Читать книгу: «School Reading By Grades: Fifth Year», страница 8

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.”

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.