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i P'O^ 1 \ lle^<»«.n

WASHINGTON

E Sketch Book

?■•■•:.;.''

TIQlasbtngton twing

EDITED BY

JAMES CHALMERS, Ph. D., LL. D.

PKESIDBNT, STATE NORMAL SCHOOL
PLATTSVILLE, WISCONSIN

Inring! Why, gentlemen, I don't go upntairs to bed
out of the seven without taking Washington Irving under
MB." — OUr/ri Dickens.

*\hKW glanoed over the Sketch Book, It is positively beautiful."
S^ WmUtr ScotU

ER, BURDEXT & COM RAN Y

Boston NEW YORK Chicago

1896

COrYKI^HT, IKK*.,
BT Silver, Burdett & Compant.

• • •

P^. ^ /f . ^tK W

EDITOR'S PREFACE.

^ • Ax experienoe of many years covering the entire range
'V of teaching, from the one-room country school through the
A different grades of village, city and normal schools, the
college and the university, has convinced me — and that
conviction has deepened and strengthened with the experi-
ences and observations of each succeeding year — that the
greatest educational service to the human race consists in
the teaching of reading. He who has learned to read is
already well educated. He who has not learned to read,
though he have passed all the tests of the universities, has
not even the elements of a liberal education.

It has come to be one of the best established facts of
psychological knowledge that reading more powerfully
affects, directs and controls human thinking than does any
other human experience or influence. He who daily reads
his Plato, his New Testament, his Matthew Arnold, his
Emerson, and comes to require daily an hour's thinking-
together with such minds as these, as regularly as he requires
his daily bread, will, in the course of years, become so
illumined with the spirit of swe^ness and light, so warmed
with the intensity of thought-heat, and so exalted with a
divine spirituality, that he will find himself, at times, on

iii

IV JSditor*8 Preface.

the very mount of transfiguration, walking and talking
with God and seeing him face to face.

There is no literature more thoroughly permeated with
this spirit of sweetness and light, hopefulness and faith,
than is our own American literature. It is a literature of
optimism and of transcendentalism. It has faith in
Divine Providence, faith in humanity, faith in the great
law of compensation, without which faith it is impossible
for any man to work up to his highest capacity. A more
healthy, manly literature has never been produced. At
the same time it is comparatively free from the subtleties
and obscurities of some of the best English and continental
writers of the optimistic, transcendental school. It is there-
fore better adapted to the intellectual and spiritual needs
of the average American reader, and especially of Ameri-
can youth, than is any other literature.

One of the highest literary services which teachers and
parents can perform for American youth is to inculcate a
just appreciation of American authors and of American
literature — I had almost said the highest literary service,
but there is at least one higher : the book of highest liter-
ary value to the English-speaking race is the English
Bible. The highest literary service which parents and
teachers can perform for the youth is to teach them the
English Bible.

There is much popular misconception regarding the
beauties of the Bible, and its attractiveness and interest as
a subject of study. Many who read and study the best of

JEditof^B Preface. v

other works of literature as a pleasure, read and study tbe
books of the Bible as a duty simply. This is wrong. All
good literature is to be enjoyed. The Bible is an abun-
dant storehouse of the richest literature. It is the most
priceless literary heritage of our race. It should be en-
joyed. Is it something having the form of fiction that is
wanted ? The beautiful story of Ruth or the exciting re-
cital of Esther will furnish as interesting and captivating a
tale as Romola, or Kenil worth, or The Marble Faun. Is
it poetry? The lyrics of David surpass in sweetness and
beauty, in poetic fragrance and spiritual inspiration, the
finest lyrics of Tennyson. Is it an essay? Not even Addi-
son, the prince of English essayists, surpasses in his most
exquisite papers the literary finish and strength and beauty
of the Epistle to the Hebrews — an essay which, as a piece
of writing, is hard to beat in any literature. Is it a drama?
The Book of Job is a nobler one than Hamlet, and presents
a deeper psychological study and a more awful soul-strug-
gle. Is it a great epic ? The magnificence and the sub-
limity of Milton's Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained
cannot compare with the majestic magnificence and the
sublimer sublimity of Isaiah's Great Prophecy of Israel's
Restoration.

And so in every department of literature the Bible con-
tains the best examples of the highest merit. We find
nothing else that can compare with it as a tcork of litera-
turej and nothing else that has had such a profound and
far-reaching influence upon English thought, upon the

vi Editor*8 Preface.

English language and upon English literature — not even
Chaucer — not even Shakespeare.

But, next to the study of the Bible, I know of nothing
more healthful and invigorating for our American youth
than an appreciative study of Irving and Hawthorne, B17-
ant and Whittier, Holmes and Longfellow, Lowell and
Emerson. And, just as among Englishmen Sir Walter
Scott wrote the best prose-fiction for boys iand girls, so
among Americans Washington Irving has done this same
service best. Every American boy and girl, in and out of.
school, should read Irving. And so should the older boys
and girls.

Although this volume is prepared especially for schod

use, it will be found to be equally well adapted to tlie |

needs of the general reader. It is taken for granted that 'i

pupils and readers will have ready access to the uiml

books of reference, such as the standard dictionaries,

cylopaedias, histories and biographies. The ability to

such books of refeirence repeatedly and with the minimum

loss of time is one of the chief evidences of scholariy

equipment.

James Chalmsba.

••

State Normal School,

Platteville, Wis., January, 1896.

\ \

CONTENTS.

.1-

PAOK.

ECIATIONB ix

:rrEi) Critical and Bioorapuicai. Refkkkncks . xil

[E Churchyard at Tarrytown, a Sonnet . . xlil

iifiLK MS. Page of the Sketch Book . . . xiv

UNGTON Irving. — After a Sketch from Life . xv

:rtibement to the First American Edition . . 1

:bti8ement to the First English Edition . . 2

ACE TO the Revised Edition 3

Author's Account of IIimself 9'

Voyage 12

jTe 10

Wife 2(J

Tax Winkle u 84

I8H Writers on America-><^ 63

X Life in England i -.' OH

Broken Heart 70

Abt of Book-Making 7(5

•YAL Poet 83

CoItntry Church 97

►w AND Her Son 103

iriiAY IN London Ill

[ar's Head Tavern, Ea8tcheai» .... 113

jiiLiTY of Literature 125

ki^l^^iERALS 136

jtciien .*•/- . 148

Bridegroom t<ll 151

iBEY ; 167

IIMA8 £^ 179

Tii

.•^

viii Contents,

^ The Stage Coach 85 —

--Christmas Eve llfcj*—

^Christmas Day 20f

'•^iiE Christmas Dinner 218

London Antk^ites 233

Little Britain 239 m

Stratford-on-Avon 254^

Ut^Traits of Indian Character 273 -•

Philip of Pokanoket 285—

— John Bull Lr 302

— The Pride of the Village 314

The Angler 323

-•» The^Lsgend of Sleepy Hollow ..... :J32 ^

^ L' Envoy 365

Appendix 368

Notes 372

APPRECIATIONS.

;bt reader has his first book. I mean to say, one book
ill others, which in early youth first fascinates his im-
•n, and at once excites and satisfies the desires of his
To me this first book was the 8ketch-Book of Washint^*
ng. I was a school-boy when it was published, and read
cceeding number with ever-increasing wonder and de-
pell-bound by its pleasant humor, its melancholy tender-
s atmosphere of reverie, nay, even by its gray-brown
the shaded letters uf tlie titles, and the fair, clear type,
eemed an outward symbol of the style.
V many delightful books the same author has given us,-
before and since — volumes of history and fiction, most
b illustrate his native land, and some of which illumine it,
ke the Hudson, I will not say as classic, but as romantic
thine! Yet still the charm of the Sketch-Book remains
m; the old fascination still lingers about it; and whei^
•pen its pages, I open also that mysterious door which
Mjk into the haunted chambers of youth." — Henky W.
:llow, Proceedinys of the Massachusetts Ilistorical Society y
, 1859,

en will speak of his literary fame — of his style — as
I and delicate as that of Charles Nodier — and of the
of ever-sensitive feeling he has touched — which cause
itch-Book to be more widely read, in its original tongue,
y book in our language except the Vicar of Wakefield,
1 fain, if present, speak of his genial and constant friend-
of his faith in man — and of his readiness to find good in
ing.** — G£ORO£ Sumner, Letter of Dec, 15, 1859,

wrote with such a charm and grace of expression, that
re fascination of his style would often prove powerful

X . Appreciations.

enough to keep the reader intent upon his pages, when the sni
jcet itself might not happen to interest him. His humor was <
a peculiar quality, always delicate in character, and yet enriche
with a certain quaint poetic coloring, which added greatly to ii
effect. His graver writings have no less beauty, and several <
them prove that, as is often the case with men who possess
large share of humor, he was no less a master in the pathetii
and knew how to touch the heart" — New York Evening Po$
Nov. 29, 1859.

