In The Boyhood of Lincoln Part 15

He did.

"I am monarch of all I survey," he began, in a tone of vocal thunder.

Then he made a pause, a very long one. Josiah Crawford turned around in great surprise; and Aunt Olive planted the chair in which she had been sitting at a different angle, so that she could scrutinize the reader.

The monarch of all he surveyed, which in the case of the boy was only one page of the English Reader, was diligently spelling out the next line, which he proceeded to p.r.o.nounce like one long word with surprising velocity:

"My-right-there-is-none-to-dispute."

There was another pause.

"Hold down your book," said the master.

"Yes, hold down your book," said Josiah Crawford. "What do ye cover yer face for? There's nuthin' to be ashamed of. Now try again."

Nathaniel lowered the book and revealed the singular struggle that was going on in his mind. He had to spell out the words to himself, and in doing so his face was full of the most distressing grimaces. He unconsciously lifted his eyebrows, squinted his eyes, and drew his mouth hither and thither.

"From the cen-t-e-r, center; center, all round _to_ the sea, I am lord of the f-o-w-l _and_-the-brute."

The last line came to a sudden conclusion, and was followed by a very long pause.

"Go on," said Andrew Crawford, the master.

"Yes, go on," said Josiah. "At the rate you're goin' now you won't get through by candle-light."

Nathaniel lifted his eyebrows and uttered a curiously exciting--

"O"--

"That boy'll have a fit," said Aunt Olive. "Don't let him read any more, for ma.s.sy sake!"

"O--What's that word, master? S-o-l-i-t-u-d-e, so-li-tu-de.

O--So-li-tu-de."

"O Solitude, where are the charms?" read Mr. Andrew Crawford,

"That sages have seen in thy face?

Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place."

Nathaniel followed the master like a race-horse. He went on smoothly until he came to "this horrible place," when his face a.s.sumed a startled expression, like one who had met with an apparition. He began to spell out _horrible_, "h-o-r-, hor--there's your hor, _hor_; r-i-b-, there's your _rib_, horrib--"

"Don't let that boy read any more," said Aunt Olive.

Nathaniel dropped his book by his side, and cast a far-away glance into the timber.

"I guess I ain't much of a reader," he remarked, dryly.

"Stop, sir!" said the master.

Poor Nathaniel! Once, in attempting to read a Bible story, he read, "And he smote the Hitt.i.te that he died"--"And he smote him Hi-ti-ti-ty, that he _did_" with great emphasis and brief self-congratulation.

In wonderful contrast to Nathaniel's efforts was the reading in concert by the whole cla.s.s. Here was shown fine preparation for a forest school.

The reading of verses, in which "sound corresponded to the signification," was smoothly, musically, and admirably done, and we give some of these curious exercises here:

_Felling trees in a wood._

Loud sounds the axe, redoubling strokes on strokes; On all sides round the forest hurls her oaks Headlong. Deep echoing groan the thickets brown, Then rustling, crackling, cras.h.i.+ng, thunder down.

_Sounds of a bow-string._

The string let fly Tw.a.n.ged short and sharp, like the shrill swallow's cry.

_The pheasant._

See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs, And mounts exulting on triumphant wings.

_Scylla and Charybdis._

Dire Scylla there a scene of horror forms, And here Charybdis fills the deep with storms.

When the tide rushes from her rumbling caves, The rough rock roars; tumultuous boil the waves.

_Boisterous and gentle sounds._

Two craggy rocks projecting to the main, The roaring winds' tempestuous rage restrain: Within, the waves in softer murmurs glide, And s.h.i.+ps secure without their hawsers ride.

_Laborious and impetuous motion._

With many a weary step, and many a groan, Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone: The huge round stone resulting with a bound, Thunders impetuous down, and smokes along the ground.

_Regular and slow movement._

First march the heavy mules securely slow; O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er crags, o'er rocks they go.

_Motion slow and difficult._

A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.

_A rock torn from the brow of a mountain._

Still gath'ring force, it smokes, and urged amain, Whirls, leaps, and thunders down impetuous to the plain.