Chapter VIII: Part IV (3)

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.

The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master’s gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast. Dinner hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook; but no schoolmaster. An inquiry was set on foot, and after much investigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road by the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt. The tracks of horses’ hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin. The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not to be discovered.

As Ichabod was a bachelor, and in nobody’s debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him. It is true, an old farmer, who went down to New York on a visit several years after, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of the goblin and the farmer whose horse he had ridden, and partly for other reasons; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country, had kept school and studied law at the same time, had written for the newspapers, and finally had been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, who, shortly after the schoolmaster’s disappearance, had married the blooming Katrina Van Tassel, was observed to look very knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin, which led some to suppose that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell.

THE MARINER’S DREAM.

In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay;
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind;
But, watchworn and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danced o’er his mind.

He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasures that waited on life’s merry morn;
While Memory stood sideways, half covered with flowers,
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.

Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise:
Now far, far behind him the green waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.

The jessamine clambers in flower o’er the thatch,
And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall;
All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

A father bends o’er him with looks of delight;
His cheek is impearled with a mother’s warm tear;
And the lips of the boy in a love kiss unite
With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast;
Joy quickens his pulses--all hardships seem o’er,
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest:
“O God! thou hast blessed me; I ask for no more.”

Ah! what is that flame which now bursts on his eye?
Ah! what is that sound which now ’larums his ear?
Tis the lightning’s red gleam, painting death in the sky!
’Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere!

He springs from his hammock--he flies to the deck!
Amazement confronts him with images dire;
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck;
The masts fly in splinters; the shrouds are on fire!

Like mountains the billows tremendously swell;
In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save;
Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,
And the death angel flaps his broad wing o’er the wave!

O sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight!
In darkness dissolves the gay frost work of bliss.
Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright--
Thy parents’ fond pressure, and Love’s honeyed kiss?

O sailor boy! sailor boy! never again
Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay;
Unblessed, and unhonored, down deep in the main
Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay.

Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away,
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll;
Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye:--
O sailor boy! sailor boy! peace to thy soul!
--_William Dimond._

THE SANDS O’ DEE.

“O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
Across the sands o’ Dee!”
The western wind was wild and dank with foam,
And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand,
And o’er and o’er the sand,
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see.
The rolling mist came down and hid the land--
And never home came she.

“Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair--
A tress of golden hair,
A drownèd maiden’s hair,
Above the nets at sea?”
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes on Dee.

They brought her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel crawling foam,
The cruel hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea.
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,
Across the sands o’ Dee.
--_Charles Kingsley._

THE INVENTION OF PRINTING.

I. BLOCK BOOKS.

Six hundred years ago every book was written by hand; for the art of printing was then unknown, If there were pictures, they were drawn with a pen or painted with a brush. It required a great deal of labor and time to make a book; and when it was finished, it was so costly that only a very rich person could afford to own it.

There were no bookstores such as we have now, and books were very few. But in the great schools and large monasteries there were men called _scriptores_, or copyists, whose business it was to make written copies of such works as were in demand. There were other men called illuminators who ornamented the books with beautiful initials and chapter headings, and sometimes encircled the pages with borders made with ink of different colors.

At last some copyist who had several copies to make of the same book thought of a new plan. He carved a copy of each page on a block of wood. If there was a picture, he carved that too, much in the same way that wood engravings are made now. When the block was finished, it was carefully wetted with a thin, inky substance; then a sheet of paper was laid upon it and pressed down till an impression of the carved block was printed upon it. Each page was treated in the same way, but the paper could be printed only on one side. When all were finished, the leaves were stitched together and made into a book. It was not as handsome a book as those written with pen and ink; but, after the block had once been engraved, the copyist could make fifty copies of it in less time than he could make one by hand.

Books made in this way were called block books. It required much time and a great deal of skill to engrave the blocks; and so this method of printing never came into very general use.

II. LAURENCE COSTER

About the beginning of the fifteenth century there lived in the old Dutch town of Haarlem a man whose name was Laurence Jaonssen. This man was much looked up to by all his neighbors; for he was honest and wealthy, and he had been in his younger days the treasurer of the town. He was the sacristan of the Church of St. Bavon, and for that reason he was called Laurence Coster, which means Laurence the Sacristan. As he grew old and gray, he became very quiet in his ways, and there was nothing that he liked so well as being alone, with the bright sun above him and the trees and flowers and birds all around him.

Every afternoon, as soon as he had dined, he threw his short black cloak over his shoulders, took his broad-brimmed hat from its peg, and with his staff in his hand sauntered out for a walk. Sometimes he strolled along the banks of the broad and sluggish river, picking flowers as he went; sometimes he rambled through the fields and came home by the great road which led around to the other side of the town. But he liked best to go out to the old forest which lay beyond the flat meadow lands a mile farther away. There the trees grew large and tall, and afforded a pleasant shelter on warm days from the sun, and in cooler weather from the keen winds that blow across the meadows from the sea.