** But how much real poetry and how much real pathos has t
not written! We do not believe that there was ever such
description of the song of a bird, as his description of the soa
ing of a lark in Buckthorn; and the poor old widow in the Sketd
Book, who, the first Sunday after her son*s burial, comes i
church with a few bits of black silk and ribbon about her, tli
only external emblem of mourning which her poverty allowe
her to make, is a picture that we can never look at through h
simple and graphic periods without sobbing like a child. Po<
he is, and that too of the best and noblest kind, for he stores oi
memories with lovely images and our hearts with human affe
tions. If you would learn to be kinder and truer, if you woul
learn to bear life's burden manfully, and make for yourself sui
shine where half your fellow-men see nothing but shadow an
gloom, read and meditate Goldsmith and Irving.!' — Gbobg
Wasuinoton Greene, Biographical Studies.

•* He was the one man whom the whole country loved. Thei
has been no character since Washington so symmetrical, and i
career more rounded and complete. With Irving, the man an
the author were one. The same twinkling humor, untouched b
personal venom; the same sweetness, geniality, and grace; th
same transparency and childlike simplicity, which endeared tb
writer to his readers, endeared the man to his friends. Gifte
with a happy temperament, with that cheerful balance of thoagb
and feeling which begets the sympathy which prevents bitte
animosity, he lived through the sharpest struggles of our politici
not without interest, but without bitterness, and with the tez
derest respect of every party." —George William Cubtii
Harper'8 Weekly, Dec. 17, 1859.

Appreciations,

*' If to convey the peculiar grace that his presence inspired, be
beyond the power of description, yet its influence upon otliers is
less difficult to represent. In his household, affection seemed to
pervade the very atmosphere. The kindliest, the tenderest
language, to each and to all; the joyous welcome that awaited a
distant relative visiting Sunnyside; the quiet, but constant care
manifested for stranger guests; the happy, tranquil face of an
elder brother; the cheerful, * pleased alacrity' of the servants;
all seemed the very reflex of such a man: — so good, so true, so
modest, so eminent. *It seems,' said a lady after a visit to
Washington Irving* s family, ' as though I had been in heaven for
a little while.' "—.Frederick S. Cozzens, The New York Ledger,
Dee. 17, 1869.

SELECTED CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL REFERENCES.

On Irving,

North American Eeview, Vol. 28, p. 103.

Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 13, p. 694 and Vol. 45, p. 396.

Blackwood's Magazine, Vol. 6, p. 556.

Edinburgh Betiew, Vol. 37, p. 337.

Scribner'8 Monthly, Vol. 11, p. 799.

Harper- 8 Magazine^ Vol. 24, p. 349.

LitteWa Living Age, Vol. 37, p. 646 and Vol. 65, p. 298.

On the Sketch Book.

North American Beview, Vol. 9, p. 322.
Edinburgh Monthly Beview, Vol. 4, p. 303.
Edinburgh Beview, Vol. 34, p. 160.
Quarterly Betiew, Vol. 25, p. 50.
Monthly Beview, Vol. 93, p. 198.
London Magazine, Vol. 10, p. 401.
Western Beview, Vol. 2, p. 244.

zii

IN THE CHURCHYARD AT TARRYTOWN.
A 8<mnet on Washington Irving,

BY U. W. LONGFELLOW.

Hebe lies the gentle humorist, who died
In the bright Indian summer of his fame I
A simple stone, with but a date and name^

Marks his secluded resting-place beside

The river that he loved and glorified.
Here in the autumn of his days he came.
But the dry leaves of life were all aflamo

With tints that brightened and were multiplied.

How sweet a life was his; how sweet a doatli!

Living, to wing with mirth the weary hours.

Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer;

Dying, to leave a memory like the breath
Of summers full of sunshine and of showers,
A grief and gladness in the atmosphere.

xiii

^4^jC ^<^<^ /^w^' ^T^^-z*^ ¥tcc^9^.>^'^^^^ Cfi^9u/2i;;!f%yC

^'^^ ^^u..^4yic^ /C^y^^ r^^^^r,^^^ /C^..,^;.

Mr* J C £i*ctHU}rl

.^^./C,**.^^*. eX»VlE<«^>-v

TO THK

FIRST AMERICAN EDITION.

The following writings are published on experiment; should
they please, they may be followed by others. The writer will
have to contend with some disadvantages. He is unsettled in
his abode, subject to interruptions, and has his share of cares and
vicissitudes. He cannot, therefore, promise a regular plan, nor
regular periods of publication. Should he be encouraged to pro-
ceed, much time may elapse between the appearance of his num-
bers; and their size will depend on the materials he may have
on hand. His writings will partake of the fluctuations of his
own thoughts and feelings; sometimes treating of scenes before
him, sometimes of others purely imaginary, and sometimes wan-
dering back with his recollectiona to his native country. He
will not be able to give them that tranquil attention necessary to
finished com^sition; and as they must be transmitted across the
Atlantic for publication, he will have to trust to others to cor-
rect the frequent errors of the press. Should his writings, how-
ever, with all their imperfections, be well received, he cannot con-
ceal that it would be a source of the purest gratification; for
though he does not aspire to those high honors which are the
rewards of loftier intellects, yet it |s the dearest wish of his
heart to have a secure and cherished, though humble, comer in
the good opinions and kind feelings of his countrymen.

London, 1819.

TO THK

FIRST ENGLISH EDITION.

The following desultory papers are part of a series written in
this counti'y but published in America. The author is aware of
the austerity with which the writings of his countrymen have
hitherto been treated by British critics; he Is conscious,
too, that mucli of the contents of his papers can be inter-
esting only in the eyes of American readers. It was not his in-
tention, therefore, to have tliem reprinted in this country. He
has, however, observed several of them from time to time in-
serted in periodical works of merit, and has understood that it
was probable that they would be published in a collective form.
He has been induced, therefore, to revise and bring them for-
ward himself, that they may at least come correctly before the
public. Should they be deemed of sufficient importance to
attract the attention of critics, he solicits for them that courtesy
and candor which a stranger has some right to claim who pre-
sents himself at the threshold of a hospitable nation.

FEBHt'AltY, 1820.

PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION.

Fhe following papers, with * two exceptions, were written
England, and formed but part of an intended series, for which
lad made notes and memorandums. Before I could mature a
in, however, circumstances compelled me to send them piece-
)al to the United States, where they were published from time
time in portions or numbers. It was not my intention to
blish them in England, being conscious that much of their
utentB would be interesting only to American readers, and in
ith, being deterred by the severity with which American pro-
ctions had been treated by the British press.
By the time the contents of the first volume had appeared in
is occasional manner, they began to find their way across the
:lantic, and to be inserted, with many kind encomiums, in the
mdon Literary Gazette. It was said, also, that a London book-
Uer intended to publish them in a collective form. I deter-
Ined, therefore, to bring them forward myself, that they might
least have the benefit of my superintendence and revision. I
cordingly took the printed numbers which I had received from
e United States, to Mr. John Murray, the eminent publisher,
^m whom I had already received friendly attentions, and left
em with him for examination, informing him that should he
t inclined to bring them before the public, I had materials
ough on hand for a second volume. Several days having
&psed without any communication from Mr. Murray, I ad-
essed a note to him, in which I construed his silence into a
Bit rejection of my work, and begged that the numbers I had
't with him might be returned to me. The following was his
ply:

r DEAB 8lB, —

; entreat you to believe that I feel truly obliged by yonr kind intentions
rards me, and that I entertain the most unfeigned respect for your most
tefol talents. My house is completely filled with workpeople at this

4 Preface.

time, and I have only an office to transact biiBiness in ; and yesterday I was

wholly occupied, or I should have done myself the pleasure of seeing yon«

If it would not suit me to engage in the publication of your present

work, it is only because I do not see that scope in the nature of It which

would enable me to make those satisfactory accounts between us, without

which I really feel no satisfaction in engaging— but I will do all I can to

promote their circulation, and shall be most ready to attend to any future

plan of yours.

