PART IV.

In the stormy east wind straining,

The pale yellow woods were waning,

The broad stream in his banks complaining,

Heavily the low sky raining

Over towered Camelot;

Down she came and found a boat

Beneath a willow left afloat,

And round about the prow she wrote,

_The Lady of Shalott_.

And down the river’s dim expanse--

Like some bold seer in a trance,

Seeing all his own mischance--

With a glassy countenance

Did she look to Camelot.

And at the closing of the day

She loosed the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white

That loosely flew to left and right--

The leaves upon her falling light--

Through the noises of the night

She floated down to Camelot:

And as the boat-head wound along

The willowy hills and fields among,

They heard her singing her last song,

The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,

Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her blood was frozen slowly,

And her eyes were darkened wholly,

Turned to towered Camelot;

For ere she reached upon the tide

The first house by the waterside,

Singing in her song she died,

The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,

By garden wall and gallery,

A gleaming shape she floated by,

A corse between the houses high,

Silent into Camelot.

Out upon the wharfs they came,

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,

And round the prow they read her name,

_The Lady of Shalott_.

Who is this? and what is here?

And in the lighted palace near

Died the sound of royal cheer;

And they crossed themselves for fear,

All the knights at Camelot;

But Lancelot mused a little space;

He said, “She has a lovely face;

God in his mercy lend her grace,

The Lady of Shalott.”

This poem, by Alfred Tennyson, was written in 1832. Considered as a

picture, or as a series of pictures, its beauty is unsurpassed. The

story which is here so briefly told is founded upon a touching

legend connected with the romance of King Arthur and his Knights of

the Round Table. Tennyson afterwards (in 1859) expanded it into the

_Idyll_ called “Elaine,” wherein he followed more closely the

original narrative as related by Sir Thomas Malory.

Sir Lancelot was the strongest and bravest of the Knights of the

Round Table, and for love of him Elaine, “the fair maid of

Astolat,” pined away and died. But before her death she called her

brother, and having dictated a letter which he was to write, she

spoke thus:

“‘While my body is whole, let this letter be put into my right

hand, and my hand bound fast with the letter until I be cold, and

let me be put in a fair bed with all my richest clothes that I have

about me, and so let my bed and all my rich clothes be laid with me

in a chariot to the next place whereas the Thames is, and there let

me be put in a barge, and but one man with me, such as ye trust to

steer me thither, and that my barge be covered with black samite

over and over.’... So when she was dead, the corpse and the bed and

all was led the next way unto the Thames, and there all were put in

a barge on the Thames, and so the man steered the barge to

Westminster, and there he rowed a great while to and fro, or any

man espied.”[1] At length the King and his Knights, coming down to

the water side, and seeing the boat and the fair maid of Astolat,

they uplifted the hapless body of Elaine, and bore it to the hall.

[1] Malory’s “King Arthur,” Book XVIII.

[Illustration: Elaine.

From the Painting by T. E. Rosenthal. Engraved by Henry Wolf.

(See note, p. 77.)]

LESSONS FROM NATURE’S BOOK.

Let us suppose that it is summer time, that you are in the country, and

that you have fixed upon a certain day for a holiday ramble. Some of you

are going to gather wild flowers, some to collect pebbles, and some

without any very definite aim beyond the love of the holiday and of any

sport or adventure which it may bring with it.

Soon after sunrise on the eventful day you are awake, and great is your

delight to find the sky clear, and the sun shining warmly. It is

arranged, however, that you do not start until after breakfast time, and

meanwhile you busy yourselves in getting ready all the baskets and

sticks and other gear of which you are to make use during the day. But

the brightness of the morning begins to get dimmed. The few clouds which

were to be seen at first have grown large, and seem evidently gathering

together for a storm. And sure enough, ere breakfast is well over, the

first ominous big drops are seen falling.

You cling to the hope that it is only a shower which will soon be over,

and you go on with the preparations for the journey notwithstanding. But

the rain shows no symptom of soon ceasing. The big drops come down

thicker and faster. Little pools of water begin to form in the hollows

of the road, and the window panes are now streaming with rain. With sad

hearts you have to give up all hope of holding your excursion to-day.

It is no doubt very tantalizing to be disappointed in this way when the

promised pleasure was on the very point of becoming yours. But let us

see if we can not derive some compensation even from the bad weather.

Late in the afternoon the sky clears a little, and the rain ceases. You

are glad to get outside again, and so we all sally forth for a walk.

Streams of muddy water are still coursing along the sloping roadway. If

you will let me be your guide, I would advise that we should take our

walk by the neighboring river. We wend our way by wet paths and green

lanes, where every hedgerow is still dripping with moisture, until we

gain the bridge, and see the river right beneath us. What a change this

one day’s heavy rain has made! Yesterday you could almost count the

stones in the channel, so small and clear was the current. But look at

it now!

The water fills the channel from bank to bank, and rolls along swiftly.

We can watch it for a little from the bridge. As it rushes past,

innumerable leaves and twigs are seen floating on its surface. Now and

then a larger branch, or even a whole tree trunk, comes down, tossing

and rolling about on the flood. Sheaves of straw or hay, planks of

wood, pieces of wooden fence, sometimes a poor duck, unable to struggle

against the current, roll past us and show how the river has risen above

its banks and done damage to the farms higher up its course.

We linger for a while on the bridge, watching this unceasing tumultuous

rush of water and the constant variety of objects which it carries down

the channel. You think it was perhaps almost worth while to lose your

holiday for the sake of seeing so grand a sight as this angry and

swollen river, roaring and rushing with its full burden of dark water.

Now, while the scene is still fresh before you, ask yourselves a few

simple questions about it, and you will find perhaps additional reasons

for not regretting the failure of the promised excursion.

In the first place, where does all this added mass of water in the river

come from? You say it was the rain that brought it. Well, but how should

it find its way into this broad channel? Why does not the rain run off

the ground without making any river at all?

But, in the second place, where does the rain come from? In the early

morning the sky was bright, then clouds appeared, and then came the

rain, and you answer that it was the clouds which supplied the rain. But

the clouds must have derived the water from some source. How is it that

clouds gather rain, and let it descend upon the earth?

In the third place, what is it which causes the river to rush on in one

direction more than another? When the water was low, and you could,

perhaps, almost step across the channel on the stones and gravel, the

current, small though it might be, was still quite perceptible. You saw

that the water was moving along the channel always from the same

quarter. And now when the channel is filled with this rolling torrent of

dark water, you see that the direction of the current is still the same.

Can you tell why this should be?

Again, yesterday the water was clear, to-day it is dark and discolored.

Take a little of this dirty-looking water home with you, and let it

stand all night in a glass. To-morrow morning you will find that it is

clear, and that a fine layer of mud has sunk to the bottom. It is mud,

therefore, which discolors the swollen river. But where did this mud

come from? Plainly, it must have something to do with the heavy rain and

the flooded state of the stream.

Well, this river, whether in shallow or in flood, is always moving

onward in one direction, and the mud which it bears along is carried

toward the same point to which the river itself is hastening. While we

sit on the bridge watching the foaming water as it eddies and whirls

past us, the question comes home to us--what becomes of all this vast

quantity of water and mud?

Remember, now, that our river is only one of many hundreds which flow

across this country, and that there are thousands more in other

countries where the same thing may be seen which we have been watching

to-day. They are all flooded when heavy rains come; they all flow

downwards; and all of them carry more or less mud along with them.

As we walk homewards again, it will be well to put together some of the

chief features of this day’s experience. We have seen that sometimes the

sky is clear and blue, with the sun shining brightly and warmly in it;

that sometimes clouds come across the sky, and that, when they gather

thickly, rain is apt to fall. We have seen that a river flows, that it

is swollen by heavy rain, and that when swollen it is apt to be muddy.