When tired of walking, Laurence Coster would often sit down on the spreading root of some old beech tree; and then, to pass away the time, he would split off a piece of the bark, and with his knife would shape it into one of the letters of the alphabet. This was an old habit of his--a habit which he had learned when he was a boy; and afterwards, when he was just turning into manhood, it had been no uncommon thing for him to stroll into the woods and carve upon the trees the name of a young maiden whom he knew. Now, old and gray and solemn, the habit still remained with him. He liked to sit and cut out alphabets for the amusement of his little grandchildren to whom he carried them.

One day, having shaped the letters with more care than usual, he wrapped them up in a piece of parchment that he had in his pocket. “The children will be delighted with these, I know,” he said.

When he reached home and opened the package, he was surprised to see the imprint of several of the letters very clear and distinct upon the parchment. The sap, running out of the green bark, had acted as ink on the face of the letters. This accident set him to thinking.

He carved another set of letters with very great care, and then, dipping one side in ink, pressed them on a sheet of parchment. The result was a print, almost as good as the block pictures and block books which were sold in the shops, and were the only examples of printing then known.

“I really believe,” said Laurence Coster, “that with enough of these letters I could print a book. It would be better than printing by the block method; for I would not be obliged to cut a separate block for each page, but could arrange and rearrange the letters in any order that might be required.”

And so now, instead of idling his afternoons away, and instead of cutting letters merely for the children, he set earnestly to work to improve his invention. He made a kind of ink that was thicker and more gluey than common ink, and not so likely to spread and leave an ugly blot. He carved a great many letters of various sizes, and found that with his improved ink he could make clear, distinct impressions, and could print entire pages, with cuts and diagrams and fancy headings.

After a while he thought of making the letters of lead instead of wood; and finally he found that a mixture of lead and tin was better than pure lead, because it was harder and more durable. And so, year after year, Laurence Coster toiled at the making of types and the printing of books. Soon his books began to attract attention, and as they were really better and cheaper than the block books, there was much call for them.

Some of the good people of Haarlem were greatly troubled because the old gentleman spent so much of his time at such work.

“He is bewitched,” said some.

“He has sold himself to the evil one,” said others.

“No good thing will ever come out of this business,” said they all.

III. JOHN GUTENBERG.

One day when Laurence Coster was making his first experiments in printing, a young traveler, with a knapsack on his back and a staff in his hand, came trudging into Haarlem.

“My name is John Gutenberg, and my home is at Mayence,” he said to the landlord of the inn where he stopped.

“And pray what may be your business in our good city of Haarlem?” asked the landlord.

“I am trying to gain knowledge by seeing the world,” was the answer. “I have been to Rome and Venice and Genoa; I have visited Switzerland and all the great cities in Germany; and now I am on my way through Holland to France.”

“What is the most wonderful thing that you have seen in your travels?” asked the landlord.

“There is nothing more wonderful to me than the general ignorance of the people,” said Gutenberg. “They seem to know nothing about the country in which they live; they know nothing about the peoples of other lands; and, what is worse, they know nothing about the truths of religion. If there were only some way to make books more plentiful, so that the common people could buy them and learn to read them, a great deal of this ignorance would be dispelled. Ever since I was a mere youth at school, is this thought has been in my mind.”

“Well,” said the landlord, “we have a man here in Haarlem who makes books; and, although I know nothing about them myself, I have been told that he makes them by a new method, and much faster and cheaper than they have ever been made before.”

“Who is this man? Tell me where I can find him!” cried Gutenberg.

“His name is Laurence Coster, and he lives in the big house which you see over there close by the market place. You can find him at home at all hours of the day; for, since he got into this mad way about printing, he never walks out.”

Gutenberg lost no time in making the acquaintance of Laurence Coster. The kind old gentleman showed him his types, and told him all about his plans; and when he brought out a Latin Grammar which he had just finished, Gutenberg was filled with wonder and delight.

“This is what I have so long hoped for,” he said. “Now knowledge will fly on the wings of truth to the uttermost parts of the earth!”

Many different stories have been told about the way in which Gutenberg set to work to improve the art of printing. One relates that, after having gained the confidence of Laurence Coster, he stole all his types and tools and carried them to Mayence, where he opened a workshop of his own. Another story is as follows:

After seeing Laurence Coster’s work, he was so impatient to be doing something of the kind himself that he left Haarlem the next morning, and hurried to Strasburg. There he shut himself up in a room which he rented, and set to work to carry out the plans which he had in mind. With a knife and some pieces of wood he made several sets of movable type, and arranging them in words and sentences, strung them together upon pieces of wire. In this way he was able to print more rapidly than by Laurence Coster’s method, where each letter, or at most each word, was printed separately.

He soon set up a shop in an old ruined monastery just outside of the town, and began work as a jeweler. He polished precious stones, and he dealt in mirrors which he mounted in frames of carved wood. He did this partly to earn a livelihood, and partly to conceal the greater projects which he had in hand. In a dark secluded corner of the monastery he fitted up another workshop where he could secretly carry on his experiments in printing. There, behind bolts and bars and a thick oaken door, he spent all of his spare time with his types.

Little by little, Gutenberg made improvements in his art. He invented methods for making letters of metal that were better than any that Laurence Coster had used. He learned how to mix inks of various colors. He made brushes and rollers for inking the types; “forms” for keeping the letters together when arranged for printing; and at last a press for bringing the paper into contact with the inked type.