With much regard, I remain, dear sir.

Tour fkithful servant,

John Mubbat.

This was disheartening, and might have deterred me from any
further prosecution of the matter, had the question of republica-
tion in Great Britain rested entirely with me; but I apprehended
the appearance of a spurious edition. I now thought of Mr.
Archibald Constable as publisher, having been treated by him with
much hospitality during a visit to Edinburgh; but first I deter-
mined to submit my work to Sir Walter (then Mr.) Scott, being
encouraged to do so by the cordial reception I had experienced
from him at Abbotsford a few years previously, and by the
favorable opinioil he had expressed to others of my earlier writ-
ings. I accordingly sent him the printed numbers of the Sketch-
Book in a parcel by coach, and at the same time wrote to him,
hinting that since I had had the pleasure of partaking of his
hospitality, a reverse had taken place in my affairs which made
the successful exercise of my pen all-important to me; I begged
him, therefore, to look over the literary articles I had forwarded
to him, and, if he thought they would bear European republica-
tion, to ascertain whether Mr. Constable would be inclined to be
the publisher.

The parcel containing my work went by coach to Scott's ad-
dress in Edinburgh; the letter went by mail to his residence in
the country. By the very first post I received a reply, before he
had seen my work.

**Iwas down at Kelso," said he, ** when your letter reached
Abbotsford. I am now on my way to town, and will convene
with Constable, and do all in my power to forward your views—
I assure you nothing will give me more pleasure."

The hint, however, about a reverse of fortune had struck the
quick apprehension of Scott, and, with that practical and efficient
good will which belonged to his nature, he had already devised a
way of aiding me.

■■■IMBL.

Preface, 5

A weekly periodical, he went on to inform me, was about to be
set up in Edinburgh, supported by the most respectable talents,
and amply furnished with all the necessary Information. The ap-
pointment of the editor, for which ample funds were provided,
would be five hundred pounds sterling a year, with the reason-
able prospect of further advantages. This situation, being ap-
parently at his disposal, he frankly offered to me. The work,
he over, he Intimated, was to have somewhat of a political
bearing, and he expressed an apprehension that the tone it was
desired to adopt might not suit me. *' Yet I risk the question,'*
added he, " because I know no man so well qualified for this im-
portant task, and perhaps because it will necessarily bring you to
Edinburgh. If my proposal does not suit, you need only keep
the matter secret, and there is no harm done. * And for my love
I pray you wrong me not.' If, on the contrary, you think it could
be made to suit you, let me know as soon as possible, addressing
Castle Street, Edinburgh.'*

In a postscript, written from Edinburgh, he adds, *^I am just
come here, and have glanced over the Skeich-Book, It is posi-
tively beautiful, and increases my desire to crimp you, if it be
possible. Some difficulties there always are in managing such a
matter, especially at the outset ; but we will obviate them as
much as we possibly can.*'

The following is from an imperfect draught of my reply, which
underwent some modifications in the copy sent : —

<« I cannot express how much I am gratified by your letter. I
had begun to feel as if I had taken an unwarrantable liberty ;
but, somehow or other, there is a genial sunshine about you that
warms every creeping thing into heart and confidence. Your
literary proposal both surprises and flatters me, as it evinces a
much higher opinion of my talents than I have myself.*'

I then went on to explain that I found myself peculiarly un-
fitted for the situation offered to me, not merely by my political
opinions, but by the very constitution and habits of my mind.
**My whole course of life," I observed, " has been desultory, and
I am unfitted for any periodically recurring task, or any stipu-
lated labor of body or mind. I have no command of my talents,
such as they are, and have to watch the varyings of my mind as
I would those of a weathercock. Practice and training may bring

6 Pr^ace.

me more into rule; but at present I am as useless for regular ser-
yice as one of my own country Indians or a Don Cossack.

**I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as I have begun;
writing when I can, not when I would. I shall occasionally shift
my residence and write whatever is suggested by objects before
me, or whatever rises in my imagination; and hope to write
better and more copiously by and by.

" I am playing the egotist, but I know no better way of an-
swering your proposal than by showing what a very good-for- ^
nothing kind of being I am. Should Mr. Constable feel inclined
to make a bargain for the wares I have on hand, he will en- y
courage me to further enterprise; and it will be something like
trading with a gypsy for the fruits of his prowlings, who may at
one time have nothing but a wooden bowl to offer, and at another
time a silver tankard.'^

In reply, Scott expressed regret, but not surprise, at my declin-
ing what might have proved a troublesome duty. He then re-
curred to the original subject of our correspondence; entered into
a detail of the various terms upon which arrangements were
made between authors and booksellers, that I might take my
choice; expressing the most encouraging confidence of the suc-
cess of my work, and of previous works which I had produced
in America. ** I did no more,** added ho, ** than open the
trenches with Constable; but I am sure if you will take the trou-
ble to write to him, you will find him disposed to treat your
overtures with every degree of attention. Or, if you think it of
consequence in the first place to see me, I shall be in London in
the course of a month, and whatever my experience can command
is most heartily at your command. But I can add little to
what I have said above, except my earnest recommendation to
Constable to enter into the negotiation.*' *

Before the receipt of this most obliging letter, however, I had
determined to look to no leading bookseller for a launch, but to

1 I cannot avoid subjoining in a note a succeeding paragraph in Scott's
letter, which, though it does not relate to the main subject of oar correspond-
ence, was too characteristic to be omitted. Some time previously I had sent
Miss Sophia Scott small duodecimo American editions of her father's poems
published in Edinburgh in quarto volumes; showing the " nigroman<^ *' of
the American press, by which a quart of wine is conjured into a pint bottle.
Scott observes : " In my hurry, I have not thanked you in Sophia's name for

Preface, 7

throw my work before the public at my own risk, and let it sink
or swim according to its merits. I wrote to that effect to Scott,
and soon received a reply : —

** I observe with pleasure that you are going to come forth in
Britain. It is certainly not the very best way to publish on one^s
own account; for the booksellers set their face against the circu-
lation of such works as do not pay an amazing toll to themselves.
But they have lost the art of altogether damming up the road in
such cases between the author and the public, which they were
once able to do as effectually as Diabolus in John Bunyan's Holy
War closed up the windows of my Lord Understanding's man-
sion. I am sure of one thing, that you have only to be known to
the British public to be admired by them, and I would not say
so unless I really was of that opinion.

'*If you ever see a witty but rather local publication called
BUickxDOod^B Edinburgh Magazine^ you will find some notice of
your works in the last number: the author is a friend of mine,
to whom I have introduced you in your literary capacity. His
name is Lockhart, a young man of very considerable talent, and
who will soon be intimately connected with my family. My
faithful friend Knickerbocker is to be next examined and illus-
trated. Constable was extremely willing to enter into consider-
ation of a treaty for your works, but I foresee will be still more

so when

Tour name is up, and may go

From Toledo to Madrid.

And that will soon be the case. I trust to be in London

about the middle of the month, and promise myself great pleas-
ure in once again shaking you by the hand.*'

The first volume of the Sketch-Book was put to press in Lon-
don as I had resolved, at my own risk, by a bookseller unknown
to fame, and without any of the usual arts by which a work is
trumpeted into notice. Still some attention had been called to it

the kind attention which furnished her with the American volumes. I am
not quite snre I can add my own, since you have made her acquainted with
much more of papa's foll^ than she would ever otherwise have learned ; for I
had taken special care they should never see any of those things during; their
earlier years. I think I told you that Walter is sweeping the firmament with a
feather like a maypole, and indenting the pavement with a sword like a scythe
— In other words, he has become a whiskered hussar in the 18th dragoons."