In this way we have learned that there is a close connection between the

sky above us and the earth under our feet. In the morning, it seemed but

a little thing that clouds should be seen gathering overhead; and yet,

ere evening fell, these clouds led by degrees to the flooding of the

river, the sweeping down of trees and fences and farm produce; and it

might even be to the destruction of bridges, the inundation of fields

and villages and towns, and a large destruction of human life and

property.

But perhaps you live in a large town and have no opportunity of seeing

such country sights as I have been describing, and in that case you may

naturally enough imagine that these things cannot have much interest for

you. You may learn a great deal, however, about rain and streams even in

the streets of a town. Catch a little of the rain in a plate, and you

will find it to be so much clear water. But look at it as it courses

along the gutters. You see how muddy it is. It has swept away the loose

dust worn by wheels and feet from the stones of the street, and carried

it into the gutters. Each gutter thus becomes like the flooded river.

You can watch, too, how chips of straw, corks, bits of wood, and other

loose objects lying in the street are borne away, very much as the

trunks of trees are carried by the river. Even in a town, therefore, you

can see how changes in the sky lead to changes on the earth.

If you think for a little, you will recall many other illustrations of

the way in which the common things of everyday life are connected

together. As far back as you can remember, you have been familiar with

such things as sunshine, clouds, wind, rain, rivers, frost, and snow,

and they have grown so commonplace that you never think of considering

about them. You cannot imagine them, perhaps, as in any way different

from what they are; they seem, indeed, so natural and so necessary that

you may even be surprised when any one asks you to give a reason for

them.

But if you had lived all your lives in a country where no rain ever

fell, and if you were to be brought to such a country as this, and were

to see such a storm of rain as you have been watching to-day, would it

not be very strange to you, and would you not naturally enough begin to

ask the meaning of it? Or suppose that a boy from some very warm part of

the world were to visit this country in winter, and see for the first

time snow falling, and the rivers solidly frozen over, would you be

surprised if he showed great astonishment? If he asked you to tell him

what snow is, and why the ground is so hard, and the air so cold, why

the streams no longer flow, but have become crusted with ice--could you

answer his questions?

And yet these questions relate to very common, everyday things. If you

think about them, you will learn, perhaps, that the answers are not

quite so easily found as you had imagined. Do not suppose that because a

thing is common, it can have no interest for you. There is really

nothing so common as not to deserve your attention.

I would fain have you not to be content with what is said in books,

whether small or great, but rather to get into the habit of using your

own eyes and seeing for yourselves what takes place in this wonderful

world of ours. All round you there is abundant material for this most

delightful inquiry. No excursion you ever made in pursuit of mere

enjoyment and adventure by river, heath, or hill, could give you more

hearty pleasure than a ramble, with eyes and ears alike open to note the

lessons to be learned from every day and from every landscape. Remember

that besides the printed books which you use at home, or at school,

there is the great book of Nature, wherein each of us, young and old,

may read, and go on reading all through life without exhausting even a

small part of what it has to teach us.

It is this book--about Air, Earth, and Sea--that I would have you look

into. Do not be content with merely noticing that such and such events

take place. For instance, to return to our walk to the flooded river: do

not let a fact such as a storm or a flood pass without trying to find

out something about it. Get into the habit of asking Nature questions.

Never rest until you get at the reasons for what you notice going on

around you.

--_Sir Archibald Geikie._

THE GOODMAN OF BALLENGIECH.

Perhaps few books of Scottish history have been more generally read than

the “Tales of a Grandfather,” written seventy years ago by Sir Walter

Scott for the amusement of his little grandson. These “Tales” are

supposed to be taken from the old Scotch chronicles, and they relate,

with many touches of romance, the stirring and most graphic incidents in

the early history of Scotland. They embrace the stories of William

Wallace, the patriot chief, and of brave King Robert Bruce, and of many

another hero of Scotch history. The following account of King James V.,

who was the father of Mary, Queen of Scots, is taken from these “Tales.”

* * * * *

James the Fifth had a custom of going about the country disguised as a

private person, in order to hear complaints that might not otherwise

reach his ears, and perhaps also to enjoy amusement which he could not

have partaken of in his character as King of Scotland.

When James traveled in disguise he used a name which was known only to

some of his nobles and attendants. He was called the Goodman (the

tenant, that is) of Ballengiech.[2] Ballengiech is a steep pass which

leads down behind the castle of Stirling. Once upon a time, when the

court was feasting in Stirling, the king sent for some venison from the

neighboring hills. The deer were killed and put on horses’ backs to be

transported to Stirling.

[2] Pronounced bạll´en gēēk.

Unluckily they had to pass the castle gates of Arnpryor, belonging to a

chief of the Buchanans, who chanced to have a considerable number of

guests with him. It was late, and the company was rather short of

victuals, though they had more than enough of liquor. The chief, seeing

so much fat venison passing his very door, seized on it; and to the

expostulations of the keepers, who told him it belonged to King James,

he answered insolently that if James was king in Scotland, he, Buchanan,

was king in Kippen, that being the name of the district in which the

castle of Arnpryor lay.

On hearing what had happened, the king got on horseback and rode

instantly from Stirling to Buchanan’s house, where he found a strong,

fierce-looking Highlander, with an ax on his shoulder, standing sentinel

at the door. This grim warder refused the king admittance, saying that

the laird was at dinner and would not be disturbed. “Yet go up to the

company, my good friend,” said the king, “and tell him that the Goodman

of Ballengiech is come to feast with the King of Kippen.”

The porter went grumbling into the house and told his master that there

was a fellow with a red beard at the gate, who called himself the

Goodman of Ballengiech, and said he was come to dine with the King of

Kippen. As soon as Buchanan heard these words, he knew that the king was

come in person, and hastened down to kneel at James’s feet and ask

forgiveness for his insolent behavior. But the king, who only meant to

give him a fright, forgave him freely, and going into the castle,

feasted on his own venison which the chief had taken from his men.

Buchanan of Arnpryor was ever afterwards called the King of Kippen.

Upon another occasion, King James, being alone and in disguise, fell

into a quarrel with some gypsies, or other vagrants, and was assaulted

by four or five of them. This chanced to be very near the bridge of

Cramond; so the king got on the bridge, which, as it was high and

narrow, enabled him to defend himself with his sword against the number

of persons by whom he was attacked.

There was a poor farmer threshing corn in a barn near by, who came out

on hearing the noise of the scuffle, and, seeing one man defending

himself against numbers, gallantly took the king’s part with his flail,

to such good purpose that the gypsies were obliged to fly. The farmer

then took the king into the barn, brought him a towel and water to wash

the blood from his face and hands, and finally walked with him a little

way toward Edinburgh, in case he should be again attacked.

On the way, the king asked his companion what and who he was. The man

answered that his name was John Howieson, and that he was a bondsman on

the farm of Braehead, near Cramond, which belonged to the King of

Scotland. James then asked him if there was any wish in the world which

he would particularly wish to have gratified; and honest John confessed

he should think himself the happiest man in Scotland were he but

proprietor of the farm on which he wrought as a laborer.

He then asked the king in turn who _he_ was, and James replied, as

usual, that he was the Goodman of Ballengiech, a poor man who had a

small appointment about the palace; but he added that, if John Howieson

would come to see him on the next Sunday, he would endeavor to repay his

manful assistance, and, at least, give him the pleasure of seeing the

royal apartments.

John put on his best clothes, as you may suppose, and, appearing at a

postern gate of the palace, inquired for the Goodman of Ballengiech. The

king had given orders that he should be admitted; and John found his

friend, the goodman, in the same disguise which he had formerly worn.

The king conducted John Howieson from one apartment of the palace to

another, and was amused with his wonder and his remarks.