IV. THE TWO VOICES.

Whether awake or asleep, John Gutenberg’s mind was always full of his great invention. One night as he sat looking at a sheet that he had printed on his first press, he thought that he heard two voices whispering near him. One of the voices was soft and musical and very pleasant to hear; the other was harsh and gruff and full of discordant tones. The gentle voice spoke first,

“Happy, happy man!” it said, “Go on with your great work, and be not discouraged. In the ages to come, men of all lands will gain knowledge and become wise by means of your great invention. Books will multiply until they are within the reach of all classes of people. Every child will learn to read. And to the end of time, the name of John Gutenberg will be remembered.”

Drawn by Arthur I. Keller. Engraved by E. Heinemann.

Gutenberg and his Printing Press.]

Then the harsh voice spoke: “Beware! beware! and think twice of what you are doing. Evil as well as good will come from this invention upon which you have set your heart. Instead of being a blessing to mankind, it will prove to be a curse. Pause and consider before you place in the hands of sinful and erring men another instrument of evil.”

Gutenberg’s mind was filled with distress. He thought of the fearful power which the art of printing would give to wicked men to corrupt and debase their fellow-men. He leaped to his feet, he seized his hammer, and had almost destroyed his types and press when the gentle voice spoke again, and in accents loud enough to cause him to pause.

“Think a moment,” it said. “God’s gifts are all good, and yet which one of them is not abused and sometimes made to serve the purposes of wicked men. What will the art of printing do? It will carry the knowledge of good into all lands; it will promote virtue; it will be a new means of giving utterance to the thoughts of the wise and the good.”

Gutenberg threw down his hammer and set to work to repair the mischief that he had done. But scarcely had he put his printing machine in good order when other troubles arose. He was in debt, and he had difficulties with the town officers. His goods were seized upon; his types were destroyed; and he was at last obliged to return penniless to his old home in Mayence.

V. JOHN FUST.

In Mayence, Gutenberg had an old friend named John Fust, who was a goldsmith and very rich. With this man he soon formed a partnership, and a printing office much better than the one at Strasburg was set up. Several books, most of them on religious subjects, were printed and sent out, and the business was soon in a flourishing condition.

But Gutenberg’s troubles were not yet ended. There were a great many people who were opposed to his new way of making books. The copyists who made their living by transcribing books were very bitter against it because it would destroy their business. They formed a league to oppose the printers, and before long drove Gutenberg out of Mayence.

After wandering to various places in Germany, he at last gained the friendship of Adolphus, the Elector of Nassau, who took a great interest in his plans. A press was set up at the court of the Elector, and there Gutenberg worked for several years, printing volume after volume with his own hands. But his invention did not bring him wealth. When he died at the age of sixty-nine years, he left no property but a few books which he had printed.

His partner, John Fust, had been much more fortunate. He had set up another press at Mayence, and in spite of the copyists and their friends was printing many books, and reaping great profits from their sale. One summer he printed some Bibles and took them to Paris to sell. They looked very much like the manuscript copies made by the copyists, for it was to the interest of the printers to pass off their books as manuscripts. People were astonished when Fust offered to sell his Bibles at sixty crowns, while the copyists demanded five hundred. They were still more astonished when he produced them as fast as they were wanted, and finally lowered the price. The copyists were very bitter against him.

“He is a magician!” they cried. “No one but a magician could do this.” And so the officers were sent to arrest him and search his rooms. They found a great many Bibles and some red ink.

“There is no doubt about it,” said the officers. “This is blood, and the man is a magician.”

In order to save himself from being burned as a wizard, Fust was obliged to go before the Parliament of Paris and tell all about his new method of making books, and how he used the red ink for embellishing the borders of the pages.

It was thus that the art of printing by movable types first became known to the world.

THE WANDERER.

Upon a mountain height far from the sea
I found a shell,
And to my listening ear the lonely thing
Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing,
Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell.

How came the shell upon that mountain height?
Ah, who can say?
Whether there dropped by some too careless hand
Or whether there cast when Ocean left the Land
Ere the Eternal had ordained the Day.

Strange, was it not? Far from its native deep
One song it sang,--
Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide,
Sang of the misty sea, profound and wide,--
Ever with echoes of the ocean rang.

And, as the shell upon the mountain height
Sings of the sea,
So do I ever, leagues and leagues away,--
So do I ever, wandering where I may--
Sing, O my home! sing, O my home, of thee!
--_Eugene Field._

LEAD THOU ME ON.

Lead, kindly light, amid the encircling gloom,
Lead thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home,--
Lead thou me on!
Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene,--one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou
Shouldst lead me on.
I loved to choose and see my path, but now
Lead thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

So long thy power hath blessed me, sure it still
Will lead me on,
O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone;
And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost a while.
--_John Henry Newman._

THE AMERICAN INDIAN.

Not many generations ago, where you now sit, encircled with all that exalts and embellishes civilized life, the rank thistle nodded in the wind, and the wild fox dug his hole unscared. Here lived and loved another race of beings. Beneath the same sun that rolls over your heads, the Indian hunter pursued the panting deer; gazing on the same moon that smiles for you, the Indian lover wooed his dusky mate.

