graciously in reply to all his gallant remarks. When the dance was over, Ichabod joined a circle of the older folks, who, with Mynheer Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza, and told stories of the war and wild and wonderful legends of ghosts and other supernatural beings. Some mention was made of a woman in white that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on wintry nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite specter of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the country. One man told how he had once met the horseman returning from a foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to getup behind him; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge by the church, when the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw him into the brook, and sprang away over the treetops with a clap of thunder. A wild, roystering young man, who was called Brom Bones, declared that the headless horseman was, after all, no rider compared with himself. He said that returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and would have won it, too, but just as they came to the church bridge, the specter bolted and vanished in a flash of fire.
[image not availableKatrina Van Tassel.
Katrina Van Tassel.
Katrina Van Tassel.
The party now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains; and their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed alongthe silent woodlands, growing fainter and fainter till they gradually died away, and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod alone lingered behind, to have a parting word with the pretty Katrina. What he said to her, and what was her reply, I do not know. Something, however, must have gone wrong; for he sallied forth, after no great length of time, with an air quite desolate and chopfallen.
It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod pursued his travel homewards. In the dead hush of midnight he could hear the barking of a dog on the opposite shore of the Hudson, but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of the distance between them. No signs of life occurred near, but now and then the chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bullfrog from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his bed.
All the stories that Ichabod had heard about ghosts and goblins, now came crowding into his mind. The night grew darker and darker. The stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover,approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the center of the road stood an enormous tulip tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large as the trunks of ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the ground, and rising again into the air.
As Ichabod approached this tree, he began to whistle. He thought his whistle was answered: it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. Coming a little nearer, he thought he saw something white hanging in the midst of the tree. He paused, and ceased whistling, but, on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had been struck by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan. His teeth chattered, and his knees smote against the saddle. It was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him.
About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly wooded glen. A few rough logs laid side by side served for a bridge over this stream. To pass this bridge was the severest trial; for it was herethat the unfortunate André had been captured, and under covert of the thicket of chestnuts and vines by the side of the road, had the sturdy yeomen, who surprised him, lain concealed. The stream has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.
As Ichabod approached the stream his heart began to thump. He gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and tried to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod jerked the rein on the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot. It was all in vain. His steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward but came to a stand just by the bridge with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the trees, he beheld something huge, black, and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler.
The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror. What was to be done? Summoning up a show of courage, he called out in stammering accents, “Who are you?” He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgeled the sides of Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and, with a scramble and a bound, stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness.
Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones and the headless horseman, now quickened his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod drew up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind; the other did the same. His heart began to sink within him. Therewas something in the moody and dogged silence of his companion that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for.
On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveler in relief against the sky, Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that he was headless; but his horror was still more increased on observing that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of his saddle. His terror rose to desperation. He rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip; but the specter started full jump with him. Away then they dashed, through thick and thin; stones flying, and sparks flashing, at every bound. Ichabod’s flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long, lank body away over his horse’s head, in the eagerness of his flight.
They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged headlong down hill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story; and just beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church.
Just as he had got halfway through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and Ichabod felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and tried to hold it firm, but in vain. He had just time to save himself by clasping Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of its owner’s wrath passed across his mind, for it was his Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty fears. He had much ado to keep his seat, sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse’s backbone with a violence that was far from pleasant.
An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hope that the church bridge was at hand. “If I can but reach that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “I am safe.” Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him. He even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod tried to dodgethe horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash. He was tumbled headlong into the dust; and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind.
The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master’s gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast. Dinner hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook; but no schoolmaster. An inquiry was set on foot, and after much investigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road by the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt. The tracks of horses’ hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin. The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not to be discovered.
As Ichabod was a bachelor, and in nobody’s debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him. It is true, an old farmer, who went down to New York on a visit several years after, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; thathe had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of the goblin and the farmer whose horse he had ridden, and partly for other reasons; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country, had kept school and studied law at the same time, had written for the newspapers, and finally had been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, who, shortly after the schoolmaster’s disappearance, had married the blooming Katrina Van Tassel, was observed to look very knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin, which led some to suppose that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell.