At length James asked his visitor if he would like to see the king; to

which John replied that nothing would delight him so much, if he could

do so without giving offense. The Goodman of Ballengiech, of course,

undertook that the king would not be angry. “But,” said John, “how am I

to know his grace from the nobles who will be all about him?”--“Easily,”

replied his companion; “all the others will be uncovered--the king alone

will wear his hat or bonnet.”

So speaking, King James introduced the countryman into a great hall,

which was filled with the nobility and officers of the crown. John was a

little frightened, and drew close to his attendant, but was still unable

to distinguish the king. “I told you that you should know him by his

wearing his hat,” said the conductor. “Then,” said John, after he had

again looked around the room, “it must be either you or me, for all but

us two are bareheaded.”

The king laughed at John’s fancy; and, that the good yeoman might have

occasion for mirth also, he made him a present of the farm of Braehead,

which he had wished so much to possess.

BUGLE SONG.

The splendor falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story:

The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh hark! oh hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, further going!

Oh sweet and far, from cliff and scar,

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river:

Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

--_Alfred Tennyson._

SOME EXPERIENCES AT SEA.

THE FIRST DAYS OUT.

In 1834, Richard Henry Dana, Jr., then a young man of nineteen, made a

voyage to California, which was at that time almost an unknown region.

He went as a common sailor “before the mast”; and on his return he wrote

a narrative of his experience, depicting in its true colors the real

life of the sailor at sea. This narrative was published in a volume

entitled “Two Years before the Mast,” and is still regarded as one of

the most interesting stories of its kind. The following is Mr. Dana’s

account of some of his first experiences at sea:--

“With all my imperfections on my head,” I joined the crew. We hauled out

into the stream, and came to anchor for the night. The next morning was

Saturday; and, a breeze having sprung up from the southward, we took a

pilot on board, hove up our anchor, and began beating down the bay.

[Illustration: A Full-rigged Ship.]

I took leave of those of my friends who came to see me off, and had

barely opportunity to take a last look at the city and well-known

objects, as no time is allowed on board ship for sentiment. As we drew

down into the lower harbor, we found the wind ahead in the bay, and were

obliged to come to anchor in the roads. We remained there through the

day and a part of the night.

About midnight the wind became fair; and having called the captain, I

was ordered to call all hands. How I accomplished this I do not know;

but I am quite sure that I did not give the true, hoarse, boatswain call

of “A-a-ll ha-a-a-nds! up anchor, a-ho-oy!” In a short time every one

was in motion, the sails loosed, the yards braced, and we began to heave

up the anchor, which was our last hold upon Yankee-land.

I could take but little part in these preparations. My little knowledge

of a vessel was all at fault. Unintelligible orders were so rapidly

given, and so immediately executed, there was such a hurrying about,

such an intermingling of strange cries and stranger actions, that I was

completely bewildered. There is not so helpless and pitiable an object

in the world as a landsman beginning a sailor’s life.

The first day we passed at sea was the Sabbath. As we were just from

port, and there was a great deal to be done on board, we were kept at

work all day. At night the watches were set, and everything put into sea

order. I had now a fine time for reflection. I felt for the first time

the perfect silence of the sea. The officer was walking the

quarter-deck, where I had no right to go. One or two men were talking on

the forecastle, whom I had little inclination to join; so that I was

left open to the full impression of everything about me.

However much I was affected by the beauty of the sea, the bright stars,

and the clouds driven swiftly over them, I could not but remember that I

was separating myself from all the social and intellectual enjoyments of

life. Yet, strange as it may seem, I did then and afterwards take

pleasure in these reflections, hoping by them to prevent my becoming

insensible to the value of what I was leaving.

But all my dreams were soon put to flight by an order from the officer

to trim the yards, as the wind was getting ahead. I could plainly see,

by the looks the sailors occasionally cast to windward, and by the dark

clouds that were fast coming up, that we had bad weather to prepare for,

and had heard the captain say that he expected to be in the Gulf Stream

by twelve o’clock. In a few minutes “eight bells” was struck, the watch

called, and we went below.

I now began to feel the first discomforts of a sailor’s life. The

steerage in which I lived was filled with coils of rigging, spare sails,

old junk, and ship stores, which had not been stowed away. Moreover,

there had been no berths built for us to sleep in, and we were not

allowed to drive nails to hang our clothes upon.

The sea, too, had risen, the vessel was rolling heavily, and everything

was pitched about in grand confusion. I shortly heard the raindrops

falling on deck, thick and fast. The watch had evidently their hands

full of work, for I could hear the loud and repeated orders of the mate,

the trampling of feet, the creaking of blocks, and all the indications

of a coming storm.

When I got upon deck, a new scene and a new experience were before me.

The little brig was close-hauled upon the wind, and lying over, as it

then seemed to me, nearly upon her beam ends. The heavy head sea was

beating against her bows with the noise and force almost of a sledge

hammer, and flying over the deck, drenching us completely through. The

topsail halyards had been let go, and the great sails were filling out

and backing against the masts with a noise like thunder. The wind was

whistling through the rigging, loose ropes flying about; loud, and to me

unintelligible, orders were constantly given, and rapidly executed; and

the sailors were “singing out” at the ropes in their hoarse and peculiar

strains.

In addition to all this, I had not got my “sea legs on,” was dreadfully

sick, with hardly strength enough to hold on to anything; and it was

pitch dark. This was my state when I was ordered aloft, for the first

time, to reef topsails.

How I got along I cannot now remember. I “laid out” on the yards, and

held on with all my strength. I could not have been of much service, for

I remember having been sick several times before I left the topsail

yard. Soon, however, all was snug aloft, and we were again allowed to go

below.

THE KING AND THE REBEL.

In Spain there once lived two men each of whom claimed to be the

rightful king. I do not remember their names, the time was so long ago,

but to make the story easier to tell, let us call one Alfonso and the

other John. Of course John declared that Alfonso was a traitor, and

Alfonso said that John was a rebel and must be put down. At last, in a

great battle, John overthrew his rival and made himself master of the

country. But one strong town which Alfonso had intrusted to a knight

called Aguilar still held out, and although John besieged it with all

his army, he could not take it.

“You have done enough for honor,” said King John one day to the knight.

“Come, open the gates of the town to my army, and I promise that you

shall not suffer.”

“If you had read the history of our country,” answered Aguilar, “you

would have learned that no man of my family ever surrenders.”

“Then I will starve you where you are!”

“Starve the eagle if you can,” said the knight.

“I will put you and your town to the sword.”

“Try it,” was the reply, and the siege went on.

One morning, as the rising sun was beginning to gild with its rays the

highest towers of the city, a trumpet sounded in the camp of the enemy.

It was the signal for a parley. The old knight soon appeared on the wall

and looked down on the king.

“Surrender,” said King John again. “My rival Alfonso is dead, and our

dispute is ended.”

“Sir,” said the knight, “I believe that you speak the truth, but I must

see my dead master.”

“Go, then, to Seville, where his body lies,” said the king. “You have my

word that no harm shall befall you.”

The knight came out with banners flying and an escort of a few

half-starved warriors. As he rode slowly along, the soldiers who knew of

his courage and his many brave deeds, greeted him with loud shouts and

gazed after him until the red plume above his helmet disappeared in the

distance.

As soon as he reached Seville, he went straight to the great church

where he was told the body of his master was still lying in its open

coffin. Gazing awhile with tearful eyes at the pale face which met his

look, he thus spoke to the dead Alfonso: “Sir, I promised never to

surrender to any one but yourself the keys of the town which you

intrusted to my care. Here they are. I have kept my promise.” With that,

he laid the keys on the breast of his master, and then, mounting his

steed, he galloped back to his post.

“Well,” said the king, “are you satisfied, and are you willing to give

up?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

“But where are the keys of the town?”

“I have delivered them to my master, King Alfonso, and of him you may

get them. Now I ride on, and we shall meet no more.”