Here the wigwam blaze beamed on the tender and helpless, the council fire glared on the wise and daring. Now they dipped their noble limbs in your sedgy lakes, and now they paddled the light canoe along your rocky shores. Here they warred; the echoing whoop, the bloody grapple, the defying death song, all were here; and, when the tiger strife was over, here curled the smoke of peace.

Here, too, they worshiped; and from many a dark bosom went up a pure prayer to the Great Spirit. He had not written his laws for them on tables of stone, but he had traced them on the tables of their hearts. The poor child of nature knew not the God of revelation, but the God of the universe he acknowledged in everything around.

He beheld him in the star that sank in beauty behind his lonely dwelling; in the sacred orb that flamed on him from his midday throne; in the flower that snapped in the morning breeze; in the lofty pine, that defied a thousand whirlwinds; in the timid warbler that never left its native grove; in the fearless eagle whose untired pinion was wet in clouds; in the worm that crawled at his foot; and in his own matchless form, glowing with a spark of that light, to whose mysterious Source he bent, in humble, though blind, adoration.

And all this has passed away. Across the ocean came a pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and death. The former were sown for you; the latter sprang up in the path of the simple native. Two hundred years have changed the character of a great continent, and blotted, forever, from its face a whole peculiar people. Art has usurped the bowers of nature, and the anointed children of education have been too powerful for the tribes of the ignorant.

Here and there, a stricken few remain; but how unlike their bold, untamed, untamable progenitors! The Indian of falcon glance and lion bearing, the theme of the touching ballad, the hero of the pathetic tale, is gone! and his degraded offspring crawl upon the soil where he walked in majesty, to remind us how miserable is man, when the foot of the conqueror is on his neck.

As a race, they have withered from the land. Their arrows are broken, their springs are dried up, their cabins are in the dust. Their council fire has long since gone out on the shore, and their war cry is fast dying to the untrodden west. Slowly and sadly they climb the distant mountains. They are shrinking before the mighty tide which is pressing them away; they must soon hear the roar of the last wave, which will settle over them forever.

Ages hence, the inquisitive white man, as he stands by some growing city, will ponder on the structure of their disturbed remains, and wonder to what manner of person they belonged. They will live only in the songs and chronicles of their exterminators. Let these be faithful to their rude virtues as men, and pay due tribute to their unhappy fate as a people.

--_Charles Sprague._

THE PASSING OF KING ARTHUR.

Whether there ever was a real King Arthur, or whether he lived only in the imagination of story-tellers and song writers, no one can tell. This much is true, however, that the history of his exploits and those of his Knights of the Round Table has existed in poetry and song for now almost a thousand years.

Long before there were any English books worth speaking of, the story of King Arthur was sung and recited by wandering bards to delighted listeners in the halls and castles of Old England. In the course of time it was written down in poetry and in prose; it was turned into French, and from the French back into English again; other stories were added to it, and it became the most popular romance ever composed. In 1470, a knight whose name was Sir Thomas Malory made a version of it in what was then good English prose, taking it, as he said, “out of a certain book of French.” This version has ever since been the one book to which all who would know the story of King Arthur have turned; it is the mine from which later writers have derived materials for their works. It is written in a style which, although old-fashioned and quaint, is wonderfully simple and beautiful.

One of the most touching passages in the story is that which tells how King Arthur, having fought his last battle, lay wounded upon the ground; and how, being deserted by all the knights except Sir Bedivere, he waited for the coming of fairy messengers to bear him away to the island valley of Avilion. Here is the passage, not in the exact words of Sir Thomas Malory, but repeated, somewhat after his manner, in words of modern usage.

“My hour is near at hand,” said the king to Sir Bedivere. “Therefore, take thou my good sword Excalibur, and go with it to yonder water side; and when thou comest there, I charge thee throw it in that water, and then come and tell me what thou hast seen.”

“My lord,” said Sir Bedivere, “your bidding shall be done, and I will come quickly and bring you word.”

So Sir Bedivere departed, and as he went he looked at that noble sword, and saw that the hilt and guard were covered with precious stones; and then he said to himself, “If I throw this rich sword into the water, no good shall ever come of it, but only harm and loss.”

Then Sir Bedivere hid Excalibur under a tree. And as soon as he might, he came again unto the king, and said he had been at the water side, and had thrown the sword into the water.

“What sawest thou there?” said the king.

“Sir, I saw nothing but waves and winds.”

“Thou speakest not the truth,” said the king. “Therefore, go quickly again and do my bidding; and as thou art dear to me, spare not, but throw the sword in.”

Then Sir Bedivere returned again, and took the sword in his hand. But when he looked at it he thought it a sin and a shame to throw away so noble a sword. And so, after he had hidden it again, he came back and told the king that he had been at the water and had done his bidding.

“What sawest thou there?” said the king.

“Sir,” he said, “I saw nothing but the waves lapping on the beach, and the water rising and falling among the reeds.”

“Ah, traitor untrue,” said King Arthur, “now thou hast betrayed me twice. Who would have thought that thou, who hast been so near and dear to me and art called a noble knight, would betray me for the riches of the sword? But now go again quickly, for I am chilled with cold, and my life is in danger through thy long delay. And if thou dost not do my bidding, and I ever see thee again, I will slay thee with my own hands; for thou, for the sake of my rich sword, would see me dead.”

