THE EXAMINATION AT CRAWFORD'S SCHOOL.
Examination-day is an important time in country schools, and it excited
more interest seventy years ago than now. Andrew Crawford was always
ambitious that this day should do credit to his faithful work, and his
pupils caught his inspiration.
There were great preparations for the examination at Crawford's this
spring. The appearance of the German school-master in the place who
could read Latin was an event. Years after, when the pure gold of fame
was no longer a glimmering vision or a current of fate, but a wonderful
fact, Abraham Lincoln wrote of such visits as Jasper's in the settlement
a curious sentence in an odd hand in an autobiography, which we
reproduce here:
[Illustration: If a straggler ^{supposed to understand latin?} happened
to sojourn in the neighborhood, he was looked upon as a wizzard--]
With such a "wizard" as Jasper in the settlement, who would certainly
attend the examination, it is no wonder that this special event excited
the greatest interest in all the cabins between the two Pigeon Creeks of
southern Indiana.
"May we decorate the school-house?" asked a girl of Mr. Crawford, before
the appointed day. "May we decorate the school-house out of the woods?"
"I am chiefly desirous that you should decorate your minds out of the
spelling-book," said Mr. Crawford; "but it is a commendable thing to
have an eye to beauty, and to desire to present a good appearance. Yes,
you may decorate the house out of the woods."
The timber was green in places with a vine called creeping Jenney, and
laurels whose leaves were almost as green and waxy as those of the
Southern magnolia. The creeping Jenney could be entwined with the
laurel-leaves in such a way as to form long festoons. The boys and girls
spent the mornings and recesses for several days in gathering Jenney,
and in twining the vines with the laurel and making decorative festoons.
They hung these festoons about the wooden walls of the low building and
over the door. Out of the tufts of boxberry leaves and plums they made
the word "Welcome," which they hung over the door. They covered the rude
chimney with pine-boughs, and in so doing filled the room with a
resinous odor. They also covered the roof with boughs of evergreen.
The spelling-book was not neglected in the preparations of the eventful
week. There was to be a spelling-match on the day, and, although it was
already felt that Abraham Lincoln would easily win, there was hard study
on the part of all.
One afternoon, after school, in the midst of these heroic preparations,
a party of the scholars were passing along the path in the timber. A
dispute arose between two boys in regard to the spelling of a word.
"I spelled it just as Crawford did," said one.
"No, you didn't. Crawford spelled it with a _i_."
"He spelled it with a _y_, and that is just the way I spelled it."
"He didn't, now, I know! I heard Crawford spell it himself."
"He did!"
"Do you mean to tell me that I lie?"
"You do--it don't need telling."
"I won't be called a liar by anybody. I'll make you ache for that!"
"We'll see about that. You may ache yourself before this thing is
settled. I've got fists as well as you, and I will not take such words
as that from anybody. Come on!"
The two backwoods knights rushed toward each other with a wounded sense
of honor in their hearts and with uplifted arms.
Suddenly a form like a giant passed between them. It took one boy under
one of its arms and the other under the other, and strode down the
timber.
"He called me a liar," said one of the boys. "I won't stand that from
any _man_."
"He _sassed_ me," said the other, "and I won't stand any sassin', not
while my fists are alive."
"_You_ wouldn't be called a liar," said the first.
"Nor take any sassin'," said the second.
The tall form in blue-jean shirt and leather breeches strode on, with
the two boys under its arms.
"I beg!" at last said one of the boys.
"I beg!" said the other.
"Then I'll let you go, and we'll all be friends again!"
"Yes, Abraham, I'll give in, if he will."
"I will. Let me go."
The tall form dropped the two boys, and soon all was peace in the
April-like air.
"Abraham Lincoln will never allow any quarrels in our school," said
another boy. "Where he is there has to be peace. It wouldn't be fair for
him to use his strength so, only he's always right; and when strength is
right it is all for the best."
The boy had a rather clear perception of the true principles of human
government. A will to do right and the power to enforce it, make nations
great as well as character powerful.
The eventful day came, with blue-birds in the glimmering timber, and a
blue sky over all. People came from a distance to attend the
examination, and were surprised to find the school-house changed into a
green bower.
[Illustration: ABRAHAM AS A PEACE-MAKER.]
The afternoon session had been assigned to receiving company, and the
pupils awaited the guests with trembling expectation. It was a warm day,
and the oiled paper that served for panes of glass in the windows had
been pushed aside to admit the air and make an outlook, and the door had
been left open. The first to arrive was Jasper. The school saw him
coming; but he looked so kindly, benevolent, and patriarchal, that the
boys and girls did not stand greatly in awe of him. They seemed to feel
instinctively that he was their friend and was with them. But a
different feeling came over them when 'Squire Gentry, of Gentryville,
came cantering on a horse that looked like a war-charger. 'Squire Gentry
was a great man in those parts, and filled a continental space in their
young minds. The faces of all the scholars were turned silently and
deferently to their books when the 'Squire banged with his whip-handle
on the door. Aunt Olive was next seen coming down the timber. She was
dressed in a manner to cause solicitude and trepidation. She wore knit
mits, had a lofty poke bonnet, and a "checkered" gown gay enough for a
valance, and, although it was yet very early spring, she carried a
parasol over her head. There was deep interest in the books as her form
also darkened the festooned door.