“Not so,” said the king. “You shall hold the town for me and be its

governor in my name.”

The followers of the king murmured, and complained at his thus rewarding

a rebel. “He is no longer a rebel,” said King John; “such men when won,

become the best of subjects.”

--_Charles E. A. Gayarré._

DANIEL BOONE.

I.

The settlement of the wilderness beyond the Alleghany Mountains was

promoted by native pioneers. In his peaceful habitation on the banks of

the Yadkin River in North Carolina, Daniel Boone, the illustrious

hunter, had heard Finley, a trader, describe a tract of land, west of

Virginia, as the richest in North America, or in the world. In May,

1769, leaving his wife and offspring, having Finley as his pilot, and

four others as companions, the young man, of about three and twenty,

wandered forth through the wilderness of America “in quest of the

country of Kentucky,” known to the savages as “the dark and bloody

ground.” After a long and fatiguing journey through mountain ranges, the

party found themselves in June on the Red River, a tributary of the

Kentucky, and from the top of an eminence surveyed with delight the

beautiful plain that stretched to the northwest. Here they built their

shelter and began to reconnoiter the country, and to hunt.

[Illustration: Daniel Boone.]

All the kinds of wild beasts that were natural to America--the stately

elk, the timid deer, the antlered stag, the wild-cat, the bear, the

panther, and the wolf--couched among the canes, or roamed over the rich

grasses, which even beneath the thickest shade sprung luxuriantly out of

the generous soil. The buffaloes cropped fearlessly the herbage, or

browsed on the leaves of the reed, and were more frequent than cattle in

the settlements of Carolina. Sometimes there were hundreds in a drove,

and round the salt licks their numbers were amazing.

The summer in which, for the first time, a party of white men enjoyed

the brilliancy of nature near and in the valley of the Elkhorn passed

away in the occupations of exploring parties and the chase. But, one by

one, Boone’s companions dropped off, till he was left alone with John

Stewart. They jointly found unceasing delight in the wonders of the

forest, till, one evening near the Kentucky River, they were taken

prisoners by a band of Indians, wanderers like themselves. They escaped,

and were joined by Boone’s brother; so that when Stewart was soon after

killed by savages, Boone still had his brother to share with him the

dangers and the attractions of the wilderness, the building and

occupying of the first cottage in Kentucky.

In the spring of 1770 that brother returned to the settlements for

horses and supplies of ammunition, leaving the renowned hunter “by

himself, without bread, or salt, or even a horse or dog.” The idea of a

beloved wife anxious for his safety, tinged his thoughts with sadness;

but otherwise the cheerful, meditative man, careless of wealth, knowing

the use of the rifle, not the plow, of a strong robust frame, in the

vigorous health of early manhood, ignorant of books, but versed in the

forest and in forest life, ever fond of tracking the deer on foot, away

from men, yet in his disposition humane, generous, and gentle, was happy

in the uninterrupted succession of sylvan pleasures. He held unconscious

intercourse with beauty old as creation.

One calm summer’s evening, as he climbed a commanding ridge, and looked

upon the remote, venerable mountains and the nearer ample plains, and

caught a glimpse in the distance of the Ohio, which bounded the land of

his affections with majestic grandeur, his heart exulted in the region

he had discovered. All things were still. Not a breeze so much as shook

a leaf. He kindled a fire near a fountain of sweet water, and feasted on

the loin of a buck. He was no more alone than a bee among flowers, but

communed familiarly with the whole universe of life. Nature was his

intimate, and she responded to his intelligence.

For him the rocks and the fountains, the leaf and the blade of grass,

had life; the cooling air laden with the wild perfume came to him as a

friend; the dewy morning wrapped him in its embrace; the trees stood up

gloriously round about him as so many myriads of companions. All forms

wore the character of desire or peril. But how could he be afraid?

Triumphing over danger, he knew no fear. The perpetual howling of the

wolves by night round his cottage or his bivouac in the brake was his

diversion; and by day he had joy in surveying the various species of

animals that surrounded him. He loved the solitude better than the

towered city or the hum of business.

Near the end of 1770, his faithful brother came back to meet him at the

old camp. Shortly after they proceeded together to the Cumberland River,

giving names to the different waters; and he then returned to his wife

and children, fixed in his purpose, at the risk of life and fortune, to

bring them as soon as possible to live in Kentucky, which he esteemed a

second Paradise.

II.

In March, 1775, Daniel Boone, with a body of enterprising companions,

proceeded to mark out a path up Powell’s valley, and through the

mountains and canebrakes beyond. On the twenty-fifth of the month they

were waylaid by Indians, who killed two men and wounded another very

severely. Two days later the savages killed and scalped two more. “Now,”

wrote Daniel Boone, “is the time to keep the country while we are in it.

If we give way now, it will ever be the case,” and he pressed forward to

the Kentucky River. There, on the first day of April, at the distance of

about sixty yards from its west bank, near the mouth of Otter Creek, he

began a stockade fort, which took the name of Boonesboro.

At that place, while the congress at Philadelphia was groping

irresolutely in the dark, seventeen men assembled as representatives of

the four “towns” that then formed the seed of the state. Among these

children of nature was Daniel Boone, the pioneer of the party. His

colleague, Richard Calloway, was one of the founders of Kentucky, and

one of its early martyrs. The town of St. Asaph sent John Floyd, a

surveyor, who emigrated from southwestern Virginia; an able writer,

respected for his culture and dignity of manner; of innate good

breeding; ready to defend the weak; heedless of his own life if he could

recover women and children who had been made captive by the savages;

destined to do good service, and survive the dangers of western life

till American independence should be fought for and won.

From the settlement at Boiling Spring came James Harrod, the same who,

in 1774, had led a party of forty-one to Harrodsburg, and during the

summer of that year had built the first log-cabin in Kentucky; a tall,

erect, and resolute backwoodsman; unlettered but not ignorant; intrepid

yet gentle; never weary of kind offices to those around him; a skillful

hunter, for whom the rifle had a companionship, and the wilderness a

charm.

These and their associates, the fathers of Kentucky, seventeen in all,

met on the 23d of May, beneath the great elm tree of Boonesboro, outside

of the fort, on the thick sward of the fragrant white clover. The

convention having been organized, prayers were read by a minister of the

Church of England. A speech was then delivered to the convention in

behalf of the proprietary purchases of the land from the Cherokees. To

it a committee, of which Calloway was the head, made reply. “Deeply

impressed,” they said, “with a sense of the importance of the trust our

constituents have reposed in us, we will attempt the task with vigor,

not doubting but unanimity will insure us success. That we have a right,

as a political body, without giving umbrage to Great Britain, or any of

the colonies, to frame rules for the government of our little society,

cannot be doubted by any sensible or unbiased mind.”

So reasoned the fathers of Kentucky. In their legislation, it was their

chief care to copy after the happy pattern of the English laws. Their

colony they called Transylvania. For defense against the savages, they

organized a militia; they discountenanced profane swearing and Sabbath

breaking; they took thought for preventing the waste of game, and

improving the breed of horses; and by solemn agreement they established

as the basis of their constitution the annual choice of delegates; taxes

to be raised by the convention alone; perfect religious freedom and

general toleration.

Thus a little band of hunters put themselves at the head of the

countless hosts of civilization in establishing the great principle of

intellectual freedom. Long as the shadows of the western mountain shall

move round with the sun, long as the rivers that gush from those

mountains shall flow toward the sea, long as seedtime and harvest shall

return, that rule shall remain the law of the West.