Then Sir Bedivere departed; and he quickly took the sword and went to the water side. Then he wrapped the belt about the hilt, and threw the sword as far into the water as he could. And there came an arm and a hand above the water, and caught the sword, and shook it thrice and brandished it. Then the hand, with the sword, vanished in the water. So Sir Bedivere came again to the king and told him what he had seen.

“Alas,” said the king, “help me from this place; for I fear that I have tarried too long.”

Then Sir Bedivere took the king upon his back, and carried him to the water side. And when they came to the water, a little barge was seen floating close by the bank; and in the barge were many fair ladies, and among them was a queen. All these wept and cried out when they saw King Arthur.

“Now put me into the barge,” said the king; and this Sir Bedivere did, with tenderness and care.

And three of the fair ladies received him with great mourning. Then that one who was the queen said: “Ah, dear brother, why have you staid so long? Alas, I fear lest this wound on your head has been chilled over much with the cold!”

Then they rowed from the land, and Sir Bedivere watched them. And he cried: “Ah, my lord Arthur! What shall become of me, now you go away and leave me here alone among my enemies?”

“Comfort thyself,” said the king, “and do the best thou canst, for I can no longer give thee help. For I go now into the vale of Avilion, to heal me of my grievous wound. If thou never hear more of me, pray for my soul.”

But the ladies and the queen wept and cried in a way that was piteous to hear. And when Sir Bedivere lost sight of the barge, he wept bitterly; and, weeping, he went into the forest, where he wandered all that long night.

“Some men yet say,” continues Sir Thomas Malory, “that King Arthur is not dead, but taken by the will of our Lord into another place. And men say that he shall come again and shall win the holy cross. I will not say it shall be so, but rather I will say that in this world he changed his life. But many men say that there is written upon his tomb a verse in Latin, which when turned into English, is this: ‘Here lieth Arthur, that was and is to be King.’”

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES.

=George Bancroft:= An American historian. Born at Worcester, Massachusetts, 1800; died, 1891. Wrote “History of the United States from the Discovery of the Continent” (10 vols.).

_Daniel Boone:_ The pioneer of Kentucky. Born in Pennsylvania, 1735; died in Missouri, 1820.

=William Cullen Bryant:= An eminent American poet. Born in Massachusetts, 1794; died, 1878. Wrote “Thanatopsis” and many other short poems. Was one of the editors of the “Evening Post” (New York) for more than fifty years.

=John C. Calhoun:= An eminent American statesman and orator. Born in South Carolina, 1782; died, 1850.

=Richard Henry Dana, Jr.:= An American lawyer and author. Born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1815; died, 1868.

=Charles Dickens:= An English novelist. Born at Landport, England, 1812; died, 1870. His best novel is generally conceded to be “David Copperfield.”

=William Dimond:= An English poet, remembered only for his “Mariner’s Dream.” Died, about 1837.

=Eugene Field:= An American author. Born in St. Louis, 1850; died in Chicago, 1895. Wrote “A Little Book of Western Verse,” “A Little Book of Profitable Tales,” etc.

=Robert Fulton:= An American inventor. Born in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, 1765; died, 1815.

=Charles E. A. Gayarré:= An American historian. Born in Louisiana, 1805; died, 1895. Wrote a “History of Louisiana,” and several other works.

=Sir Archibald Geikie:= A Scottish geologist. Born in Edinburgh, 1835. Has written “The Story of a Boulder,” “A Class Book of Physical Geography,” and many other popular and scientific works on geological subjects.

=Thomas Grimke:= An American lawyer and philanthropist. Born in South Carolina, 1786; died, 1834.

=Nathaniel Hawthorne:= A distinguished American author. Born at Salem, Massachusetts, 1804; died, 1864. Wrote “The Scarlet Letter,” “The Marble Faun,” “The House of the Seven Gables,” “The Wonder Book,” “Tanglewood Tales,” etc. His style has been said to possess “almost every excellence--elegance, simplicity, grace, clearness, and force.”

=Homer:= The reputed author of the two great poems, the “Iliad” and the “Odyssey.” Supposed to have been born at Smyrna, or Chios, about one thousand years before Christ. The “Iliad” has been called “the beginning of all literature.”

=Washington Irving:= An American author and humorist. Born in New York, 1783; died, 1859. Wrote “The Sketch Book,” “History of New York by Diedrich Knickerbocker,” “Tales of a Traveler,” “The Alhambra,” “Columbus and his Companions,” “Mahomet and his Successors,” and many other works.

=Charles Kingsley:= An English clergyman and writer. Born in Devonshire, 1819; died, 1875. Wrote “Hypatia,” “Westward Ho!” “The Heroes,” “The Water Babies,” “Alton Locke, Tailor and Poet,” “Madame How and Lady Why,” several poems, and a volume of sermons.

=Sir Edwin Landseer:= The most famous of modern painters of animals. Born in London, 1802; died, 1873. His pictures of dogs and horses have seldom, if ever, been surpassed.

=Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, Baron Lytton:= A British novelist and poet. Born in Norfolk, England, 1803; died, 1873. Wrote “The Last Days of Pompeii,” “The Caxtons,” “My Novel,” and many other novels; also, several volumes of poems, and two dramas, “The Lady of Lyons” and “Richelieu.”

=Sir Thomas Malory:= A Welsh or English Knight, remembered for his noble prose epic, “Morte d’Arthur,” which he translated from the French. Born, about 1430.

=John Henry Newman:= An eminent English theologian. Born in London, 1801; died, 1890. Wrote many religious and controversial works, and a few beautiful hymns. In 1879 he was made cardinal-deacon in the Roman Catholic Church.

=John Ruskin:= A distinguished English author and art critic. Born in London, 1819; died, 1900. Wrote “The Stones of Venice,” “Sesame and Lilies,” “Ethics of the Dust,” “The Queen of the Air,” “Modern Painters,” and many other works, chiefly on subjects connected with art.

=Sir Walter Scott:= A celebrated novelist and poet. Born in Edinburgh, Scotland, 1771; died, 1832. Wrote the “Waverley Novels,” “The Lay of the Last Minstrel,” “The Lady of the Lake,” “Tales of a Grandfather,” and many other works.

=Charles Sprague:= An American poet. Born in Boston, 1791; died 1875. Wrote several short poems, most of which are now forgotten.

_Alfred, Lord Tennyson:_ Poet laureate of England. Born in Lincolnshire, 1809; died, 1892. Wrote “Idylls of the King,” “In Memoriam,” “The Princess,” and many shorter poems; also the dramas “Queen Mary,” “Harold,” and “Becket.”

=Daniel Webster:= American statesman and orator. Born in New Hampshire, 1782; died, 1852. His most famous orations are those on Bunker Hill, Adams and Jefferson, and his “Reply to Hayne.”

=John Greenleaf Whittier:= A distinguished American poet. Born at Haverhill, Massachusetts, 1807; died, 1892. Wrote many volumes of poetry, including “In War Time,” “Snow-Bound,” “Mabel Martin,” “The King’s Missive,” and others.

=Samuel Woodworth:= An American journalist and poet. Born in Massachusetts, 1785; died, 1842. He is remembered chiefly for his little poem “The Old Oaken Bucket.”

WORD LIST.

THE MOST DIFFICULT WORDS IN THE PRECEDING LESSONS PRONOUNCED AND DEFINED.

* * * * *

KEY TO THE MARKS OF PRONUNCIATION.

=ā, ē, ī, ō, ū=, long; =ă, ĕ, ĭ, ŏ, ŭ, y̆=, short; =câre=, =ärm=, =ȧsk=, =ạll=; =fĕrn=; =fôrm=, =sȯn=; =rṳde=, =fṳll=, =ûrn=; =fōōd=, b=ŏŏk=; =çinder=; =ġentle=; _chasm_; =thin=; =them=; =iṉk=.

* * * * *

a băn´don. To give up; relinquish.

ăb´bot. The ruler of an abbey.

a brĭdged´. Shortened.

a by̆ss´. A bottomless gulf.

ac çĕl´erated. Quickened; hastened.

ăc´ çi dent. A sudden and unexpected event.

a chiēved´. Done; accomplished.

acknowl´edged (ăk nŏl´ĕjd). Assented to; owned as a fact.

ăd mi rā´tion. Wonder and delight.

ăf fĕct´ed. Moved; influenced.

ăġ i tā´tion. Emotion; excitement.

a lōōf´. Away from.

a māze´ment. Wonder; astonishment.

ăm´ber. Yellowish.

ăm´bling. Going at an easy gait.

ăm mu nĭ´tion. Articles used in charging firearms.

ăm´ple. Sufficient. “Ample prospects” = wide or extended views.

a nŏn´. “Ever and anon” = frequently; often.

ăn´ti quāt ed. Old-fashioned.

an tique´ (ăn tēēk´). Old; ancient.

ăn´tlered. Having horns like a deer.

ăp pạll´ing. Terrible; fearful.

ăp pâr´ent ly. Clearly; seemingly.

ăp pa rĭ´tion. A wonderful appearance; a ghost.

ăp pli cā´tion (of the rod). The act of laying on.

ăp point´ed. Set apart; named; established.

ăp prĕn´tĭçe ship. Service under legal agreement for
the purpose of learning a trade or art.

ăs çer tāined´. Learned; found out.

ăsp´ens. Poplar trees of a certain kind, the leaves of
which are moved by the slightest breeze.

ăs sạult´ed. Attacked; set upon with violence.

ȧ stẽrn´. At the stern or hinder part.

at most = at the greatest estimate.

ăt´om. The smallest particle of matter.

ạu´di ble. That can be heard.

ạu´dience. An assembly of hearers.