Then the pupils breathed freer. But only for a moment. Sarah Lincoln,
Abraham's sister, looked out of the window, and beheld a sight which she
was not slow to communicate.
"Abe," she whispered, "look there!"
"Blue-nose Crawford," whispered the tall boy, "as I live!"
In a few moments the school was all eyes and mouths. Blue-nose Crawford
bore the reputation of being a very hard taskmaster, and of holding to
the view that severe discipline was one of the virtues that wisdom ought
to visit upon the youth. He once lent to Abraham Lincoln Weems's "Life
of Washington." The boy read it with absorbing interest, but there came
a driving storm, and the rain ran in the night through the walls of the
log-cabin and wet and warped the cover of the book. Blue-nose Crawford
charged young Lincoln seventy-five cents for the damage done to the
book. "Abe," as he was called, worked three days, at twenty-five cents a
day, pulling fodder, to pay the fine. He said, long after this hard
incident, that he did his work well, and that, although his feelings
were injured, he did not leave so much as a strip of fodder in the
field.
"The class in reading may take their places," said Andrew Crawford.
It was a tall class, and it was provided with leather-covered English
Readers. One of the best readers in the class was a Miss Roby, a girl of
some fifteen years of age, whom young Lincoln greatly liked, and whom he
had once helped at a spelling match, by putting his finger on his eye
(_i_) when she had spelled _defied_ with a _y_. This girl read a
selection with real pathos.
"That gal reads well," said Blue-nose Crawford, or Josiah Crawford, as
he should be called. "She ought to keep school. We're goin' to need
teachers in Indiana. People are comin' fast."
Miss Roby colored. She had indeed won a triumph of which every pupil of
Spencer County might be proud.
"Now, Nathaniel, let's hear you read. You're a strappin' feller, and you
ought not to be outread by a gal."
Nathaniel raised his book so as to hide his face, like one near-sighted.
He spread his legs apart, and stood like a drum-major awaiting a word of
command.
"You may read Section V in poetry," said Mr. Crawford, the teacher.
"Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk. Speak up loud, and
mind your pauses."
He did.
"I am monarch of all I survey," he began, in a tone of vocal thunder.
Then he made a pause, a very long one. Josiah Crawford turned around in
great surprise; and Aunt Olive planted the chair in which she had been
sitting at a different angle, so that she could scrutinize the reader.
The monarch of all he surveyed, which in the case of the boy was only
one page of the English Reader, was diligently spelling out the next
line, which he proceeded to pronounce like one long word with surprising
velocity:
"My-right-there-is-none-to-dispute."
There was another pause.
"Hold down your book," said the master.
"Yes, hold down your book," said Josiah Crawford. "What do ye cover yer
face for? There's nuthin' to be ashamed of. Now try again."
Nathaniel lowered the book and revealed the singular struggle that was
going on in his mind. He had to spell out the words to himself, and in
doing so his face was full of the most distressing grimaces. He
unconsciously lifted his eyebrows, squinted his eyes, and drew his mouth
hither and thither.
"From the cen-t-e-r, center; center, all round _to_ the sea,
I am lord of the f-o-w-l _and_-the-brute."
The last line came to a sudden conclusion, and was followed by a very
long pause.
"Go on," said Andrew Crawford, the master.
"Yes, go on," said Josiah. "At the rate you're goin' now you won't get
through by candle-light."
Nathaniel lifted his eyebrows and uttered a curiously exciting--
"O"--
"That boy'll have a fit," said Aunt Olive. "Don't let him read any more,
for massy sake!"
"O--What's that word, master? S-o-l-i-t-u-d-e, so-li-tu-de.
O--So-li-tu-de."
"O Solitude, where are the charms?" read Mr. Andrew Crawford,
"That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms
Than reign in this horrible place."
Nathaniel followed the master like a race-horse. He went on smoothly
until he came to "this horrible place," when his face assumed a startled
expression, like one who had met with an apparition. He began to spell
out _horrible_, "h-o-r-, hor--there's your hor, _hor_; r-i-b-, there's
your _rib_, horrib--"
"Don't let that boy read any more," said Aunt Olive.
Nathaniel dropped his book by his side, and cast a far-away glance into
the timber.
"I guess I ain't much of a reader," he remarked, dryly.
"Stop, sir!" said the master.
Poor Nathaniel! Once, in attempting to read a Bible story, he read, "And
he smote the Hittite that he died"--"And he smote him Hi-ti-ti-ty, that
he _did_" with great emphasis and brief self-congratulation.
In wonderful contrast to Nathaniel's efforts was the reading in concert
by the whole class. Here was shown fine preparation for a forest school.
The reading of verses, in which "sound corresponded to the
signification," was smoothly, musically, and admirably done, and we give
some of these curious exercises here:
_Felling trees in a wood._
Loud sounds the axe, redoubling strokes on strokes;
On all sides round the forest hurls her oaks
Headlong. Deep echoing groan the thickets brown,
Then rustling, crackling, crashing, thunder down.