The state of Kentucky honors the memory of the plain, simple hearted

man, who is best known as its pioneer. He was kindly in his nature, and

never wronged a human being, not even an Indian, nor, indeed, animal

life of any kind. “I with others have fought Indians,” he would say;

“but I do not know that I ever killed one. If I did, it was in battle,

and I never knew it.” In woodcraft he was acknowledged to be the first

among men. This led him to love solitude, and to hover on the frontier,

with no abiding place, accompanied by the wife of his youth, who was the

companion of his long life and travel. When, at last, death put them

both to rest, Kentucky reclaimed their bones from their graves far up

the Missouri; and now they lie buried on the hill above the cliffs of

the Kentucky River, overlooking the lovely valley of the capital of that

commonwealth. Around them are emblems of wilderness life; the turf of

the blue grass lies lightly above them; and they are laid with their

faces turned upward and westward, and their feet toward the setting sun.

* * * * *

Such is the account which George Bancroft, the first of American

historians, gives of Daniel Boone, the pioneer of Kentucky, and of the

founding of the commonwealth of which Boone was the earliest and most

distinguished promoter. Few other works have contributed so much to the

dignity and distinction of our literature as has Bancroft’s “History of

the United States,” from which this extract has been taken.

[Illustration: George Bancroft.]

FULTON’S FIRST STEAMBOAT.

It is common to speak of Robert Fulton as the inventor of the steamboat.

Other persons before him, however, had experimented with machinery for

propelling vessels by steam. They had met with but little success or

encouragement, and it was left for Fulton to demonstrate the practical

value of steam as a means of propulsion and to show the superiority of

steamboats to vessels depending solely upon the wind for motive power.

Robert Fulton was born in Pennsylvania in 1765. He began his experiments

with steam in 1793, and his first successful steamboat, the “Clermont,”

was launched on the Hudson in 1807. The trip from New York to Albany

occupied thirty-two hours, the rate of speed being about five miles an

hour. Mr. Fulton himself has left us the following account of the trial

of his boat:--

[Illustration: Robert Fulton.]

* * * * *

When I was building my first steamboat, the project was viewed by the

public at New York either with indifference or contempt, as a visionary

scheme. My friends indeed were civil, but they were shy. They listened

with patience to my explanations, but with a settled cast of incredulity

on their countenances. I felt the full force of the lamentation of the

poet--

“Truths would you teach, to save a sinking land?

All shun, none aid you, and few understand.”

As I had occasion to pass daily to and from the building yard while my

boat was in progress, I often loitered, unknown, near the idle groups of

strangers gathering in little circles, and heard various inquiries as to

the object of this new vehicle. The language was uniformly that of

scorn, sneer, or ridicule. The loud laugh rose at my expense, the dry

jest, the wise calculations of losses and expenditure; the dull but

endless repetition of “_the Fulton folly!_” Never did an encouraging

remark, a bright hope, or a warm wish cross my path.

At length the day arrived when the experiment was to be made. To me it

was a most trying and interesting occasion. I wanted my friends to go on

board and witness the first successful trip. Many of them did me the

favor to attend, as a matter of personal respect; but it was manifest

they did it with reluctance, fearing to be partakers of my mortification

and not of my triumph.

The moment approached in which the word was to be given for the vessel

to move. My friends were in groups on the deck. There was anxiety mixed

with fear among them. I read in their looks nothing but disaster, and

almost repented of my efforts. The signal was given, and the boat moved

on a short distance, and then stopped and became immovable.

To the silence of the preceding moment now succeeded murmurs of

discontent and agitation, and whispers and shrugs. I could hear

distinctly repeated, “I told you so--it is a foolish scheme. I wish we

were well out of it.” I elevated myself on a platform, and addressed the

assembly. I stated that I knew not what was the matter; but if they

would indulge me for half an hour, I would either go on or abandon the

voyage for that time.

[Illustration: The “Clermont.”]

This short respite was conceded without objection. I went below and

examined the machinery, and discovered that the cause was a slight

defect in a part of the work. This was soon remedied; the boat was put

again in motion; she continued to move on. All were still incredulous;

none seemed willing to trust the evidence of their own senses.

We left the fair city of New York; we passed through the romantic and

ever-varying scenery of the Highlands; we descried the clustering

houses of Albany; we reached its shores; yet even then imagination

superseded the force of fact. It was doubted if it could be done again.

THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE TREE.

[Illustration: William Cullen Bryant.]

Come, let us plant the apple tree!

Cleave the tough greensward with the spade;

Wide let its hollow bed be made;

There gently lay the roots, and there

Sift the dark mold with kindly care,

And press it o’er them tenderly,

As round the sleeping infant’s feet

We softly fold the cradle sheet;

So plant we the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple tree?

Buds, which the breath of summer days

Shall lengthen into leafy sprays;

Boughs, where the thrush with crimson breast

Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest.

We plant upon the sunny lea

A shadow for the noontide hour,

A shelter from the summer shower,

When we plant the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple tree?

Sweets for a hundred flowery springs

To load the May wind’s restless wings,

When from the orchard row he pours

Its fragrance through our open doors.

A world of blossoms for the bee,

Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room,

For the glad infant sprigs of bloom

We plant with the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple tree?

Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,

And redden in the August noon,

And drop when gentle airs come by

That fan the blue September sky,

While children, wild with noisy glee,

Shall scent their fragrance as they pass

And search for them the tufted grass

At the foot of the apple tree.

And when above this apple tree

The winter stars are quivering bright,

And winds go howling through the night,

Girls whose young eyes o’erflow with mirth

Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth;

And guests in prouder homes shall see,

Heaped with the orange and the grape,

As fair as they in tint and shape,

The fruit of the apple tree.

The fruitage of this apple tree

Winds and our flag of stripe and star

Shall bear to coasts that lie afar,

Where men shall wonder at the view

And ask in what fair groves they grew;

And they who roam beyond the sea

Shall think of childhood’s careless day

And long hours passed in summer play

In the shade of the apple tree.

But time shall waste this apple tree.

Oh! when its aged branches throw

Their shadows on the world below,

Shall fraud and force and iron will

Oppress the weak and helpless still?

What shall the task of mercy be

Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears

Of those who live when length of years

Is wasting this apple tree?

“Who planted this old apple tree?”

The children of that distant day

Thus to some aged man shall say;

And, gazing on its mossy stem,

The gray-haired man shall answer them:

“A poet of the land was he,

Born in the rude but good old times;

’Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes

On planting the apple tree.”

--_William Cullen Bryant._

THE CORN SONG.

[Illustration: John G. Whittier.]

Heap high the farmer’s wintry hoard!

Heap high the golden corn!

No richer gift has Autumn poured

From out her lavish horn!

Let other lands, exulting, glean

The apple from the pine,

The orange from its glossy green,

The cluster from the vine;

We better love the hardy gift

Our rugged vales bestow,

To cheer us when the storm shall drift

Our harvest fields with snow.

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers

Our plows their furrows made,

While on the hills the sun and showers

Of changeful April played.

We dropped the seed o’er hill and plain

Beneath the sun of May,

And frightened from our sprouting grain

The robber crows away.

All through the long, bright days of June

Its leaves grew green and fair,

And waved in hot, midsummer’s noon

Its soft and yellow hair.

And now with autumn’s moonlit eves,

Its harvest time has come,

We pluck away the frosted leaves,

And bear the treasure home.

There, when the snows about us drift,

And winter winds are cold,

Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,

And knead its meal of gold.

Let vapid idlers loll in silk

Around their costly board;

Give us the bowl of samp and milk

By homespun beauty poured!

Where’er the wide old kitchen hearth

Sends up its smoky curls,

Who will not thank the kindly earth,

And bless our farmer girls!

Then shame on all the proud and vain,

Whose folly laughs to scorn

The blessing of our hardy grain,

Our wealth of golden corn!

Let earth withhold her goodly root,

Let mildew blight the rye,

Give to the worm the orchard’s fruit,

The wheatfield to the fly.

But let the good old crop adorn

The hills our fathers trod;

Still let us, for his golden corn,

Send up our thanks to God.