ȧ vĕnġe´. To inflict punishment upon evil doers for an
injury to one’s self or friends.

bạl´dric. A broad belt worn over one shoulder and under the opposite arm.

bär. The legal profession. “Admitted to the bar” = authorized
to practice law in the courts.

bā´sĭs. Foundation; groundwork.

bȧsk´ing. Lying in a warm place.

bāy. “Leaves of bay” = leaves of the laurel tree.

be dīght´. Dressed.

bĕl lĭġ´er ent. Warlike.

be stōwed´. Placed; used; imparted.

be wĭl´dered. Greatly perplexed.

be wĭtched´. Charmed; entranced.

bĭck´er. To move quickly.

bĭlġe wạter. Water in the hold of a ship.

bĩrch (of jŭs tice). A tough, slender twig, used in school for punishment.

biv´ouac (bĭv´wăk). An encampment for the night without tents or covering.

blā´zoned. Displayed in bright colors; published far and wide.

blŭb´ber. The fat of whales and other large sea animals,
from which oil is obtained.

blŭsh´ing gŏb´let. A goblet or glass full of red wine.

boat´swain (bō´s’n). An officer who has charge of the boats of a ship.

bŏnds´man. A slave.

bow´er. A lady’s private apartment; a shady recess.

brāke. A thicket; a place overgrown with shrubs.

brăm´bly. Full of briers.

brăn´dished. Shook or flourished.

broạd´sīde. A discharge at the same time of all
the guns on one side of a ship.

bŭc cȧ nēērs´. Robbers upon the sea.

bṳl´lion. Gold or silver in the mass.

bûrgh´er. Townsman; villager.

bûr´nished. Polished.

bûrnt ŏf´fer ing. Something offered and burnt
on an altar as an atonement for sin.

bŭx´om. Stout and rosy.

cāne´brākes. Thickets of canes.

ca prĭ´çious. Changeable; freakish.

cär nĭv´or ous. Flesh-eating.

cāse´ment. A window sash opening on hinges.

căt´a răct. A waterfall.

çĕl´lu lar. Containing cells.

chasms (kăzmz). Deep openings in the earth.

chŏp´fạll en. Dejected; downcast.

chrŏn´i cles. Historical account of facts arranged in regular order.

chûrls. Countrymen; laborers.

çĩr cŭm´fer ençe. The distance around.

çĭr´cum stan çes. Facts; events.

clēave. Separate; divide.

clōse hạuled. Moving as nearly as possible toward the wind.

clūe. A thread; means of guidance.

coin´aġe. The act of making pieces of money from metal.

cŏm bŭs´ti ble. That can be burned.

cŏm mŏd´i ties. Things bought and sold.

cŏm´mon wĕalth. A state; the public.

cŏm mūned´. Talked together.

cŏm mū ni cā´tion. Intercourse; news.

cŏm pen sā´tion. Payment; reward.

cŏm´pli cat ed. Complex; combined in an intricate manner.

cŏm pound´ed. Put together; mixed.

cŏn çēd´ed. Gave up; yielded.

cŏn çĕp´tions. Ideas; notions.

cŏn fẽrred´. Gave; bestowed.

cŏn frȯnts´. Meets face to face.

con spĭc´u ous. Plain; distinct.

con stĭt´u ents. Component parts.

cŏn´tra band. Prohibited; forbidden.

cōōt. A bird resembling a duck.

cŏp´y ist. One who copies.

cor rŭpt´. To change from good to bad; depraved.

coun´te nançe. Face; appearance.

crā´ni um. The skull.

crā´ter. The opening or mouth of a volcano.

cre dū´li ty. Readiness of belief.

crŏpped. Grazed. “Hair cropped close” = hair cut short.

crouched. Stooped low, as an animal when waiting for prey.

cûr´dled. Coagulated; thickened. “Curdling awe” = awe that
thickens the blood in the veins.

cŭs tō´di an. A keeper; guardian.

de clĕn´sion. A falling. “Declension of spirits” = loss of cheerfulness.

dĕm´on strāte. To explain; point out.

de nounçe´. To accuse; threaten.

de prĕss´ing. Pressing down; humbling.

de scrīed´. Saw; beheld.

de serts´ (de zẽrts´). “According to his deserts” = as he deserves.

de spīte´ful ly. Maliciously.

des pŏt´ic (power). The power of a master; tyranny.

de vŏlved´. Passed from one person to another.

dī´a grăms. Drawings; plans.

dĭc tāt´ed. Said; declared.

dĭf fūsed´. Spread; circulated.

dĭg´ni ty. Loftiness and grace.

dĭl´i ġent. Busy; earnest.

di mĕn´sions. Extent; measure.

dis côrd´ant. Unmusical; jarring.

dis coun´te nançed. Discouraged; abashed.

dis guīsed´. Hidden.

dĭsk. The face of a heavenly body.

dis sĕv´ered. Separated.

dŏg´ged. Sullen; obstinate.

doŭb lōōn´. A Spanish coin worth about $15.00.

drăm´a tīzed. Represented in a play.

drŭdg´er y. Hard, mean labor.

dūe. “A stranger’s due” = that which custom requires
to be given to a stranger.

dŭsk. “Breezes dusk and shiver” = darken and cause to quiver.

ĕc´sta sy. Extreme delight.

eight-bells. On shipboard, the striking of a bell
eight times at 4, 8, and 12 o’clock.

ēked. Increased.

ĕl´e ment. One of several parts of something.

em bĕl´lish ing. Illustrating; beautifying.

ĕm´blem. Sign.

ĕm´i nençe. High place or station.

e mĭt´ting. Sending out.

en çĩr´cled. Surrounded.

en coun´tered. Met face to face.