Prefdce.

by the extracts which had previously appeared in the Literary
OazettCy and by the kind words spoken by the editor of that
periodical, and it was getting into fair circulation, when my
worthy bookseller failed before the first month was over, and the
sale was interrupted.

At this juncture Scott arrived in London. I called to him for
help, as I was sticking in the mire, and, more propitious than
Hercules, he put his own shoulder to the wheel. Through his
favorable representations, Murray was quickly induced to under-
take the future publication of the work which he had previously
declined. A further edition of the first volume was struck off
and the second volume was put to press, and from that time
Murray became my publisher, conducting himself in all his deal-
ings with that fair, open, and liberal spirit which had obtained
for him the well-merited appellation of the Prince of Book-
sellers.

Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of Sir Walter Scott,
I began my literary career in Europe; and I feel that I am but
discharging, in a trifiing degree, my debt of gratitude to the
memory of that golden-hearted man in acknowledging my obli-
gations to him. — But who of his literary contemporaries ever ap-
plied to him for aid or counsel that did not experience the most
prompt, generous, and effectual assistance !

W. L

SUNNYSIDE, 1848.

THE SKETCH-BOOK.

THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.

I am of this mind with Homer, tliat as the snaile that crept out
of her shel was turned ef tsoons into a toad, and thereby was f orc^
to make a stoole to sit on; so the traveller that stragletli from
his owne country is in a short time transformed into so mon-
strous a shape, that he is faine to alter his mansion with his
manners, and to live where he can, not where he would.

Lyly'8 Euphues.

I WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing
stratage characters and manners. Even when a mere child
I began my travels, and made many tours of discovery
into foreign parts and unknown regions of my native city,
to the frequent alarm of my parents, and the emolument
of the town-crier. As I grew into boyhood, I extended
the range of my observations. My holiday afternoons were
spent in rambles abont the surrounding country. I made
myself familiar with all its places famous in history or
fable. I knew every spot where a murder or robbery had
been committed, or a ghost seen. I visited the neighbor-
ing villages, and added greatly to my stock of knowledge, by
noting their habits and customs, and conversing with their
sages and great men. I even journeyed one long sum-
mer's day to the summit of the most distant hill, whence I
Btretohed my eye over many a mile of terra incognita, and
was astonished to find how vast a globe I inhabited.

This rambling propensity strengthened with my years.
Books of voyages and travels became my passion, and in
devouring their contents, I neglected the regular exercises

10 The Sketch-Book.

of the school. How wistfully would I wander about the
pier-heads in fine weather, and watch the parting ships,
bound to distant climes — with what longing eyes would I
gaze after their lessening sails, and waft myself in imagin-
ation to the ends of the earth !

Further reading and thinking, though they brought this
vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served
to make it more decided. I visited various parts of my
own country; and had I been merely a lover of fine
scenery, I should have felt little desire . to seek elsewhere
its gratification, for on no country have the charms of
nature been more prodigally lavished. Her mighty lakes,
like oceans of liquid silver; her mountains, with their
bright aerial tints; her valleys, teeming with wild fer-
tility ; her tremendous cataracts, thundering in their soli-
tudes; her boundless plains, waving with spontaneous
verdure ; her broad deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence
to the ocean ; her trackless forests, where vegetation puts
forth all its magnificence ; her skies, kindling with the
magic of summer clouds and glorious sunshine; — no,
never need an An^erican look beyond his own country for
the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery.

But Europe held forth the charms of storied and poetical
association. There were to be seen the masterpieces of
art, the refinements of highly-cultivated society, the quaint
peculiarities of ancient and local custom. My native coun-
try was full of youthful promise : Europe was rich in the
accumulated treasures of age. Her very ruins told the
history of times gone by, and every mouldering stone was
a chronicle. I longed to wander over the scenes of re-
nowned achievement — to tread, as it were, in the foot-
steps of antiquity — to loiter about the ruined castle — to
meditate on the falling tower — to escape, in shorty from
the commonplace realities of the present, and lose myself
among the shadowy grandeurs of the past.

I had, beside all this, an earnest desire to see the great
men of the earth. We have, it is true, our great men in
America : not a city but has an ample share of them. I
have mingled among them in my time, and been almost

The AiUhor*s Account of Himsdf. 11

withered by the shade into which they cast me ; for there
is nothing so baleful to a small man as the shade of a great
one, particularly the great man of a city. But I was anx-
ious to see the great men of Europe ; for I had read in the
works of various philosophers, that all animals degenerated
in America, and man among the number. A great man of
Europe, thought I, must therefore be as superior to a great
man of America, as a peak of the Alps to a highland of
the Hudson ; and in this idea I was confirmed, by observing
the comparative importance and swelling magnitude of
many English travellers among us, who, I was assured,
were very little people in their own country. I will visit
this land of wonders, thought I, and see the gigantic race
from which I am degenerated.

It has been either my good or evil lot to have my roving
passion gratified. I have wandered through different coun-
tries, and witnessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I
cannot say that I have studied them with the eye of a
philosopher; but rather with the sauntering gaze with
which humble lovers of the picturesque stroll from the
window of one print-shop to another ; caught sometimes by
the delineations of beauty, sometimes by the distortions of
caricature, and sometimes by the loveliness of landscape.
As it is the fashion for modern tourists to travel pencil in
hand, and bring home their portfolios filled with sketches,
I am disposed to get up a few for the entertainment of my
friends. When, however, I look over the hints and memo-
randums I have taken down for the purpose, my heart
almost fails me at finding how my idle humor has led
me aside from the great objects studied by every regular
traveller who would make a book. I fear I shall give
equal disappointment with an unlucky landscape painter,
who had travelled on the continent, but, following the bent
of his vagrant inclination, had sketched in nooks, and
comers, and by-places. His sketch-book was accordingly
crowded with cottages, and landscapes, and obscure ruins ;
but he had neglected to paint St. Peter's, or the Coliseum;
the cascade of Terni, or the bay of Naples ; and had not a
single glacier or volcano in his whole collection.

THE VOYAGE.

Ships, ships, I will descrie you

Amidst the main, {

I will como and try you,

What you are protecting, ^

And projecting.
What's your end and aim.
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading,
Another stays to keep his country from invaolng,
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy hiding,
Halloo! my f ancle, whither wilt thou go?

Old Poem.

To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he
has to make is an excellent preparative. The temporary
absence of worldly scenes and employments produces a
state of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid
impressions. The vast space of waters that separates the
hemispheres is like a blank page in existence. There is
no gradual transition, by which, as in Europe, the features
and population of one country blend almost imperceptibly
with those of another. From the moment you lose sight
of the land you have left,all is vacancy until you step on
the opposite shore, and are launched at once into the bustle
and novelties of another world.

In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene and a
connected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on
the story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and sepa-
ration. We drag, it is true, "a lengthening chain," at each
remove of our pilgrimage ; but the chain is unbroken : we
can trace it back link by link ; and we feel that the last
still grapples us to home. But a wide sea^yage severs us
at once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose from
the secore anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a

The Voyage, 18

d world. It interposes a gulf, not merely imagi-
it real, between us and our homes — a gull subject
[>e8t, and fear, and uncertainty, rendering distance
e, and return precarious.

, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the
le line of my native land fade away like a cloud in
izon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the
ind its concerns, and had time for meditation, before
$d another. That land, too, now vanishing from my
rhich contained all most dear to me in life; what
ides might occur in it — what changes might take
I me, before I should visit it again ! Who can tell,
le sets forth to wander, whither he may be driven

uncertain currents of existence; or when he may
, or whether it may ever be his lot to revisit the
of his childhood ?

d that at sea all is vacancy; I should correct the
ion. To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of
limself in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects
litation ; but then they are the wonders of the deep,

the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from
r themes. I delighted to loll over the quarter-rail-
climb to the main-top, of a calm day, and muse for
ogether on the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea; to
)on the piles of golden clouds just peering above the
t, fancy them some fairy realms, and people them
creation of my own; — to watch the gentle undu-
billows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away
le happy shores.