--_John G. Whittier._

HUNTING THE WALRUS.

The walrus is one of the largest animals still extant, and although the

element of personal danger is not so great in hunting it as in hunting

some beasts of lesser bulk, yet the conditions under which the sport is

pursued, as well as the nature of the sport itself, are such as will

probably tempt one who has once tried this form of sport to return to

it.

[Illustration: Walruses at Home.]

An average-sized four-year-old walrus will measure ten feet in length

and about the same in girth. The weight is, of course, difficult to

determine; but it is probably about 3000 pounds, of which 350 pounds may

be reckoned as blubber, and 300 pounds as hide.

The blubber, to be utilized, is mixed with that of the seals which may

be obtained, and the oil, which is extracted by heat and pressure, sold

as “seal oil”; the hide, which is from an inch to an inch and a half in

thickness, and makes a soft, spongy leather, is exported principally to

Russia and Germany, where it is used for making harness and other heavy

leather goods.

The walrus is a carnivorous animal, feeding mostly upon shellfish and

worms, and is therefore generally found in the shallow waters along a

coast line, diving for its food on banks which lie at a depth of from

two to twenty fathoms below the surface. Deeper than that the walrus

does not care to go; in fact, it generally feeds in about fifteen

fathoms.

The tusks are principally used to plow up the bottom in search of food,

but are also employed as weapons, and in climbing upon the ice. They are

composed of hard white ivory, set for about six inches of their length

in a hard bony mass, about six inches in diameter, which forms the front

of the head; the breathing passage runs through this mass, and

terminates in two “blow holes” between the roots of the tusks. The tusk

itself is solid, except that portion which is imbedded in the bone, and

this is filled with a cellular structure containing a whitish oil.

A walrus killed in the water immediately sinks; even if mortally

wounded, it will in nine cases out of ten escape, and sink to the

bottom. When on the ice, these animals always lie close to the water,

and it is therefore necessary to kill them instantly, or they will reach

the water and be lost before the boat can arrive within harpooning

distance. This can only be done by shooting them in such a way as to

penetrate the brain, which is no easy matter. The brain lies in what

appears to be the neck; that which one would naturally suppose to be the

head being nothing but the heavy jaw bones, and mass of bone in which

the tusks are set.

What becomes of the walrus in winter it is hard to say; but I have heard

them blowing in an open pool of water among the ice on the north coast

of Spitzbergen in the month of December. In the spring, however, when

the ice begins to break up, they collect in herds on their feeding

grounds around the coasts, where they may be found diving for shellfish,

or basking and sleeping, singly or in “heaps” of two or three, often

five or six, together.

They seem to prefer to lie on small cakes of flat bay ice; a single

walrus will often take his siesta on a cake only just large enough to

float him, and it is among such ice, therefore, rather than among rough

old pack and glacier blocks, that they should be sought, although I

have seen them lying on heavy old water-worn ice, four and five feet

above the water. In this case, however, they had no choice.

The boats of the walrus hunters are strongly yet lightly built. They are

bow-shaped at both ends; the stem and stern posts are made thick and

strong in order to resist the blows of the ice, and the bow sheathed

with zinc plates to prevent excessive chafing. It is most important that

they should be easy and quick in turning, and this quality is obtained

by depressing the keel in the middle. They are painted red inside and

white outside, so that they may not be conspicuous amongst ice, but the

hunters stultify this idea to some extent by dressing themselves in dark

colors.

The harpoon, the point and edges of which are ground and whetted to a

razor-like sharpness, is a simple but very effective weapon. When thrust

into a walrus or seal, a large outer barb “takes up” a loop of the tough

hide, whilst a small inner fishhook barb prevents it from becoming

disengaged, so that when once properly harpooned, it is seldom, if ever,

that an animal escapes through the harpoon “drawing.” The harpoon line

consists of sixteen fathoms of two-inch tarred rope, very carefully made

of the finest hemp, “soft laid”; each line is neatly coiled in a

separate box placed beneath the forward thwart.

A boat’s crew consists of four or five men, and the quickness with which

they can turn their boat is greatly accelerated by their method of

rowing and steering. Each man rows with a pair of oars, which he can

handle much better than one long one when amongst ice.

The harpooner, who commands the boat’s crew, rows from the bow thwart,

near the weapons and telescope, which he alone uses. It is he who

searches for game, and decides on the method of attack when it is found.

“No. 2,” generally the strongest man in the boat, is called the “line

man”; it is his duty to tend the line when a walrus is struck, and to

assist the harpooner.

In such a boat, then, one lovely September morning, we are rowing easily

back to the sloop, which is lying off Bird Bay, a small indentation in

the east face of the northernmost point of Spitzbergen. The harpooner is

balancing himself, one foot on the forward locker, and one on the

thwart, examining through a telescope something which appears to be a

lump of dirty ice, about half a mile away. Suddenly he closes his glass

and seizes the oars. “There he is!” he says, and without another word

the boat is headed for the black mass.

Now we are within a couple of hundred yards, and each man crouches in

the bottom of the boat, the harpooner still in the bow, his eyes

intently fixed upon the walrus. Suddenly the walrus raises his head, and

we are motionless. It is intensely still, and the scraping of a piece of

ice along the boat seems like the roar of a railway train passing

overhead on some bridge. Down goes the head, and we glide forward again.

The walrus is uneasy; again and again he raises his head and looks round

with a quick motion, but we have the sun right at our back, and he never

notices us.

At last we are within a few feet, and with a shout of “Wake up, old

boy!” which breaks the stillness like a shot, the harpooner is on his

feet, his weapon clasped in both hands above his head. As the walrus

plunges into the sea, the iron is buried in his side, and, with a quick

twist to prevent the head from slipping out of the same slit that it has

cut in the thick hide, the handle is withdrawn and thrown into the boat.

Bumping and scraping amongst the floating ice, we are towed along for

about five minutes, and then stop as the wounded walrus comes to the

surface to breathe.

In the old days the lance would finish the business, but now it is the

rifle. He is facing the boat; I sight for one of his eyes, and let him

have both barrels, without much effect apparently, for away we rush for

two or three minutes more, when he is up again, still facing the boat.

He seems to care no more for the solid “Express” bullets than if they

were peas; but he is slow this time, and, as he turns to dive, exposes

the fatal spot at the back of the head, and dies.

Few men are likely ever to forget the first occasion on which they found

themselves amongst a herd of walrus in the water. Scores of

fierce-looking heads--for the long tusks, small bloodshot eyes, and

moustache on the upper lip (every bristle of which is as thick as a crow

quill) give the walrus an expression of ferocity--gaze, perhaps in

unbroken silence, from all sides upon the boat, See! the sun glints

along a hundred wet backs, and they are gone.

Away you row at racing speed to where experience tells you they will

rise again. “Here they are! Take that old one with long tusks first!” A

couple of quick thrusts, right and left, and away you go again, fast to

two old fellows that will want a good deal of attention before you can

cut their tusks out. Indeed, unless one has served his apprenticeship,

he had better not meddle with the harpoon at all. The old skippers and

harpooners can spin many a yarn of lost crews and boats gone under the

ice through a fatal moment’s delay in cutting free from the diving

walrus.

--_From “Big Game Shooting._”

THE DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII.

I. HISTORY.

Volcanoes can never be trusted. No one knows when one will break out, or

what it will do; and those who live close to them--as the city of Naples

is close to Mount Vesuvius--must not be astonished if they are blown up

or swallowed, as that great and beautiful city of Naples may be without

a warning, any day.

For what happened to that same Mount Vesuvius about eighteen hundred

years ago in the old Roman times? For ages and ages it had been lying

quiet, like any other hill. Beautiful cities were built at its

foot--cities filled with people who were as handsome and as comfortable

and, I am afraid, as wicked as any people ever were on earth. Fair

gardens, vineyards, and olive yards covered the mountain slopes. It was

held to be one of the Paradises of the world.

