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  And twin’d themselves among the multitude,

  Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.

  And War, which for a moment was no more,

  Did glut himself again: a meal was bought

  With blood, and each sate sullenly apart

  Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;

  All earth was but one thought—and that was death

  Immediate and inglorious; and the pang

  Of famine fed upon all entrails—men

  Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;

  The meagre by the meagre were devour’d,

  Even dogs assail’d their masters, all save one,

  And he was faithful to a corse, and kept

  The birds and beasts and famish’d men at bay,

  Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead

  Lur’d their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,

  But with a piteous and perpetual moan,

  And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand

  Which answer’d not with a caress—he died.

  The crowd was famish’d by degrees; but two

  Of an enormous city did survive,

  And they were enemies: they met beside

  The dying embers of an altar-place

  Where had been heap’d a mass of holy things

  For an unholy usage; they rak’d up,

  And shivering scrap’d with their cold skeleton hands

  The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath

  Blew for a little life, and made a flame

  Which was a mockery; then they lifted up

  Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld

  Each other’s aspects—saw, and shriek’d, and died—

  Even of their mutual hideousness they died,

  Unknowing who he was upon whose brow

  Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,

  The populous and the powerful was a lump,

  Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—

  A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.

  The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still,

  And nothing stirr’d within their silent depths;

  Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,

  And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp’d

  They slept on the abyss without a surge—

  The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,

  The Moon, their mistress, had expir’d before;

  The winds were wither’d in the stagnant air,

  And the clouds perish’d; Darkness had no need

  Of aid from them—She was the Universe!

  JOHN KEATS

  La Belle Dame sans Merci

  John Keats (1795–1821) was an English Romantic poet and contemporary of Lord Byron and Mary Shelley. Underappreciated during his short life, Keats’s poems, and especially his great odes, such as “Ode on a Nightingale” (1819) and “Ode on a Grecian Urn” (1819), are now considered some of the finest in English literature. He died of tuberculosis at the age of twenty-five.

  “La Belle Dame sans Merci” exemplifies the romantic interest in creating new, fantastic literary works based on older folk ballads steeped in the supernatural. Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” (1789) is another famous example. In both works, benighted travelers are overwhelmed by encounters with inexplicable figures that tempt and punish the unwary. The poem exists in two versions. the original, unpublished version is printed here.

  I.

  Owhat can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

  Alone and palely loitering?

  The sedge has wither’d from the lake,

  And no birds sing.

  II.

  O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!

  So haggard and so woe-begone?

  The squirrel’s granary is full,

  And the harvest’s done,

  III.

  I see a lily on thy brow

  With anguish moist and fever dew,

  And on thy cheeks a fading rose

  Fast withereth too.

  IV.

  I met a lady in the meads,

  Full beautiful—a faery’s child,

  Her hair was long, her foot was light,

  And her eyes were wild.

  V.

  I made a garland for her head,

  And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

  She look’d at me as she did love,

  And made sweet moan.

  VI.

  I set her on my pacing steed,

  And nothing else saw all day long,

  For sidelong would she bend, and sing

  A faery’s song.

  VII.

  She found me roots of relish sweet,

  And honey wild, and manna dew,

  And sure in language strange she said—

  “I love thee true.”

  VIII.

  She took me to her elfin grot,

  And there she wept, and sigh’d full sore,

  And there I shut her wild wild eyes

  With kisses four.

  IX.

  And there she lulled me asleep,

  And there I dream’d—Ah! woe betide!

  The latest dream I ever dream’d

  On the cold hill’s side.

  X.

  I saw pale kings and princes too,

  Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

  They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci

  Hath thee in thrall!”

  XI.

  I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

  With horrid warning gaped wide,

  And I awoke and found me here,

  On the cold hill’s side.

  XII.

  And this is why I sojourn here,

  Alone and palely loitering,

  Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,

  And no birds sing.

  WASHINGTON IRVING

  The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

  Washington Irving (1783–1859) was an American-born author. Though he lived for a considerable time in Europe, Irving’s works are often set in New York State, his birthplace. His most famous short works are cast as “sketches” or “tales” that employ or imply the fantastic, such as “Rip Van Winkle” and “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.”

  “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” was published in 1820 in a collection called The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. Set in a superstitious community near the Dutch settlement of Tarry Town (Tarrytown, NY), the story is based on elements from a German folktale. His wry story is an American version of the Romantic interest in retelling and “inventing” ballads and tales that comment upon the superstitious past.

  FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER

  A pleasing land of drowsy head it was,

  Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;

  And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,

  Forever flushing round a summer sky.

  —CASTLE OF INDOLENCE

  In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail or tappi
ng of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.

  I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noontime, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley.

  From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a high German doctor, during the early days of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole nine fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols.

  The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback, without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary War, and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning this spectre, allege that the body of the trooper having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak.

  Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known, at all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.

  It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for a time. However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative, to dream dreams, and see apparitions.

  I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud, for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in the great State of New York, that population, manners, and customs remain fixed, while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is making such incessant changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still water, which border a rapid stream, where we may see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still find the same trees and the same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom.

  In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period of American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, “tarried,” in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a State which supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier woodmen and country schoolmasters. The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock perched upon his spindle neck to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.

  His school-house was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of old copybooks. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against the window shutters; so that though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment in getting out; an idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eelpot. The school-house stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils’ voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer’s day, like the hum of a bee-hive; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command, or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the golden maxim, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” Ichabod Crane’s scholars certainly were not spoiled.

  I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel potentates of the school who joy in the smart of their subjects; on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather than severity; taking the burden off the backs of the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called “doing his duty by their parents;” and he never inflicted a chastisement without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that “he would remember it and thank him for it the longest day he had to live.”

  When school hours were over, he was even the companion and playmate of the larger boys; and on holiday afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from his school was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and, though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda; but to help out his maintenance, he was, according to country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers whose children he instructed. With these he lived successively a week at a time, thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief.

  That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic patrons, who a
re apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms, helped to make hay, mended the fences, took the horses to water, drove the cows from pasture, and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers by petting the children, particularly the youngest; and like the lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together.

  In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity to him on Sundays, to take his station in front of the church gallery, with a band of chosen singers; where, in his own mind, he completely carried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the congregation; and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church, and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little make-shifts, in that ingenious way which is commonly denominated “by hook and by crook,” the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor of headwork, to have a wonderfully easy life of it.

  The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female circle of a rural neighborhood; being considered a kind of idle, gentlemanlike personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a farmhouse, and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver teapot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in the churchyard, between services on Sundays; gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overran the surrounding trees; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent mill-pond; while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address.