"6 was a delicious sensation of mingled security and
1th which I looked down from my giddy height, on
nsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols. Shoals
poises tumbling about the bow of the ship; the
18 slowly heaving his huge form above the surface ;
ravenous shark, darting, like a spectre, through the
aters. My imagination would conjure up all that I
ftrd or read of the watery world beneath me ; of the
erds that roam its fathomless valleys; of the shape-
»nsters that lurk among the very foundations of the

14 The SJcetch'Book.

earth ; and of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of
fishermen and sailors.
[^ Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the
ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How
interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin
the great mass of existence ! What a glorious monument of
human invention ; which has in a manner triumphed over
wind and wave ; has brought the ends of the world into
communion; has established an interchange of blessings,
pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the luxuries
of the south; has diffused the light of knowledge and the
charities of cultivated life; and has thus bound together
those scattered portions of the human race, between which
nature seemed to have thrown an insurmountable barrier.
We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a
distance. At sea, everything that breaks the monotony of
the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to
be the mast of a ship that must have been completely
wrecked ; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by
which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this
spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves.
There was no trace by which the name of the ship could be
ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about for
many months; clusters of shell-fish had fastened about
it, and long sea- weeds flaunted at its sides. But where,
thought I, is the crew? Their struggle has long been
over — they have gone down amidst the roar of the tem-
pest — their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the
deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves have closed over
them, and no one can tell the story of their end. What
sighs have been wafted after that ship! what prayers
offered up at the deserted fireside of home ! How often
has the mistress, the wife, the mother pored over the daily
news to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the
deep ! How has expectation darkened into anxiety — anxi-
ety into dread — and dread into despair! Alas! not one
memento may ever return for love to cherish. All that
may ever be known, is, that she sailed from her port, "and
was never heard of more ! "

TJie Voyage, 15

The sight of this wreck, as nsnal, gave rise to many dis-
mal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the even-
ing, when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began
to look wild and threatening, and gave indications of one of
those sadden storms which will sometimes break in upon the
serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round the dull light
of a lamp in the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly,
every one had his tale of shipwreck and disaster. I was
particularly struck with a short one related by the captain.

*< As I was once sailing," said he, '^ in a fine stout ship
across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs
which prevail in those parts rendered it impossible for us
to see far ahead even in the daytime; but at night the
weather was so thick that we could not distinguish any
object at twice the length of the ship. I kept lights at the
mast-head, and a constant watch forward to look out for
fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at anchor on
the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and
we were going at a great rate through the water. Sud-
denly the watch gave the alarm of ' a sail ahead ! ' — it
was scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She was a
small schooner, at anchor, with her broadside toward us.
The crew were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a
light. We struck her just amid-ships. The force, the size,
and weight of our vessel bore her down below the waves ;
we passed over her and were hurried on our course. As
the crashing wreck was sinking beneath us, 1 had a
glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches rushing from
her cabin ; they just started from their beds to be swal-
lowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning cry
mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears
swept us out of all further hearing. I shall never forget
that cry ! It was some time before we could put the ship
about, she was under such headway. We returned, as
nearly as we could guess, to the place where the smack had
anchored. We cruised about for several hours in the dense
fog. We fired signal guns, and listened if we might hear
the halloo of any survivors : but all was silent — we never
saw or heard anything of them more."

16 The Sketch- Book.

I confess these stories for a time, put an end to all my
fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The
sea was lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a
fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves, and broken surges.
Deep called unto deep. At times the black volume of
clouds overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning
which quivered along the foaming billows, and made the
succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bel-
lowed over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed and
prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw the ship stag-
gering and plunging among these roaring caverns, it seemed
miraculous that she regained her balance, or preserved her
buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the water: her bow
was almost buried beneath the waves. Sometimes an im-
pending surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and noth-
ing but a dexterous movement of the helm preserved her
from the shock. a

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still fol- 4
lowed me. The whistling of the wind through the rigging
sounded like funereal waitings. The creaking of the masts,
the straining and groaning of bulk-heads, as the ship labored
in the weltering sea, were frightful As I heard the waves
rushing along the sides of the ship, and roaring in my very
ear, it seemed as if Death were raging round this floating
prison, seeking for his prey: the mere starting of a nail,
the yawning of a seam, might give him entrance.

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring
breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is
impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine weather
and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked out in all
her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering gayly over the
curling waves, how lofty, how gallant she appears — how
she seems to lord it over the deep !

I might fill a volume with reveries of a sea voyage,
for with me it is almost a continual reverie — but it is time
to get to shore.

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of
** land I " was given from the mast-head. None but those
who have experienced it can form an idea of the delicious

■

The Vayctge. 17

throng of sensations which rush into an American's bosom,
when he first comes in sight of Europe. There is a vol-
ume of associations with the very name. It is the land of
promise, teeming with everything of which his childhood
has heard, or on which his studions years have pondered.

From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all
feverish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like
guardian giants along the coast ; the headlands of Ireland,
stretching out into the channel ; the Welsh mountains, tow-
ering into the clouds : all were objects of intense interest.
As we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the shores with
a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages,
with their trim shrubberies and green grass plots. I saw
the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the
taper spire of a village church rising from the brow of a
neighboring hill — all were characteristic of England.

The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was
enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with
people ; some, idle lookers-on, others, eager expectants of
friends or relatives. I could distinguish the merchant to
whom the ship was consigned. I knew him by his calculat-
ing brow and restless air. His hands were thrust into his
pockets ; he was whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and
fro, a small space having been accorded him by the crowd,
in deference to his temporary importance. There were
repeated cheerings and salutations interchanged between
the shore and the ship, as friends happened to recognize
each other. I particularly noticed one young wom^ of
humble dress, but interesting demeanor. She was leaning
forward from among the crowd ; her eye hurried over the
ship, as it neared the shore, to catch some wished-for coun-
tenance. She seemed disappointed and agitated ; when I
heard a faint voice call her name. It was from a poor
sailor who had been ill all the voyage, and had excited the
sympathy of every one on board. When the weather was
fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for him on deck in
the shade, but of late his illness had so increased, that he
had taken to his hammock, and only breathed a wish that
he might see his wife before he died. He had been helped

The SketchrBook.

on deck as we came up the river, and was now leaning
against the shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale,
so ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of affection
did not recognize him. But at the sound of his voice, her
eye darted on his features ; it read, at once, a whole volume
of sorrow ; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek,
and stood wringing them in silent agony.

All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaint-
ances — the greetings of friends — the consultations of men
of business. '■" I alone was solitary and idle. ' I had no friend
to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land
of my forefathers — but felt that I was a stranger in the
land.

^_ -T -■

ifiA^aifiwMHbr^-

ROSCOE.

In the service of mankind to be
A guardian god below; still to employ
The mind's brave ardor in heroic aims,
Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd,
And make us shine for ever — that is life.

Thomson.

^ One of the first places to which a stranger is taken in
Liverpool is the Athenasum. It is established on a liberal
and judicious plan ; it contains a good library, and spacious
reading-room, and is the great literary resort of the place.
Go there at what hour you may, you are sure to find it filled
with grave-looking personages, deeply absorbed in the study
of newspapers.

As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my
attention was attracted to a person just entering the room.
He was advanced in life, tall, and of a form that might
once have been commanding, but it was a little bowed by
time — perhaps by care. He had a noble, Roman style of
countenance ; a head that would have pleased a painter ;
and though some slight furrows on his brow showed that
wasting thought had been busy there, yet his eye still
beamed with the fire of a poetic soul. There was some-
thing in his whole appearance that indicated a being of a
different order from the bustling race around him.

I inquired his name, and was informed that it was Ros-
ooe. I drew back with an involuntary feeling of veneration.

This, then, was an author of celebrity ; this was one of
those men, whose voices have gone forth to the ends of the
earth ; with whose minds I have communed even in the sol-
itudes of America. Accustomed, as we are in our country,
to know European writers only by their works, we cannot
conceive of them, as of other men, engrossed by trivial or

20 The Sketch-Book.

sordid pursuits, and jostling with the crowd of common
minds in the dusty paths of life. They pass before our im-
aginations like superior beings, radiant with the emanations
of their genius, and surrounded by a halo of literary glory.