As for the mountain’s being a volcano, who ever thought of that? To be

sure, the top of it was a great round crater, or cup, a mile or more

across, and a few hundred yards deep. But that was all overgrown with

bushes and wild vines full of deer and other wild animals. What sign of

fire was there in that? To be sure, also, there was an ugly place

below, by the seashore, where smoke and brimstone came out of the

ground; and a lake called Avernus, over which poisonous gases hung. But

what of that? It had never harmed any one, and how could it harm them?

So they all lived on, merrily and happily enough, till the year A.D. 79.

At that time there was stationed in the Bay of Naples a Roman admiral,

called Pliny, who was also a very studious and learned man, and author

of a famous old book on natural history. He was staying on shore with

his sister; and as he sat in his study, she called him out to see a

strange cloud which had been hanging for some time over the top of Mount

Vesuvius. It was in shape just like a pine tree; not, of course, like

the pines which grow in this country, but like an Italian stone pine,

with a long straight stem and a flat parasol-shaped top.

Sometimes it was blackish, sometimes spotted; and the good Admiral

Pliny, who was always curious about natural science, ordered his rowboat

and went away across the bay to see what it could be. Earthquake shocks

had been very common for the last few days, but I do not suppose that

Pliny thought that the earthquakes and the cloud had anything to do with

each other. However, he soon found out that they had; and to his cost.

When he was near the opposite shore, some of the sailors met him and

begged him to turn back. Cinders and pumice stones were falling down

from the sky, and flames were breaking out of the mountain above. But

Pliny would go on: he said that if people were in danger it was his duty

to help them; and that he must see this strange cloud, and note down the

different shapes into which it changed.

But the hot ashes fell faster and faster; the sea ebbed out suddenly,

and almost left them on the beach; and Pliny turned away towards a place

called Stabiæ, to the house of an old friend who was just going to

escape in a boat. Brave Pliny told him not to be afraid; ordered his

bath like a true Roman gentleman, and then went in to dinner with a

cheerful face. Flames came down from the mountain, nearer and nearer as

the night drew on; but Pliny persuaded his friend that they were only

fires in some villages from which the peasants had fled; and then went

to bed and slept soundly.

However, in the middle of the night, they found the courtyard being fast

filled with cinders, and if they had not awakened the Admiral in time,

he would never have been able to get out of the house.

The earthquake shocks grew stronger and fiercer, till the house was

ready to fall; and Pliny and his

[Illustration:

From a Photograph. Engraved by E. Heinemann

Mount Vesuvius during an Eruption.]

friend, and the sailors and the slaves, all fled into the open fields,

having pillows over their heads to prevent their being beaten down. By

this time, day had come, but not the dawn: for it was still pitch dark.

They went down to their boats upon the shore; but the sea raged so

horribly that there was no getting on board of them.

Then Pliny grew tired and made his men spread a sail for him that he

might lie down upon it. But there came down upon them a rush of flames

and a strong smell of sulphur, and all ran for their lives.

Some of the slaves tried to help the Admiral; but he sank down again,

overpowered by the brimstone fumes, and so was left behind. When they

came back again, there he lay dead; but with his clothes in order, and

his face as quiet as if he had been only sleeping. And that was the end

of a brave and learned man, a martyr to duty and to the love of science.

But what was going on in the meantime? Under clouds of ashes, cinders,

mud, lava, three of those happy cities--Herculaneum, Pompeii,

Stabiæ--were buried at once. They were buried just as the people had

fled from them, leaving the furniture and the earthenware, often even

jewels and gold behind, and here and there a human being who had not

had time to escape from the dreadful rain of ashes and dust.

The ruins of Herculaneum and Pompeii have been dug into since, and

partly uncovered; and the paintings, especially in Pompeii, are found

upon the walls still fresh, preserved from the air by the ashes which

have covered them in. At Naples there is a famous museum containing the

curiosities which have been dug out of the ruined cities; and one can

walk along the streets in Pompeii and see the wheel tracks in the

pavement along which carts and chariots rolled two thousand years ago.

And what had become of Vesuvius, the treacherous mountain? Half, or more

than half, of the side of the old crater had been blown away; and what

was left, which is now called the Monte Somma, stands in a half circle

round the new cone and the new crater which is burning at this very day.

True, after that eruption which killed Pliny, Vesuvius fell asleep

again, and did not awake for one hundred and thirty-four years, and then

again for two hundred and sixty-nine years; but it has been growing more

and more restless as the ages have passed on, and now hardly a year

passes without its sending out smoke and stones from its crater, and

streams of lava from its sides.

--_From “Madam How and Lady Why,” by Charles Kingsley._

II. ROMANCE.

[Illustration: Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton.]

The most popular historical romance in the English language is “The Last

Days of Pompeii,” by Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton. It was first published in

1834, and is a narrative depicting life and manners during the last

years of the doomed city. The description of the grand catastrophe is a

subject which called forth all the brilliant powers of the author. As a

piece of word-painting it has seldom been surpassed.

* * * * *

The cloud which had scattered so deep a murkiness over the day had now

settled into a solid and impenetrable mass. But in proportion as the

blackness gathered, did the lightnings around Vesuvius increase in their

vivid and scorching glare. Nor was their horrible beauty confined to the

usual hues of fire; no rainbow ever rivaled their varying and prodigal

dyes. Now brightly blue as the most azure depths of a southern sky,--now

of a livid and snake-like green, darting restlessly to and fro as the

folds of an enormous serpent,--now of a lurid and intolerable crimson,

gushing forth through the columns of smoke, far and wide, and lighting

up the whole city from arch to arch--then suddenly dying into a sickly

paleness, like the ghost of their own life!

In the pauses of the showers you heard the rumbling of the earth

beneath, and the groaning waves of the tortured sea; or, lower still,

and audible but to the watch of intensest fear, the grinding and hissing

murmur of the escaping gases through the chasms of the distant mountain.

Sometimes the cloud appeared to break from its solid mass, and, by the

lightning to assume quaint and vast mimicries of human or of monster

shapes, striding across the gloom, hurtling one upon the other, and

vanishing swiftly into the abyss of shade; so that, to the eyes and

fancies of the affrighted wanderers, the vapors seemed like the bodily

forms of gigantic foes--the agents of terror and of death.

The ashes in many places were already knee-deep; and the boiling showers

which came from the steaming breath of the volcano forced their way into

the houses, bearing with them a strong and suffocating vapor. In some

places, immense fragments of rock, hurled upon the house roofs, bore

down along the streets masses of confused ruin, yet more and more, with

every hour, obstructed the way; and as the day advanced, the motion of

the earth was more sensibly felt--the footing seemed to slide and

[Illustration:

From the Painting by J. Coomans. Engraved by E. Heinemann.

Interior of a House in Pompeii.]

creep--nor could chariot or litter be kept steady even on the most level

ground.

Sometimes the huger stones, striking against each other as they fell,

broke into countless fragments, emitting sparks of fire, which caught

whatever was combustible within their reach; and along the plains beyond

the city the darkness was now terribly relieved, for several houses and

even vineyards had been set on flames; and at various intervals the

fires rose sullenly and fiercely against the solid gloom. To add to this

partial relief of the darkness, the citizens had, here and there, in the

more public places, such as the porticoes of temples and the entrances

to the forum, endeavored to place rows of torches; but these rarely

continued long; the showers and the winds extinguished them, and the

sudden darkness into which their sudden birth was converted had

something in it doubly terrible and doubly impressing on the impotence

of human hopes, the lesson of despair.

