THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE.

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 作者：华盛顿·欧文投票推荐加入书签留言反馈

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May no wolfe howle; no screech owle stir

 A wing about thy sepulchre!

 No boysterous winds or stormes e hither,

 To starve or wither

 Thy soft sweet earth! but, like a spring,

 Love kept it ever ?ourishing.

 HERRICK.

 IN the course of an excursion through one of the remote ties of England, I had struto one of those cross-roads that lead through the more secluded parts of the try, and stopped oernoon at a village the situation of which was beautifully rural aired. There was an air of primitive simplicity about its inhabitants not to be found in the villages which lie on the great coach-roads. I determio pass the night there, and, having taken an early dinner, strolled out to enjoy the neighb sery.

 My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, soon led me to the church, which stood at a little distance from the village.

 Indeed, it was an object of some curiosity, its old tower being pletely overrun with ivy so that only here and there a jutting buttress, an angle of gray wall, or a fantastically carved or peered through the verdant c. It was a lovely evening. The early part of the day had been dark and showery, but iernoon it had cleared up, and, though sullen clouds still hung overhead, yet there was a broad tract of golden sky in the west, from which the setting sun gleamed through the dripping leaves and lit up all Nature into a melancholy smile. It seemed like the parting hour of a good Christian smiling on the sins and sorrows of the world, and giving, in the serenity of his dee, an assurahat he will rise again in glory.

 I had seated myself on a half-suombstone, and was musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted hour, on past ses and early friends--on those who were distant and those who were dead--and indulging in that kind of melancholy fang which has in it something sweeter even than pleasure. Every now and theroke of a bell from the neighb tower fell on my ear; its tones were in unison with the se, and, instead of jarring, chimed in with my feelings; and it was some time before I recollected that it must be tolling the knell of some enant of the tomb.

 Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village green; it wound slowly along a lane, was lost, and reappeared through the breaks of the hedges, until it passed the place where I was sitting. The pall was supported by young girls dressed in white, and another, about the age of seventeen, walked before, bearing a chaplet of white ?owers--a token that the deceased was a young and unmarried female. The corpse was followed by the parents.

 They were a venerable couple of the better order of peasantry.

 The father seemed to repress his feelings, but his ?xed eye, tracted brow, and deeply-furrowed face showed the struggle that assing within. His wife hung on his arm, a aloud with the vulsive bursts of a mothers sorrow.

 I followed the funeral into the church. The bier laced in the tre aisle, and the chaplet of white ?owers, with a pair of white gloves, was hung over the seat which the deceased had occupied.

 Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the funeral service, for who is so fortunate as o have followed some one he has loved to the tomb? But when performed over the remains of innod beauty, thus laid low in the bloom of existence, what be more affeg? At that simple but most solemn sig of the body to the grave-"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust!"--the tears of the youthful panions of the deceased ?owed uraihe father still seemed to struggle with his feelings, and to fort himself with the assurahat the dead are blessed which die in the Lord; but the mother only thought of her child as a ?ower of the ?eld cut down and withered in the midst of its sweetness; she was like Rachel, "m over her children, and would not be forted."

 Ourning to the inn I learnt the whole story of the deceased.

 It was a simple one, and such as has ofteold. She had been the beauty and pride of the village. Her father had once been an opulent farmer, but was reduced in circumstahis was an only child, and brought up entirely at home in the simplicity of rural life. She had been the pupil of the village pastor, the favorite lamb of his little ?ock. The good man watched over her education with paternal care; it was limited and suitable to the sphere in which she was to move, for he only sought to make her an oro her station in life, not to raise her above it. The tenderness and indulgence of her parents and the exemption from all ordinary occupations had fostered a natural grad delicacy of character that accorded with the fragile loveliness of her form. She appeared like some tender plant of the garden blooming actally amid the hardier natives of the ?elds.

 The superiority of her charms was felt and aowledged by her panions, but without envy, for it was surpassed by the unassumileness and winning kindness of her manners. It might be truly said of her:

 "This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever

 Ran on the green-sward: nothing she does or seems

 But smacks of something greater than herself;

 Too noble for this place."

 The village was one of those sequestered spots which still retain some vestiges of old English s. It had its rural festivals and holiday pastimes, and still kept up some faint observance of the once popular rites of May. These, indeed, had been promoted by its present pastor, who was a lover of old s and one of those simple Christians that think their mission ful?lled by promoting joy oh and good-will among mankind. Under his auspices the May-pole stood from year to year in the tre of the village green; on Mayday it was decorated with garlands and streamers, and a queen or lady of the May ointed, as in former times, to preside at the sports and distribute the prizes and rewards. The picturesque situation of the village and the fancifulness of its rustic fetes would often attract the notice of casual visitors. Among these, on one May-day, was a young of?cer whiment had beely quartered in the neighborhood. He was charmed with the native taste that pervaded this village pageant, but, above all, with the dawning loveliness of the queen of May. It was the village favorite who was ed with ?owers, and blushing and smiling in all the beautiful fusion of girlish dif?dend delight. The artlessness of rural habits enabled him readily to make her acquaintance; he gradually won his way into her intimacy, and paid his court to her in that unthinking way in which young of?cers are too apt to tri?e with rustic simplicity.