To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici,
mingling among the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my
poetical ideas; but it was from the very circumstances and
situation in which he has been placed, that Mr. Roscoe de-
rives his highest claims to admiration. It is interesting to
notice how some minds seem almost to create themselves,
springing up under every disadvantage, and working their
solitary but irresistible way through a thousand obstacles.
Nature seems to delight in disappointing the assiduities of
art, with which it would rear legitimate dulness to matu-
rity ; and to glory in the vigor and luxuriance of her chance
productions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the winds,
and thopgh some may perish among the stony places of the
world, and some be choked by the thorns and brambles of
early adversity, yet others will now and then strike root
even in the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into
sunshine, and spread over their sterile birthplace all the
beauties of vegetation.

Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. Bom in a place
apparently ungenial to the growth of literary talent ; in the
very market-place of trade ; without fortune, family con-
nections, or patronage ; self -prompted, self-sustained, and
almost self-taught, he has conquered every obstacle, achieved
his way to eminence, and, having become one of the orna-
ments of the nation, has turned the whole force of his
talents and influence to advance and embellish hb native
town.

Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has
given him the greatest interest in my eyes, and induced me
particularly to point him out to my countrymen. Eminent
as are his literary merits, he is but one among the many
distinguished authors of this intellectual nation. They,
however, in general, live but for their own fame, or their
own pleasures. Their private history presents no lesson to
the world, or, perhaps, a humiliating one of human frailty

Ro9coe. 21

and inoonsistency. At best, they are prone to steal away
from the bustle and commonplace of busy existence ; to
indulge in the selfishness of lettered ease ; and to revel in
scenes of mental, but exclusive enjoyment.

Mr. Koscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the ac-
corded privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in no
garden of thought, nor elysium of fancy ; but has gone forth
into the highways and thoroughfares of life ; he has planted
bowers by the way-side, for the refreshment of the pilgrim
and the sojourner, and has opened pure fountains, where
the laboring man may turn aside from the dust and heat
of the day, and drink of the living streams of knowledge.
There is a " daily beauty in his life," on which mankind
may meditate and grow better. It exhibits no lofty and
almost useless, because inimitable, example of excoUenccB ;
bnt presents a picture of active, yet simple and imitable
virtues, which are within every man's reach, but which, un-
fortunately, are not exercised by many, or this world would
be a paradise.

But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention of
the citizens of our young and busy country, where literature
and the elegant arts must grow up side by side with the
coarser plants of daily necessity; and must depend for their
culture, not on the exclusive devotion of time and wealth,
nor the quickening rays of titled patronage, but on hours
and seasons snatched from the pursuit of worldly interests,
by intelligent and public-spirited individuals.

He has shown how much may be done for a place in
hours of leisure by one master spirit, and how completely it
can give its own impress to surrounding objects. Like his
own Lorenzo De* Medici, on whom he seems to have fixed
his eye as on a pure model of antiquity, he has interwoven
the history of his life with the history of his native town,
and has made the foundations of its fame the monuments
of his virtues. Wherever you go in Liverpool, you perceive
traces of his footsteps in all that is elegant and liberal. He
found the tide of wealth flowing merely in the channels of
traffic ; he has diverted from it invigorating rills to refresh
the garden of literature. By his own example and constant

22 The Sketch'Book.

exertions he has effected that union of commerce and the
intellectual pursuits, so eloquently recommended in one of
his latest writings : ^ and has practically proved how beau-
tifully they may be brought to harmonize, and to benefit
each other. The noble institutions for literary and scien-
tific purposes, which reflect such credit on Liverpool, and
are giving such an impulse to the public mind, have mostly
been originated, and have all been effectively promoted, by
Mr. Roscoe ; and when We consider the rapidly increasing
opulence and magnitude of that town, which promises to vie
in conmiercial importance with the metropolis, it will be
perceived that in awakening an ambition of mental improve-
ment among its inhabitants, he has effected a great benefit
to the cause of British literature.

In America we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author — in
Liverpool he is spoken of as the banker ; and I was told of
his having been unfortunate in business. I could not pity
him, as I heard some rich men do. I considered him far
above the reach of pity. Those who live only for the world,
and in the world, may be cast down by the frowns of adver-
sity ; but a man like Roscoe is not to be overcome by the
reverses of fortune. They do but drive him in upon the
resources of his own mind ; to the superior society of his
own thoughts ; which the best of men are apt sometimes to
neglect, and to roam abroad in search of less worthy asso-
ciates. He is independent of the world around him. He
lives with antiquity and posterity; with antiquity, in the
sweet communion of studious retirement; and with posterity,
in the generous aspirings after future renown. The solitude
of such a mind is its state of highest enjoyment. It is then
visited by those elevated meditations which are the proper
aliment of noble souls, and are, like manna, sent from heaven,
in the wilderness of this world.

While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was
my fortune to light on further traces of Mr. Roscoe. I
was riding out with a gentleman, to view the environs of
Liverpool, when he turned off, through a gate, into some
ornamented grounds. After riding a short distance, we

1 Address on tne opening of the Liverpool Instltation.

Hoscoe. 23

came to a spacious mansion of freestone, built in the
Grecian style. It was not in the purest taste, yet it had
an air of elegance, and the situation was delightful. A
fine lawn sloped away from it, studded with clumps of
trees, so disposed as to break a soft fertile country into a
variety of landscapes. The Mersey was seen winding a
broad quiet sheet of water through an expanse of green
meadow-land; while the Welsh mountains, blended with
clouds, and melting into distance, bordered the horizon.

This was Roscoe's favorite residence during the days of
his prosperity. It had been the seat of elegant hospitality
and literary retirement. The house was now silent and
deserted. I saw the windows of the study, which looked
oat upon the soft scenery I have mentioned. The win-
dows were closed — the library was gone. Two or three
ill-fayored beings were loitering about the place, whom
my fancy pictured into retainers of the law. It was like
yisiting some classib fountain, that had once welled its pure
waters in a sacred shade, but finding it dry and dusty, with
the lizard and the toad brooding over the shattered marbles.

I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library, which
had consisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of
which he had drawn the materials for his Italian histories.
It had passed under the hammer of the auctioneer, and was
dispersed about the country. The good people of the
vicinity thronged like wreckers to get some part of the
noble vessel that had been driven on shore. Did such a
scene admit of ludicrous associations, we might imagine
something whimsical in this strange irruption in the regions
of learning. Pygmies rummaging the armory of a giant,
and contending for the possession of weapons which they
could not wield. We might picture to ourselves some knot
of speculators, debating with calculating brow over the
quaint binding and illuminated margin of an obsolete au-
thor; or the air of intense, but baffled sagacity, with which
some successful purchaser attempted to dive into the black-
letter bargain he had secured.

It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Roscoe's
misfortunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the stu-

24 The SketchrBook.

dious mind, that the parting with his books seems to have
touched upon his tenderest feelings, and to have been the
only circumstance that could provoke the notice of his
muse. The scholar only knows how dear these silent, yet
eloquent, companions of pure thoughts and innocent hours
become in the seasons of adversity. When all that is
worldly turns to dross around us, these only retain their
steady value. When friends grow cold, and the converse
of intimates languishes into vapid civility and commonplace,
these only continue the unaltered countenance of happier
days, and cheer us with that true friendship which never
deceived hope, nor deserted sorrow.

I do not wish to censure; but, surely, if the people of
Liverpool had been properly sensible of what was due to
Mr. Roscoe and themselves, his library would never have
been sold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given
for the circumstance, which it would be difficult to combat
with others that might seem merely fanciful; but it cer-
tainly appears to me such an opportunity as seldom occurs,
of cheering a noble mind struggling under misfortunes, by
one of the most delicate, but most expressive tokens of
public sympathy. It is difficult, however, to estimate a
man of genius properly who is daily before our eyes. He
becomes mingled and confounded with other men. His
great qualities lose their novelty, we become too familiar
with the common materials which form the basis even of
the loftiest character. Some of Mr. Roscoe's townsmen
may regard him merely as a man of business; others as a
politician ; all find him engaged like themselves in ordinary
occupations, and surpassed, perhaps, by themselves on some
points of worldly wisdom. Even that amiable and unosten-
tatious simplicity of character, which gives the nameless
grace to real excellence, may cause him to be undervalued
by some coarse minds, who do not know that true worth
is always void of glare and pretension. But the man of
letters, who speaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as the resi-
dence of Roscoe. — The intelligent traveller who visits it
inquires where Roscoe is to be seen. — He is the literary
landmark of the place, indicating its existence to the dis-

RoBCoe,

tant scholar. — He is, like Pompey's column at Alexandria,
towering alone in classic dignity.