Frequently, by the momentary light of these torches, parties of

fugitives encountered each other, some hurrying towards the sea, others

flying from the sea back to the land. The whole elements of civilization

were broken up. Ever and anon, by the flickering lights, you saw the

thief hastening by the most solemn authorities of the law, laden with

the produce of his sudden gains. If, in the darkness, wife was separated

from husband, or parent from child, vain was the hope of reunion. Each

hurried blindly and confusedly on. Nothing in all the various and

complicated machinery of social life was left save the primal law of

self-preservation.

Through this awful scene did Glaucus wade his way, accompanied by Ione

and the blind girl. Suddenly, a rush of hundreds, in their path to the

sea, swept by them. Nydia was torn from the side of Glaucus, who with

Ione was borne rapidly onward; and when the crowd (whose forms they saw

not, so thick was the gloom) were gone, Nydia was still separated from

their side. Glaucus shouted her name. No answer came. They retraced

their steps,--in vain: they could not discover her,--it was evident she

had been swept along some other direction by the human current. Their

friend, their preserver was lost! And hitherto Nydia had been their

guide. Her blindness rendered the scene familiar to her alone.

Accustomed, through a perpetual night, to thread the windings of the

city, she had led them unerringly towards the seashore, by which they

had resolved to hazard an escape. Now, which way could they wend? All

was rayless to them--a maze without a clue. Wearied, despondent,

bewildered, they, however, passed along, the ashes falling upon their

heads, the fragmentary stones dashing up in sparkles before their feet.

Advancing, as men grope for escape in a dungeon, they continued their

uncertain way. At the moments when the volcanic lightnings lingered over

the streets, they were enabled, by that awful light, to steer and guide

their progress: yet, little did the view it presented to them cheer or

encourage their path. In parts where the ashes lay dry and unmixed with

the boiling torrents, cast upward from the mountain at capricious

intervals, the surface of the earth presented a leprous and ghastly

white. In other places, cinder and rock lay matted in heaps.

The groans of the dying were broken by wild shrieks of women’s

terror--now near, now distant--which, when heard in the utter darkness,

were rendered doubly appalling by the sense of helplessness and the

uncertainty of the perils around; and clear and distinct through all

were the mighty and various noises from the Fatal Mountain; its rushing

winds; its whirling torrents; and, from time to time, the burst and roar

of some more fiery and fierce explosion.

Suddenly the place became lighted with an intense and lurid glow. Bright

and gigantic through the darkness, which closed around it like the walls

of hell, the mountain shone--a pile of fire. Its summit seemed riven in

two; or rather, above its surface there seemed to rise two monster

shapes, each confronting each, as Demons contending for a World. These

were of one deep blood-red hue of fire, which lighted up the whole

atmosphere far and wide; but _below_, the nether part of the mountain

was still dark and shrouded, save in three places, adown which flowed,

serpentine and irregular, rivers of the molten lava. Darkly red through

the profound gloom of their banks, they flowed slowly on, as towards the

devoted city. Over the broadest there seemed to spring a cragged and

stupendous arch, from which, as from the jaws of hell, gushed the

sources of the stupendous Phlegethon. And through the stilled air was

heard the rattling of the fragments of rock, hurling one upon another as

they were borne down the fiery cataracts--darkening, for one instant,

the spot where they fell, and suffused the next in the burnished hues of

the flood along which they floated.

Glaucus turned in awe, caught Ione in his arms, and fled along the

street, that was now intensely luminous. But suddenly a duller shade

fell over the air. Instinctively he turned to the mountain, and behold!

one of the two gigantic crests, into which the summit had been divided,

rocked and wavered to and fro; and then, with a sound, the mightiness

of which no language can describe, it fell from its burning base, and

rushed, an avalanche of fire, down the sides of the mountain. At the

same instant gushed forth a volume of blackest smoke--rolling on, over

air, sea, and earth.

Another--and another--and another shower of ashes, far more profuse than

before, scattered fresh desolation along the streets. Darkness once more

wrapped them as a veil; and Glaucus, his bold heart at last quelled and

despairing, sank beneath the cover of an arch, and, clasping Ione to his

heart, resigned himself to die.

Meanwhile Nydia, when separated by the throng from Glaucus and Ione, had

in vain endeavored to regain them. In vain she raised that plaintive cry

so peculiar to the blind; it was lost amidst a thousand shrieks of more

selfish terror. Again and again she returned to the spot where they had

been divided--to find her companions gone, to seize every fugitive--to

inquire of Glaucus--to be dashed aside in the impatience of distraction.

Who in that hour spared one thought to his neighbor?

At length it occurred to Nydia that, as it had been resolved to seek the

seashore for escape, her most probable chance of rejoining her

companions would be to persevere in that direction. Guiding her steps,

then, by the staff which she always carried, she continued to avoid the

masses of ruin which incumbered the path, and to take the nearest

direction to the seaside.

She had gone some distance toward the seashore, when she chanced to hear

from one of the fugitives that Glaucus was resting beneath the arch of

the forum. She at once turned her back on the sea, and retraced her

steps to the city. She gained the forum--the arch; she stooped down--she

felt around--she called on the name of Glaucus.

A weak voice answered, “Who calls on me? Is it the voice of the Shades?

Lo! I am prepared!”

“Arise! follow me! Take my hand! Glaucus, thou shalt be saved!”

In wonder and sudden hope, Glaucus arose, “Nydia still! Ah! thou, then,

art safe!”

The tender joy of his voice pierced the heart of the poor Thessalian,

and she blessed him for his thought of her.

Half-leading, half-carrying Ione, Glaucus followed his guide. After many

pauses they gained the sea, and joined a group, who, bolder than the

rest, resolved to hazard any peril rather than continue in such a scene.

In darkness they put forth to sea; but, as they cleared the land and

caught new aspects of the mountain, its channels of molten fire threw a

partial redness over the waves.

Utterly exhausted and worn out, Ione slept on the breast of Glaucus, and

Nydia lay at his feet. Meanwhile the showers of dust and ashes, still

borne aloft, fell into the wave, and scattered their snows over the

deck. Far and wide, borne by the winds, those showers descended upon the

remotest climes, startling even the swarthy African, and whirled along

the antique soil of Syria and Egypt.

And meekly, softly, beautifully dawned at last the light over the

trembling deep,--the winds were sinking into rest,--the foam died from

the glowing azure of that delicious sea. Around the east, their mists

caught gradually the rosy hues that heralded the morning. Light was

about to resume her reign. Yet, still, dark, and massive in the distance

lay the broken fragments of the destroying cloud, from which red

streaks, burning more and more dimly, betrayed the yet rolling fires of

the mountain of the “Scorched Fields.” The white walls and gleaming

columns that had adorned the lovely coasts were no more. Sullen and dull

were the shores so lately crested by the cities of Herculaneum and

Pompeii. The darlings of the Deep were snatched from her embrace.

Century after century shall the mighty Mother stretch forth her azure

arms, and know them not--moaning round the sepulchers of the Lost!

[Illustration]

THE STRANGER ON THE SILL.

Between broad fields of wheat and corn

Is 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 trees

Where my childhood knew long hours of ease,

And watched the shadowy moments run

Till 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 sheaves

Have passed within that scented door

To gladden eyes that are no more.

Deal kindly with these orchard trees;

And when your children crowd their knees

Their 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._

OUR COUNTRY.

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!

I. WHAT IS OUR COUNTRY.

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 what _is_ our 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._

II. LIBERTY AND UNION.

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._

III. THE POLICY OF PEACE.

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, above everything 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._

A LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW.

[Illustration: 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:--

I. THE SCHOOLMASTER.

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, it was 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.

[Illustration: 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

tastes and 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!

II. THE INVITATION.

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 articles taken

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 his black 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.

[Illustration: 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 his crimson 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 some of 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.

III. THE “QUILTING FROLIC.”

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 had for 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 neighborhood for 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 get up 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.

[Illustration: 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

along the 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.

IV. THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN.

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 here that 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. There was 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 dodge

the 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.