_Sounds of a bow-string._
The string let fly
Twanged short and sharp, like the shrill swallow's cry.
_The pheasant._
See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs,
And mounts exulting on triumphant wings.
_Scylla and Charybdis._
Dire Scylla there a scene of horror forms,
And here Charybdis fills the deep with storms.
When the tide rushes from her rumbling caves,
The rough rock roars; tumultuous boil the waves.
_Boisterous and gentle sounds._
Two craggy rocks projecting to the main,
The roaring winds' tempestuous rage restrain:
Within, the waves in softer murmurs glide,
And ships secure without their hawsers ride.
_Laborious and impetuous motion._
With many a weary step, and many a groan,
Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone:
The huge round stone resulting with a bound,
Thunders impetuous down, and smokes along the ground.
_Regular and slow movement._
First march the heavy mules securely slow;
O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er crags, o'er rocks they go.
_Motion slow and difficult._
A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
_A rock torn from the brow of a mountain._
Still gath'ring force, it smokes, and urged amain,
Whirls, leaps, and thunders down impetuous to the plain.
_Extent and violence of the waves._
The waves behind impel the waves before,
Wide-rolling, foaming high, and tumbling to the shore.
_Pensive numbers._
In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heav'nly pensive contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns.
_Battle._
Arms on armor clashing brayed
Horrible discord; and the madding wheels
Of brazen fury raged.
_Sound imitating reluctance._
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned;
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?
A spelling exercise followed, in which the pupils spelled for places, or
for the head. Abraham Lincoln stood at the head of the class. He was
regarded as the best speller in Spencer County. He is noted to have soon
exhausted all that the three teachers whom he found there could teach
him. Once, in after years, when he was asked how he came to know so
much, he answered, "By a willingness to learn of every one who could
teach me anything."
"Abraham," said Master Crawford, "you have maintained your place at the
head of the class during the winter. You may take your place now at the
foot of the class, and try again."
The spelling for turns, or for the head, followed the method of the old
Webster's "Speller," that was once so popular in country schools:
ail, to be in trouble.
ale, malt liquor.
air, the atmosphere.
_h_eir, one who inherits.
all, the whole.
awl, an instrument.
al-tar, a place for offerings.
al-ter, to change.
ant, a little insect.
a_u_nt, a sister to a parent.
ark, a vessel.
arc, part of a circle.
All went correctly and smoothly, to the delight and satisfaction of
Josiah Crawford and Aunt Olive, until the word _drachm_ was reached,
when all the class failed except Abraham Lincoln, who easily passed up
to the head again.
The writing-books, or copy-books, were next shown to the visitors. The
writing had been done on puncheon-desks with home made ink. Abraham
Lincoln's copy-book showed the same characteristic hand that signed the
Emancipation Proclamation. In one corner of a certain page he had
written an odd bit of verse in which one may read a common experience in
the struggles of life after what is better and higher. Emerson said, "A
high aim is curative." Poor backwoods Abe seemed to have the same
impression, but he did not write it down in an Emersonian way, but in
this odd rhyme:
"Abraham Lincoln,
His hand and pen,
He will be good,
But God knows when."
The exercises ended with a grand dialogue translated from Fenelon
between Dionysius, Pythias, and Damon, in which fidelity in friendship
was commended. After this, each of the visitors, Aunt Olive included,
was asked to make a "few remarks." Aunt Olive's remarks were "few," but
to the point:
"Children, you have read well, and spelled well, and are good
arithme_tickers_, but you ain't sot still. There!"
Josiah Crawford thought the progress of the school had been excellent,
but that more of the rod had been needed.
(Where had all the green bushes gone in the clearing, but to purposes of
discipline?)
Then good Brother Jasper was asked to speak. The "wizard" who could
speak Latin arose. The pupils could see his great heart under his face.
It shone through. His fine German culture did not lead him away from the
solid merits of the forest school.
"There are purposes in life that we can not see," he began, "but the
secret comes to those who listen to the beating of the human heart, and
at the doors of heaven. Spirits whisper, as it were. The soul, a great
right intention, is here; and there is a conscience here which is power;
and here, for aught we can say, may be some young Servius Tullius of
this wide republic."
Servius Tullius? Would any one but he have dreamed that the citizens of
Rome would one day delight to honor an ungainly pupil of that forest
school?
One day there came to Washington a present to the Liberator of the
American Republic. It looked as follows, and bore the following
inscription:
[Illustration: "To Abraham Lincoln, President, for the second time, of
the American Republic, citizens of Rome present this stone, from the
wall of Servius Tullius, by which the memory of each of those brave
assertors of liberty may be associated. Anno 1865."]
It is said that the modest President shrank from receiving such a
compliment as that. It was too much. He hid away the stone in a
storeroom of the capital, in the basement of the White House. It now
constitutes a part of his monument, being one of the most impressive
relics in the Memorial Hall of that structure. It is twenty-four hundred
years old, and it traveled across the world to the prairies of Illinois,
a tribute from the first advocate of the rights of the people to the
latest defender of all that is sacred to the human soul.