The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe to his
books on parting with them, is alladed to in the preceding
article. If anything can add effect to the pure feeling and
elevated thought here displayed, it is the conviction, that
the whole is no effusion of fancy, but a faithful transcript
from the writer's heart.

TO MY BOOKS.

As one who, destined from his friends to part,
Regrets his loss, bu^t hopes again erewhile
. To share their converse and enjoy their smile.
And tempers as he may affliction's dart ;

Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art.

Teachers of wisdom, wlio could once beguile
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil,

I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ;

For pass a few short years, or days, or hours.
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold.
And all your sacred fellowship restore :
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers,
lOnd shall with mind direct communion hold.
And kindred spirits meet to part no more.

THE WIFE.

The treasares of the deep are not so precious
As are the conceaPd comforts of a man
Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air
Of blessings, when I come but near the house.
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth . . .
The violet bed's not sweeter.

MiDDLETON.

I HAYS often bad occasion to remark the fortitude with
which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of
fortune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of a
man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all
the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and
elevation to their character, that at times it approaches to
sublimity. Nothing can be more touching than to behold
a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness and
dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while
treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in
mental force to be the comforter and support of her hus-
band under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking
firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity.

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage
about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will,
when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling
around it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shat-
tered boughs ; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence,
that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of
man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace
when smitten with sudden calamity; winding herself into
the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the
drooping head, and binding up the broken heart.

I was once congratulating a friend who had around him a
blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection.
** I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm,

The Wife. 27

<« than to have a wife and children. If yoa are prosperous,
there they are to share your prosperity ; if otherwise, there
they are to comfort you." And, indeed, 1 have observed
that a married man falling into misfortune is more apt to
retrieve his situation in the world than a single one ; partly
because he is more stimulated to exertion by the necessities
of the helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him
for subsistence ; but chiefly because his spirits are soothed
and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self-respect
kept alive by finding, that though all abroad is darkness
and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at
home, of which he is the monarch. Whereas a single man
is apt to run to waste and self-neglect; to fancy himself
lonely and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin like
some deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant.

These observations call to mind a little domestic story
of which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie,
had married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had
been brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had,
it is true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample ;
and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in
every elegant pursuit, and administering to those delicate
tastes and fancies that spread a kind of witchery about the
sex. — " Her life," said he, " shall be like a fairy tale."

The very difference in their characters produced an har-
monious combination : he was of a romantic and somewhat
serions cast; she was all life and gladness. I have often
noticed the mute rapture with which he would gaze upon
her in company, of which her sprightly powers made her the
delight ; and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would
stiU turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and
acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her slender form
contrasted finely with his tall manly person. The fond con-
fiding air with which she looked up to him seemed to call
forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness,
as if he doted on his lovely burden for its very helpless-
ness. Never did a couple set forward on the flowery path
of early and well-suited marriage with a fairer prospect of
felicity.

2» 7%f jStediKi^MsJL

It was tbe mkfartime <of mj &iend, however, to hav

cimldDkf^^ iis fB^q^ertj in lu^ sf^ecolitioos ; and he ha
iK« be«& marned zduit moDths, whem hy a snccession o
f^idicxi ilisaca«!r&. h ira^ sirept iro/m hint, and he f onnd him
self TedBoed aihno<9 to peniuy. For a time he kept hi
fhaaiioD t«c* faimsielL asd went about with a haggard coun
tenanee. asd a breaking bearL His life was but a protractec
agon J ; and what rendered it more insapportable was th<
necessitr of keeping up a smile in the presence of his wife
for he could not bring himself to overwhelm her with th(
news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection
that all was not well with him. She marked his altere(
looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived by hi
sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked al
ber sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win hin
back to happiness ; but she only drove the arrow deepei
into his soul. The more he saw cause to love her, the mon
torturing was the thought that he was soon to make hei
\iTetched. A little while, thought he, and the smile wil
vanish from that cheek — the song will die away from thos<
lips — the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sor
row; and the happy heart, which now beats lightly in thai
boHorn, will bo weighed down like mine, by the cares anc
miseries of the world.

At length he came to me one day, and related his whole
situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I heard
him through I inquired, "Does your wife know all this?"
— At the question he burst into an agony of tears. " For
(lod's sake ! " cried he, " if you have any pity on me, don't
mention my wife ; it is the thought of her that drives me
alnioHt to madncHH ! "

** And why not ? " said I. " She must know it sooner or
hit or : yt>u oannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence
ntay broak upon hor in a more startling manner, than ii
imparted by yourself; for the accents of those we love
soften tlu» harshest tidiuifs. Besides, you are depriving
yourself of tlie eomforts of her sympathy; and not merely
that^ but also endal\)^'rinvc the only bond that can keep
hearts t ojjet her An U!\r\^serve*l ot^mmunity of thought and

The Wife. 29

. She will soon perceive that something is secretly
; upon your mind ; and true love will not brook re-
it feels undervalued and outraged, when even the
s of those it loves are concealed from it.'*
, but, my friend I to think what a blow I am to give
ler future prospects — how I am to strike her very
> the earth, by telling her that her husband is a
! that she is to forego all the elegancies of life —
pleasures of society — to shrink with me into indi-
and obscurity ! To tell her that I have dragged her
Tom the sphere in which she might have continued
e in constant brightness — the light of every eye —
uiration of every heart ! — How can she bear poverty?
) been brought up in all the refinements of opulence,
an she bear neglect ? she has been the idol of society,
will break her heart — it will break her heart I — "
¥ his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow ;
row relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm
bsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I
d the subject gently, and urged him to break his sit-
at once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully,
ritively.

t how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary
)uld know it, that you may take the steps proper to
Bration of your circumstances. You must change
.yle of living — nay," observing a pang to pass across
ntenance, "don't let that afflict you. I am sure you
ever placed your happiness in outward show — you
et friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse
for being less splendidly lodged : and surely it does
[uire a palace to be happy with Mary — "
ould be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, "in
II — I could go down with her into poverty and the
— I could — I could — God bless her ! — God bless
cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and ten-

d believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and
ig him warmly by the hand, " believe me, she can be
le with you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride

80 The Sketch-Book.

and triumph tx) her — it will call forth all the latent enei
gies and fervent sympathies of her nature ; for she wi
rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself. ' There i
in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, whic
lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity, but whic
kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour o
adversity. *^ No man knows what the wife of his bosom i
— no man knows what a ministering angel she is — unti
he has gone with her through the fiery trials of thi
world."

There was something in the earnestness of my mannei
and the figurative style of my language, that caught th
excited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had t
deal with ; and following up the impression I had made,
finished by persuading him to go home and unburden hi
sad heart to his wife.

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I fel
some little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate oi
the fortitude of one whose life had been a round of pleas
ures ? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark downward
path of low humility suddenly pointed out before her, an<
might cling to the sunny regions in which they had hithert<
revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is accompanie<
by so many galling mortifications, to which in other rank
it is a stranger. — In short, I could not meet Leslie th<
next morning without trepidation. He had made the dis
closure.

"And how did she bear it?"

"Like an angel! It seemed rather to be a relief to he
mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked i
this was all that had lately made me unhappy. — But, poo:
girl," added he, "she cannot realize the change we mus
undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the abstract
she has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love
She feels as yet no privation ; she suffers no loss of accus
tomed conveniences nor elegancies. When we come practi
cally to experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, iti
petty humiliations — then will be the real trial."

"but," said I, "now that you have got over the severes

The Wife. 31

task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world
into the secret the better. The disclosure may be mortify-
ing; bat then it is a single misery, and soon over; whereas
you otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, every hour in the
day. It is not poverty so much as pretense, that harasses
a ruined man — the struggle between a proud mind and an
empty purse — the keeping up a hollow show that must
soon come to an end. Have the courage to appear poor and
you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting." On this point I
found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no false pride
himself, and as to his wife, she was only anxious to conform
to their altered fortunes.

