“He is the true enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart”
I will not
excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not be admitted;
there is no excuse shall serve; you shall not be excused.... Some
pigeons, Davy, a couple of short-legged hens; a joint of mutton; and any
pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell 'William Cook.'"
I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind had become so
completely possessed by the imaginary scenes and characters connected
with it that I seemed to be actually living among them. Everything
brought them as it were before my eyes, and as the door of the
dining-room opened I almost expected to hear the feeble voice of Master
Silence quavering forth his favorite ditty:
"'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all,
And welcome merry Shrove-tide!"
On returning to my inn I could not but reflect on the singular gift of
the poet, to be able thus to spread the magic of his mind over the very
face of Nature, to give to things and places a charm and character
not their own, and to turn this "working-day world" into a perfect
fairy-land. He is indeed the true enchanter, whose spell operates,
not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart. Under the
wizard influence of Shakespeare I had been walking all day in a complete
delusion. I had surveyed the landscape through the prism of poetry,
which tinged every object with the hues of the rainbow. I had been
surrounded with fancied beings, with mere airy nothings conjured up
by poetic power, yet which, to me, had all the charm of reality. I had
heard Jaques soliloquize beneath his oak; had beheld the fair Rosalind
and her companion adventuring through the woodlands; and, above all,
had been once more present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and his
contemporaries, from the august Justice Shallow down to the gentle
Master Slender and the sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand honors and
blessings on the bard who has thus gilded the dull realities of life
with innocent illusions, who has spread exquisite and unbought pleasures
in my chequered path, and beguiled my spirit in many a lonely hour with
all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of social life!
As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I paused to
contemplate the distant church in which the poet lies buried, and could
not but exult in the malediction which has kept his ashes undisturbed
in its quiet and hallowed vaults.
“. . . he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, and that was--a woman.”
What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path amidst the dim
and ghastly glare of a snowy night! With what wistful look did be eye
every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some
distant window! How often was he appalled by some shrub covered with
snow, which, like a sheeted spectre, 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!
All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind
that walk in darkness; and though he had seen many spectres in his time,
and been more than once beset by Satan in divers shapes in his lonely
perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils; and he would
have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the devil and all his
works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more
perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of
witches put together, and that was--a woman.
Among the musical disciples who assembled one evening in each week
to receive his instructions in psalmody was Katrina Van Tassel, the
daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a
blooming lass of fresh eighteen, plump as a partridge, ripe and melting
and rosy-cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and universally famed,
not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a
little of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which was
a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off
her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold which her
great-great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam, the tempting
stomacher of the olden time, and withal a provokingly short petticoat to
display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round.
Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex, and it is
not to be wondered at that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in his
eyes, more especially after he had visited her in her paternal mansion.
I profess not to know how womens hearts are wooed and won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and admiration.
Under cover of his character of
singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farm-house; not that he
had anything to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents,
which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Balt Van
Tassel was an easy, indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better even
than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an excellent father, let
her have her way in everything. His notable little wife, too, had enough
to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry for, as she
sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things and must be looked
after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus while the busy dame
bustled about the house or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the
piazza, honest Balt would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other,
watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior who, armed with a
sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle
of the barn. In the meantime, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the
daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, or sauntering
along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence.
I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and won. To me they
have always been matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but
one vulnerable point, or door of access, while otheres have a thousand
avenues and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a
great triumph of skill to gain the former, but still greater proof
of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for the man must
battle for his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a thousand
common hearts is therefore entitled to some renown, but he who keeps
undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette is indeed a hero. Certain
it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and from
the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the former
evidently declined; his horse was no longer seen tied at the palings
on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the
preceptor of Sleepy Hollow.
Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would fain have
carried matters to open warfare, and have settled their pretensions
to the lady according to the mode of those most concise and simple
reasoners, the knights-errant of yore--by single combat; but Ichabod was
too conscious of the superior might of his adversary to enter the lists
against him: he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would "double
the schoolmaster up and lay him on a shelf of his own school-house;"
and he was too wary to give him an opportunity.
Balt Van Tassel was an easy indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an excellent father, let her have her way in everything.
Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to contend,
and, considering all things, a stouter man than he would have shrunk
from the competition and a wiser (*)man would have despaired. He had,
however, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature;
he was in form and spirit like a supple jack--yielding, but although;
though he bent, he never broke and though he bowed beneath the slightest
pressure, yet the moment it was away, jerk! he was as erect and carried
his head as high as ever.
To have taken the field openly against his rival would have been madness
for he was not man to be thwarted in his amours, any more than that
stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a
quiet and gently-insinuating manner. Under cover of his character of
singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farm-house; not that he
had anything to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents,
which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Balt Van
Tassel was an easy, indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better even
than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an excellent father, let
her have her way in everything. His notable little wife, too, had enough
to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry for, as she
sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things and must be looked
after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus while the busy dame
bustled about the house or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the
piazza, honest Balt would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other,
watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior who, armed with a
sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle
of the barn. In the meantime, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the
daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, or sauntering
along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence.
I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and won. To me they
have always been matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but
one vulnerable point, or door of access, while otheres have a thousand
avenues and may be captured in a thousand different ways.
...ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, but girls can take care of themselves.
He had,
however, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature;
he was in form and spirit like a supple jack--yielding, but although;
though he bent, he never broke and though he bowed beneath the slightest
pressure, yet the moment it was away, jerk! he was as erect and carried
his head as high as ever.
To have taken the field openly against his rival would have been madness
for he was not man to be thwarted in his amours, any more than that
stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a
quiet and gently-insinuating manner. Under cover of his character of
singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farm-house; not that he
had anything to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents,
which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Balt Van
Tassel was an easy, indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better even
than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an excellent father, let
her have her way in everything. His notable little wife, too, had enough
to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry for, as she
sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things and must be looked
after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus while the busy dame
bustled about the house or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the
piazza, honest Balt would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other,
watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior who, armed with a
sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle
of the barn. In the meantime, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the
daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, or sauntering
along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence.
I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and won. To me they
have always been matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but
one vulnerable point, or door of access, while otheres have a thousand
avenues and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a
great triumph of skill to gain the former, but still greater proof
of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for the man must
battle for his fortress at every door and window.
“Great minds have purposes; little minds have wishes. Little minds are subdued by misfortunes; great minds rise above them.”
“Sweet is the memory of distant friends! Like the mellow rays of the departing sun, it falls tenderly, yet sadly, on the heart.”
“A woman never forgets her sex. She would rather talk with a man than an angel, any day.”
“Love is never lost. If not reciprocated, it will flow back and soften and purify the heart.”
“After all, it is the divinity within that makes the divinity without; and I have been more fascinated by a woman of talent and intelligence, though deficient in personal charms, than I have been by the most regular beauty”
“Weeping willow with your tears running down, why do you always weep and frown? Is it because he left you one day? Is it because he could not stay? On your branches he would swing. Do you long for the happiness that day would bring? He found shelter in your shade. You thought his laughter would never fade. Weeping Willow, stop your tears, for there is something to calm your fears. You think death has ripped you forever apart, but I know hell always be in your heart.”
“Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall; a mothers secret hope outlives them all!”
“She discovered with great delight that one does not love ones children just because they are ones children but because of the friendship formed while raising them.”
“Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it”
Such were our minor preparations for the journey, but above all we laid in an ample stock of good-humour, and a genuine disposition to be pleased; determining to travel in true contrabandista style; taking things as we found them, rough or smooth, and mingling with all classes and conditions in a kind of vagabond companionship. It is the true way to travel in Spain.
To look upon its grass grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace.
The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal - every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open - this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved, when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal, would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness? No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection, when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved are softened away in pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness - who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gaiety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh, the grave! The grave! It buries every error - covers every defect - extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections.
For my part, I love to give myself up to the illusion of poetry. A hero of fiction that never existed is just as valuable to me as a hero of history that existed a thousand years ago.
Others may write from the head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart will always understand him.
There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind in which we naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek some quiet haunt where we may indulge our reveries and build our air castles undisturbed.