In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay;His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind;But, watchworn and weary, his cares flew away,And visions of happiness danced o’er his mind.He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers,And pleasures that waited on life’s merry morn;While Memory stood sideways, half covered with flowers,And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide,And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise:Now far, far behind him the green waters glide,And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.The jessamine clambers in flower o’er the thatch,And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall;All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.A father bends o’er him with looks of delight;His cheek is impearled with a mother’s warm tear;And the lips of the boy in a love kiss uniteWith the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast;Joy quickens his pulses—all hardships seem o’er,And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest:“O God! thou hast blessed me; I ask for no more.”Ah! what is that flame which now bursts on his eye?Ah! what is that sound which now ’larums his ear?Tis the lightning’s red gleam, painting death in the sky!’Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere!He springs from his hammock—he flies to the deck!Amazement confronts him with images dire;Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck;The masts fly in splinters; the shrouds are on fire!Like mountains the billows tremendously swell;In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save;Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,And the death angel flaps his broad wing o’er the wave!O sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight!In darkness dissolves the gay frost work of bliss.Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright—Thy parents’ fond pressure, and Love’s honeyed kiss?O sailor boy! sailor boy! never againShall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay;Unblessed, and unhonored, down deep in the mainFull many a fathom, thy frame shall decay.Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away,And still the vast waters above thee shall roll;Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye:—O sailor boy! sailor boy! peace to thy soul!—William Dimond.
In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay;His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind;But, watchworn and weary, his cares flew away,And visions of happiness danced o’er his mind.He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers,And pleasures that waited on life’s merry morn;While Memory stood sideways, half covered with flowers,And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide,And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise:Now far, far behind him the green waters glide,And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.The jessamine clambers in flower o’er the thatch,And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall;All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.A father bends o’er him with looks of delight;His cheek is impearled with a mother’s warm tear;And the lips of the boy in a love kiss uniteWith the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast;Joy quickens his pulses—all hardships seem o’er,And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest:“O God! thou hast blessed me; I ask for no more.”Ah! what is that flame which now bursts on his eye?Ah! what is that sound which now ’larums his ear?Tis the lightning’s red gleam, painting death in the sky!’Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere!He springs from his hammock—he flies to the deck!Amazement confronts him with images dire;Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck;The masts fly in splinters; the shrouds are on fire!Like mountains the billows tremendously swell;In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save;Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,And the death angel flaps his broad wing o’er the wave!O sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight!In darkness dissolves the gay frost work of bliss.Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright—Thy parents’ fond pressure, and Love’s honeyed kiss?O sailor boy! sailor boy! never againShall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay;Unblessed, and unhonored, down deep in the mainFull many a fathom, thy frame shall decay.Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away,And still the vast waters above thee shall roll;Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye:—O sailor boy! sailor boy! peace to thy soul!—William Dimond.
In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay;His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind;But, watchworn and weary, his cares flew away,And visions of happiness danced o’er his mind.
He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers,And pleasures that waited on life’s merry morn;While Memory stood sideways, half covered with flowers,And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.
Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide,And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise:Now far, far behind him the green waters glide,And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.
The jessamine clambers in flower o’er the thatch,And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall;All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.
A father bends o’er him with looks of delight;His cheek is impearled with a mother’s warm tear;And the lips of the boy in a love kiss uniteWith the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.
The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast;Joy quickens his pulses—all hardships seem o’er,And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest:“O God! thou hast blessed me; I ask for no more.”
Ah! what is that flame which now bursts on his eye?Ah! what is that sound which now ’larums his ear?Tis the lightning’s red gleam, painting death in the sky!’Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere!
He springs from his hammock—he flies to the deck!Amazement confronts him with images dire;Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck;The masts fly in splinters; the shrouds are on fire!
Like mountains the billows tremendously swell;In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save;Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,And the death angel flaps his broad wing o’er the wave!
O sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight!In darkness dissolves the gay frost work of bliss.Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright—Thy parents’ fond pressure, and Love’s honeyed kiss?
O sailor boy! sailor boy! never againShall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay;Unblessed, and unhonored, down deep in the mainFull many a fathom, thy frame shall decay.
Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away,And still the vast waters above thee shall roll;Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye:—O sailor boy! sailor boy! peace to thy soul!—William Dimond.
“O Mary, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,Across the sands o’ Dee!”The western wind was wild and dank with foam,And all alone went she.The creeping tide came up along the sand,And o’er and o’er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see.The rolling mist came down and hid the land—And never home came she.“Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—A tress of golden hair,A drownèd maiden’s hair,Above the nets at sea?”Was never salmon yet that shone so fairAmong the stakes on Dee.They brought her in across the rolling foam,The cruel crawling foam,The cruel hungry foam,To her grave beside the sea.But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,Across the sands o’ Dee.—Charles Kingsley.
“O Mary, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,Across the sands o’ Dee!”The western wind was wild and dank with foam,And all alone went she.The creeping tide came up along the sand,And o’er and o’er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see.The rolling mist came down and hid the land—And never home came she.“Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—A tress of golden hair,A drownèd maiden’s hair,Above the nets at sea?”Was never salmon yet that shone so fairAmong the stakes on Dee.They brought her in across the rolling foam,The cruel crawling foam,The cruel hungry foam,To her grave beside the sea.But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,Across the sands o’ Dee.—Charles Kingsley.
“O Mary, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,Across the sands o’ Dee!”The western wind was wild and dank with foam,And all alone went she.
The creeping tide came up along the sand,And o’er and o’er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see.The rolling mist came down and hid the land—And never home came she.
“Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—A tress of golden hair,A drownèd maiden’s hair,Above the nets at sea?”Was never salmon yet that shone so fairAmong the stakes on Dee.
They brought her in across the rolling foam,The cruel crawling foam,The cruel hungry foam,To her grave beside the sea.But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,Across the sands o’ Dee.—Charles Kingsley.
Six hundred years ago every book was written by hand; for the art of printing was then unknown, If there were pictures, they were drawn with a pen or painted with a brush. It required a great deal of labor and time to make a book; and when it was finished, it was so costly that only a very rich person could afford to own it.
There were no bookstores such as we have now, and books were very few. But in the great schools and large monasteries there were men calledscriptores, or copyists, whose business it was to make written copies of such works as were in demand. There were other men called illuminators who ornamented the books with beautiful initials and chapter headings, and sometimes encircled the pages with borders made with ink of different colors.
At last some copyist who had several copies to make of the same book thought of a new plan. He carved a copy of each page on a block of wood. If there was a picture, he carved that too, much in the same way that wood engravings are made now. When the block was finished, it was carefully wetted with a thin, inky substance; then a sheet of paper was laid upon it and pressed down till an impressionof the carved block was printed upon it. Each page was treated in the same way, but the paper could be printed only on one side. When all were finished, the leaves were stitched together and made into a book. It was not as handsome a book as those written with pen and ink; but, after the block had once been engraved, the copyist could make fifty copies of it in less time than he could make one by hand.
Books made in this way were called block books. It required much time and a great deal of skill to engrave the blocks; and so this method of printing never came into very general use.
About the beginning of the fifteenth century there lived in the old Dutch town of Haarlem a man whose name was Laurence Jaonssen. This man was much looked up to by all his neighbors; for he was honest and wealthy, and he had been in his younger days the treasurer of the town. He was the sacristan of the Church of St. Bavon, and for that reason he was called Laurence Coster, which means Laurence the Sacristan. As he grew old and gray, he became very quiet in his ways, and there was nothing that he liked so well as being alone, with the bright sun above him and the trees and flowers and birds all around him.