ĕn´sīgn. A banner; one who carries a banner.

ĕn´ter prī sing. Resolute; active.

en thrōned´. Put on a throne.

en trēat´. To beg off.

e rŭp´tion. A breaking out.

ē´ther. The air; a light, volatile liquid.

ĕv er-vā´ry ing. Ever-changing.

ĕv´i dence. Proof.

ex alt´ed (ĕgz ạlt´ed). Raised on high.

ex çēēd´ing. More than usual.

ex çĕss´ive. Overmuch.

ex clū´sive. Shutting out all others.

ex e cūt´ed. Performed.

ex haust´ing (ĕgz ạst´ing). Using up: tiring out.

ex pĕr´i ments. Trials; tests.

ex pōrt´ed. Carried out.

ex pŏs tu lā´tions. Remonstrances.

ex prĕss´ly. Particularly.

ex´quis ite (ĕx´kwĭ zĭt). Very excellent; nice.

ex´tant. Still existing.

ex ult’ed (ĕgz ŭlt´ed). Rejoiced.

făl´low. Land left unplowed.

fan tăs´tic. Fanciful; unreal.

făth´om. Six feet.

fa tig´u ing (fa tēg´ing). Tiring; wearying.

fe rŏç´i ty. Fierceness.

fer´ule (fĕr´rĭl). A short stick or ruler.

feuds. Quarrels; disputes.

flĭm´sy. Weak; limp.

fo rāy´. An attack; a raid.

fore´cas tle (fōr´kăs’l). The forward part of a ship.

fōre´land. A cape; headland.

for sweâr´. To declare or deny on oath.

fō´rum. A court; tribunal.

foul. Shameful; disgraceful.

frăg´men tā ry. In pieces.

fra tẽr´nal. Brotherly.

frŏn´tiēr. Border land.

fûr´bish ing. Scouring: cleaning.

gâr´ish. Showy.

gär´nished. Decorated.

gaunt (gänt). Thin; lean.

ġĕm´my. Full of gems.

gĩrth. Band fastening a saddle on a horse’s back.

gla´cier (glā´shẽr). Field of ice.

glū´ey. Full of glue; sticky.

gnarled (närld). Knotty; twisted.

gŏb´lin. A mischievous spirit; phantom.

gŏŏd´man. A tenant.

gŏs´sip. To tattle; talk.

grăn´deur. Vastness; nobility.

grăph´ic. Vivid; impressive.

grāy´ling. A kind of fish.

grēaves. Armor for the leg below the knee.

griēv´ous. Causing sorrow.

guärd. Protection. “Mounting guard” = keeping watch.

gŭt´tur al. A sound made in the throat.

hăp´less. Unfortunate.

hăp´ly. Fortunately.

här pōōn´. A barbed spear, used in catching whales and other sea animals.

häunts. Places of resort.

hēav´ing. Hoisting; straining.

hĕr´ald ed. Proclaimed; made known.

hĕr´e sy. Opinion contrary to established belief.

hẽrn. A wading bird.

hĭg´gle dy-pĭggle dy. Topsy-turvy.

hōōves. Feet of horses or cattle.

hôrse´man ship. The riding of horses.

hōve. Hoisted; came to a stop.

hu māne´. Kind; gentle.

hŭs´band man. Farmer.

hus´tled (hŭs´l’d). Pushed; crowded.

il lū´mi nā tors. Illustrators; embellishers.

il lŭs´tri ous. Noble; grand.

im bĕd´ded. Covered over.

im pẽarled´. Made look as though ornamented with pearls.

im pĕn´e tra ble. Not to be entered.

im per fĕc´tions. Shortcomings; failings.

ĭm´po tence. Weakness; infirmity; having no power.

im prẽs´sion. Mark made by pressure.

ĭn´çi dents. Happenings.

in cli nā´tion. Desire.

in clīned´. Leaned toward; placed against.

in con vēn´ience. Disadvantage; awkwardness.

in crĕd´i ble. Not to be believed.

in cre dū´li ty. Showing disbelief.

in crĕd´u lous. Unbelieving.

in den tā´tion. Notch; dent.

in di cā´tions. Signs; symptoms.

in dĭf´fer ençe. Carelessness; heedlessness.

in ex prĕss´i ble. Not to be described.

ĭn´no cençe. Harmlessness.

in no vā´tions. Things not customary.

in nū´mer a ble. Without number.

in quī´ry. Research; an inquiring.

in sĕp´a ra ble. Not to be divided.

ĭn´so lent ly. Rudely.

in sti tū´tion. Something established.

in sure´ (-shṳre). To make sure.

in tel lĕc´tu al. Belonging to the mind; mental.

in tĕl´li gençe. News.

intĕns´est. Strictest; extreme in degree.

in ter çĕpt´ed. Cut off; stopped on the way.

in ter fēred´. Meddled; interposed.

in ter mĭn´gling. Mixing together.

in un dā´tion. A flood.

in vĕn´tion. Discovery; finding out.

in ves ti gā´tion. A looking into.

ir rĕs´o lute ly. In an undecided manner.

ī tĭn´er ant. Wandering; not settled.

kēēl. The bottom part of a boat.

knĕll. A funeral bell.