 There was nothing in his advao startle or alarm. He never even talked of love, but there are modes of making it more eloquent than language, and which vey it subtilely and irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the eye, the tone of voice, the thousand tendernesses which emanate from every word and look and a,--these form the true eloquence of love, and always be felt and uood, but never described. we wohat they should readily win a heart young, guileless, and susceptible? As to her, she loved almost unsciously; she scarcely inquired what was the growing passion that was abs every thought and feeling, or what were to be its sequences.

 She, indeed, looked not to the future. Whe, his looks and words occupied her whole attention; when absent, she thought but of what had passed at their ret interview. She would wander with him through the green lanes and rural ses of the viity. He taught her to see new beauties in Nature; he talked in the language of polite and cultivated life, and breathed into her ear the witcheries of romand poetry.

 Perhaps there could not have been a passioween the sexes more pure than this i girls. The gallant ?gure of her youthful admirer and the splendor of his military attire might at ?rst have charmed her eye, but it was not these that had captivated her heart. Her attat had something in it of idolatry. She looked up to him as to a being of a superior order.

 She felt in his society the enthusiasm of a mind naturally delicate and poetical, and now ?rst awakeo a keen perception of the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid distins of rank and fortune she thought nothing; it was the difference of intellect, of demeanor, of manners, from those of the rustic society to which she had been aced, that elevated him in her opinion. She would listen to him with charmed ear and downcast look of mute delight, and her cheek would mah enthusiasm; or if ever she ventured a shy glance of timid admiration, it was as quickly withdrawn, and she would sigh and blush at the idea of her parative unworthiness.

 Her lover was equally impassioned, but his passion was mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had begun the e iy, for he had often heard his brother-of?cers boast of their village quests, and thought some triumph of the kind necessary to his reputation as a man of spirit. But he was too full of youthful fervor. His heart had nbbr></abbr>ot yet been rendered suf?tly cold and sel?sh by a wandering and a dissipated life: it caught ?re from the very ?ame it sought to kindle, and before he was aware of the nature of his situation he became really in love.

 What was he to do? There were the old obstacles which so incessantly occur in these heedless attats. His rank in life, the prejudices of titled es, his dependence upon a proud and unyielding father, all forbade him to think of matrimony; but when he looked down upon this i being, so tender and ?ding, there urity in her manners, a blamelessness in her life, and a beseeg modesty in her looks that awed down every litious feelingbbr></abbr>. In vain did he try to fortify himself by a thousaless examples of men of fashion, and to chill the glow of generous se with that cold derisive levity with which he had heard them talk of female virtue: whenever he came into her presence she was still surrounded by that mysterious but impassive charm of virgin purity in whose hallowed sphere no guilty thought live.

 The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair to the ti pleted the fusion of his mind. He remained for a short time in a state of the most painful irresolution; he hesitated to unicate the tidings until the day for marg was at hand, when he gave her the intelligen the course of an evening ramble.

 The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. It broke in at once upon her dream of felicity; she looked upon it as a sudden and insurmountable evil, a with the guileless simplicity of a child. He drew her to his bosom and kissed the tears from her soft cheek; nor did he meet with a repulse, for there are moments of mingled sorrow and tenderness which hallow the caresses of affe. He was naturally impetuous, and the sight of beauty apparently yielding in his arms, the ?dence of his power over her, and the dread of losing her forever all spired to overwhelm his better feelings: he veo propose that she should leave her home ahe panion of his fortunes.

 He was quite a novi sedu, and blushed and faltered at his own baseness; but so i of mind was his intended victim that she was at ?rst at a loss to prehend his meaning, and why she should leave her native village and the humble roof of her parents. When at last the nature of his proposal ?ashed upon her pure mind, the effect was withering. She did not weep; she did not break forth into reproach; she said not a word, but she shrunk back aghast as from a viper, gave him a look of anguish that pierced to his very soul, and, clasping her hands in agony, ?ed, as if fe, to her fathers cottage.

 The of?cer retired founded, humiliated, aant. It is uain what might have been the result of the ?ict of his feelings, had not his thoughts been diverted by the bustle of departure. New ses, new pleasures, and new panions soon dissipated his self-reproad sti?ed his tenderness; yet, amidst the stir of camps, the revelries of garrisons, the array of armies, and even the din of battles, his thoughts would sometimes steal back to the ses of rural quiet and village simplicity--the white cottage, the footpath along the silver brook and up the hawthorn hedge, and the little village maid l along it, leaning on his arm and listening to him with eyes beaming with unscious affe.