Every afternoon, as soon as he had dined, he threw his short black cloak over his shoulders, took his broad-brimmed hat from its peg, and with his staff in his hand sauntered out for a walk. Sometimes he strolled along the banks of the broad and sluggish river, picking flowers as he went; sometimes he rambled through the fields and came home by the great road which led around to the other side of the town. But he liked best to go out to the old forest which lay beyond the flat meadow lands a mile farther away. There the trees grew large and tall, and afforded a pleasant shelter on warm days from the sun, and in cooler weather from the keen winds that blow across the meadows from the sea.
When tired of walking, Laurence Coster would often sit down on the spreading root of some old beech tree; and then, to pass away the time, he would split off a piece of the bark, and with his knife would shape it into one of the letters of the alphabet. This was an old habit of his—a habit which he had learned when he was a boy; and afterwards, when he was just turning into manhood, it had been no uncommon thing for him to stroll into the woods and carve upon the trees the name of a young maiden whom he knew. Now, old and gray and solemn, the habit still remained with him. He liked to sit and cut out alphabets forthe amusement of his little grandchildren to whom he carried them.
One day, having shaped the letters with more care than usual, he wrapped them up in a piece of parchment that he had in his pocket. “The children will be delighted with these, I know,” he said.
When he reached home and opened the package, he was surprised to see the imprint of several of the letters very clear and distinct upon the parchment. The sap, running out of the green bark, had acted as ink on the face of the letters. This accident set him to thinking.
He carved another set of letters with very great care, and then, dipping one side in ink, pressed them on a sheet of parchment. The result was a print, almost as good as the block pictures and block books which were sold in the shops, and were the only examples of printing then known.
“I really believe,” said Laurence Coster, “that with enough of these letters I could print a book. It would be better than printing by the block method; for I would not be obliged to cut a separate block for each page, but could arrange and rearrange the letters in any order that might be required.”
And so now, instead of idling his afternoons away, and instead of cutting letters merely for the children, he set earnestly to work to improve his invention.He made a kind of ink that was thicker and more gluey than common ink, and not so likely to spread and leave an ugly blot. He carved a great many letters of various sizes, and found that with his improved ink he could make clear, distinct impressions, and could print entire pages, with cuts and diagrams and fancy headings.
After a while he thought of making the letters of lead instead of wood; and finally he found that a mixture of lead and tin was better than pure lead, because it was harder and more durable. And so, year after year, Laurence Coster toiled at the making of types and the printing of books. Soon his books began to attract attention, and as they were really better and cheaper than the block books, there was much call for them.
Some of the good people of Haarlem were greatly troubled because the old gentleman spent so much of his time at such work.
“He is bewitched,” said some.
“He has sold himself to the evil one,” said others.
“No good thing will ever come out of this business,” said they all.
One day when Laurence Coster was making his first experiments in printing, a young traveler, witha knapsack on his back and a staff in his hand, came trudging into Haarlem.
“My name is John Gutenberg, and my home is at Mayence,” he said to the landlord of the inn where he stopped.
“And pray what may be your business in our good city of Haarlem?” asked the landlord.
“I am trying to gain knowledge by seeing the world,” was the answer. “I have been to Rome and Venice and Genoa; I have visited Switzerland and all the great cities in Germany; and now I am on my way through Holland to France.”
“What is the most wonderful thing that you have seen in your travels?” asked the landlord.
“There is nothing more wonderful to me than the general ignorance of the people,” said Gutenberg. “They seem to know nothing about the country in which they live; they know nothing about the peoples of other lands; and, what is worse, they know nothing about the truths of religion. If there were only some way to make books more plentiful, so that the common people could buy them and learn to read them, a great deal of this ignorance would be dispelled. Ever since I was a mere youth at school, is this thought has been in my mind.”
“Well,” said the landlord, “we have a man here in Haarlem who makes books; and, although I knownothing about them myself, I have been told that he makes them by a new method, and much faster and cheaper than they have ever been made before.”
“Who is this man? Tell me where I can find him!” cried Gutenberg.
“His name is Laurence Coster, and he lives in the big house which you see over there close by the market place. You can find him at home at all hours of the day; for, since he got into this mad way about printing, he never walks out.”