 The shock which the pirl had received in the destru of all her ideal world had indeed been cruel. Faintings and hysterics had at ?rst shakeender frame, and were succeeded by a settled and pining melancholy. She had beheld from her window the march of the departing troops. She had seen her faithless lover borne off, as if in triumph, amidst the sound of drum and trumpet and the pomp of arms. She strained a last ag gaze after him as the m sun glittered about his ?gure and his plume waved in the breeze; he passed away like a bright vision from her sight, a her all in darkness.

 It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her after story.

 It was, like other tales of love, melancholy. She avoided society and wandered out alone in the walks she had most frequented with her lover. She sought, like the stri deer, to weep in silend loneliness and brood over the barbed sorrow that rankled in her soul. Sometimes she would be seen late of an evening sitting in the porch of the village church, and the milk-maids, returning from the ?elds, would now and then overhear her singing some plaity in the hawthorn walk. She became fervent in her devotions at church, and as the old people saw her approach, so wasted away, yet with a hecti and that hallowed air which melancholy diffuses round the form, they would make way for her as for something spiritual, and looking after her, would shake their heads in gloomy foreboding.

 She felt a vi that she was hastening to the tomb, but looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silve?99lｉb.r cord that had bouo existence was loosed, and there seemed to be no more pleasure uhe sun. If ever her gentle bosom had eained rese against her lover, it was extinguished. She was incapable of angry passions, and in a moment of saddeenderness she penned him a farewell letter. It was couched in the simplest language, but toug from its very simplicity. She told him that she was dying, and did not ceal from him that his duct was the cause. She eveed the sufferings which she had experienced, but cluded with saying that she could not die in peatil she had sent him her fiveness and her blessing.

 By degrees her strength deed that she could no longer leave the cottage. She could only totter to the window, where, propped up in her chair, it was her enjoyment to sit all day and look out upon the landscape. Still she uttered no plaint nor imparted to any ohe malady that reying on her heart. She never eveioned her lovers name, but would lay her head on her mothers bosom and weep in silence. Her poor parents hung in mute ay over this fading blossom of their hopes, still ?attering themselves that it might again revive to freshness and that the bright uhly bloom whietimes ?ushed her cheek might be the promise of returnih.

 In this way she was seated between them one Sunday afternoon; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was thrown open, and the soft air that stole in brought with it the fragrance of the clustering honeysuckle which her own hands had traid round the window.

 Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible: it spoke of the vanity of worldly things and of the joys of heaven: it seemed to have diffused fort and serenity through her bosom.

 Her eye was ?xed on the distant village church: the bell had tolled for the evening service; the last villager was lagging into the porch, and everything had sunk into that hallowed stillness peculiar to the day of rest. Her parents were gazing on her with yearnis. Siess and sorrow, which pass shly over some faces, had given to hers the expression of a seraphs. A tear trembled in her soft blue eye. Was she thinking of her faithless lover? or were her thoughts wandering to that distant churchyard, into whose bosom she might soohered?

 Suddenly the g of hoofs was heard: a horseman galloped to the cottage; he dismounted before the window; the pirl gave a faint exclamation and sunk ba her chair: it was her repentant lover. He rushed into the house ao clasp her to his bosom; but her wasted form, her deathlike tenance--so wa so lovely in its desolation--smote him to the soul, ahrew himself in agony at her feet. She was too faint to rise--she attempted to exterembling hand--her lips moved as if she spoke, but no word was articulated; she looked down upon him with a smile of unutterable tenderness, and closed her eyes forever.

 Such are the particulars which I gathered of this village story.

 They are but sty, and I am scious have little y to reend them. In the present rage also for strange i and high-seasoned narrative they may appear trite and insigni?t, but they ied me strongly at the time; and, taken in e with the affeg ceremony which I had just witnessed, left a deeper impression on my mind than many circumstances of a more striking nature. I have passed through the place since, and visited the church again from a better motive than mere curiosity. It was a wintry evening: the trees were stripped of their foliage, the churchyard looked naked and mournful, and the wind rustled coldly through the dry grass.

 Evergreens, however, had been planted about the grave of the village favorite, and osiers were bent over it to keep the turf uninjured.

 The church-door en and I stepped in. There hung the chaplet of ?owers and the gloves, as on the day of the funeral: the ?owers were withered, it is true, but care seemed to have been taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. I have seen many mos where art has exhausted its powers to awaken the sympathy of the spectator, but I have met with hat spoke more tougly to my heart than this simple but delicate memento of departed innoce.

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