Some days afterward he called upon me in the evening.
He had disposed of his dwelling house, and taken a small
cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had
been busied all day in sending out furniture. The new
establbhment required few articles, and those of the
simplest kind. All the splendid furniture of his late resi-
dence had been sold, excepting his wife's harp. That, he
said, was too closely associated with the idea of herself ; it
belonged to the little story of their loves ; for some of the
sweetest moments of their courtship were those when he
had leaned over that instrument, and listened to the melt-
ing tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this instance
of romantic gallantry in a doting husband.

He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had
been all day superintending its arrangement. My feelings
had become strongly interested in the progress of this
family story, and, as it was a fine evening, I offered to
accompany him.

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as he
walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing.

" Poor Mary ! " at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from
his lips.

" And what of her ? " asked I : " has anything happened
to her?"

"What?* said he, darting an impatient glance, "Is it
nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged
in a miserable cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the
menial concerns of her wretched habitation ?"

32 The Sketch-Book.

" Has she then repined at the change ? ** ]

'^ Repined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and good
humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have
ever known her ; she has been to me all love, and tender-
ness, and comfort ! "

" Admirable girl !" exclaimed I. " You ' call yourself
poor, my friend ; you never were so rich — you never knew
the boundless treasures of excellence you possess in that ^
woman."

" Oh I but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage \
were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this r
is her first day of real experience ; she has been introduced ";
into a humble dwelling — sRe has been employed all day in
arranging its miserable equipments — she has, for the first
time, known the fatigues of domestic employment — she
has, for the first time, looked round her on a home destitute
of everything elegant, — almost of evei*ything convenient ;
and may now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, '"
brooding over a prospect of future poverty."

There was a degree of probability in this picture that I
could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence.

After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so
thickly shaded with forest trees as to give it a complete air r
of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was hum- ^
ble enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet; j
and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine had ;
overrun one end with a profusion of foliage ; a few trees |
threw their branches gracefully over it; and I observed sev- '
eral pots of flowers tastefully disposed about the door, and /
on the grass-plot in front. A small wicket gate opened )
upon a footpath that wound through some shrubbery to the ^
door. Just as we approached, we heard the sound of j
music — I.eslie grasped ray arm; we paused and listened. .
It was Mary's voice singing, in a style of the most touch- |
ing simplicity, a little air of which her husband was pecu-
liarly fond.

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped for-
ward to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on
the gravel walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out at the

The W^fe.

wiDdow and vanished — a light footstep was heard — and
Mary came tripping forth to meet us : she was in a pretty
rural dress of white ; a few wild flowers were twisted in
her fine hair ; a fresh bloom was on her cheek ; her whole
countenance beamed with smiles — I had never seen her
look so lovely.

" My dear Greorge," cried she, ** I am so glad you are
come! I have been watching and watching for you ; and
running down the lane, and looking out for you. Tve set
out a table under a beautiful tree behind the cotts^e ; and
I've been gathering some of the most delicious strawber-
ries, for I know you are fond of them — and we have such
excellent cream — and everything is so sweet and still here.

— Oh ! " said she, putting her arm within his, and looking
up brightly in his face, " Oh, we shall be so hapj)y ! "

Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom

— he folded his arms round her — he kissed her again and
again — he could not speak, but the tears gushed into his
eyes ; and he has often assured me, that though the world
has since gone prosperously with him, and his life has, in-
deed, been a happy one, yet never has he experienced a
moment of more exquisite felicity.

RIP VAN WINKLE.

A POSTHUMOUH WKITINO OF DIEDRICH KNICKEBBOCKBB.

By Woden, God of Saxons,

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday,

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep

Unto thylke day in which I creep into

My sepulchre —

Cartwright.

[The following Talo was found among the papers of the
late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New
York, who was very curious in the Dutch history of the
province, and the manners of the descendants from its
. primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did
not lie so much among books as among men ; for the for-
mer are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics ; whereas
he found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich
in that legendary lore, so invaluable to true history.
Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch
family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under
a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped
volume of black-letter, can d studied it with the zeal of a
bookworm.

The result of all these researches was a history of the
province during the reign of the Dutch governors, which
he published some years since. There have been various
opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to
tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its
chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a
little questioned on its first appearance, but has since been
completely established ; and it is now admitted into all Iiis-
torical collections, as a book of unquestionable authority.

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of
his work, and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do
much harm to his memory to say that bis time might have

r» ■■ -■

Kip Van WitikU. " 35

1)een much better employed in weightier labors. He,however,
was apt to ride his hobby liis own way ; and though it did
now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his
neighbors, and grieve tlie spirit of some friends, for whom
he felt the truest deference and affection ; yet his errors
and follies are remembered " more in sorrow than in anger,"
and it begins to be suspected that he never intended to
injure or offend. But however his memory may Ik5 appre-
ciated by critics, it is still held dear by many folk, whose
good opinion is well worth having ; particularly by certain
biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his like-
ness on their new-year cakes ; and have thus given him a
chance for immortality, almost equal to the being stamped
on a Waterloo Medal, or a Queen Anne's Farthing.]

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must
remember the Kaatskill mountains, l They are a dismem-
bered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen
away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble
height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every
change of season, every change of weathor, indeed, every
hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues
and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by
all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers.
When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in
blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear
evening sky ; but, sometimes, when the rest of the land-
scape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors
about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting
sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may
have descried the light smoke curling up from a village,
whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where tlie
blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green
of the nearer land8cai>e. It is a little village, of great
antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutcii
colonists, in the early times of the province, just about the
beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant
(may he rest in peace !), and there were some of the houses

36 The Sketch-Book.

of the original settlers standing within a few years, bnilt dl^
small yellow bricks bronght from Holland, having latticed
windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weather-cocks. V

In that same village, and in one of these very houses
(which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and
weather-beaten), there lived many years since, while the
country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple good->
natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was
a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly
in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accom-
panied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited,
however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors.
I have observed that he was a simple good-natured man ;
he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient hen- 4.
pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might
be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such
universal popularity ; for those men are most apt to be
obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the d^
cipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are
rendered pliant aud malleable in the fiery furnace of do-
mestic tribulation ; and a curtain lecture is worth all the
sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of patience
and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in
some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; and if j
so, Kip Van Winkle was thrice blessed^

Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the
good wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable
sex, took his part in all family squabbles; and never failed,
whenever they talked those matters over in their evening
gossi pings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The
children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever
he approached, lie assisted at their sports, made their
playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and
told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. >
Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was sur-
rounded by a troop of them, haiiging on his skirts, clamber-
ing on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with
impunity; and not a dog would bark at liim throughont
the neighborhood.

Sip Van Winkle. \ 37

fljjl The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable
aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. .It could not be
from tbe want of assiduity or perseverance ; for he would
sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a
Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a min^niur, *e\Qn
though he shoulS not be encouraged by a single.nibble. lie
would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours to-
' gether, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill^
and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons.
He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even in the rough-
est toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics for
husking Indian corn, or building stone-fences ; the women
of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands,
and to do such little odd jobs as their less obli<j^ing hus-
bands would not do for them. In a word Rip was ready
to attend to anybody's business but his own ; but as to
doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found
it impossible.

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm ;
'it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole
country; everything about it went wrong, and would go
wrong, in spite of him. His fences were continually falling
to pieces ; his cow would either go astray, or get among the
cabbages; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his iields
than anywhere else ; the rain always made a point of setting
in just as he had some out-door work to do ; so that though
his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his man-
agement, acre by acre, until there was little more left than
a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the
worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood.

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they
belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in
his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the
old clothes of his father. He was generally seen trooping
like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his
father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to
hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad
weather.

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy

38 The Sketch-Book.

mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the-
world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got
with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on
a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he
would have whistled life away in perfect contentment ; but
his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his
idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing
on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was
incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure
to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Kip had but
one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that,
by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his
shoulders, shook his head, cast up his e3'es, but said noth-
ing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from
hivS wife; so that he was fain to draw oif-his forces, and
take to the outside of the house — the only side which, in
truth, belongs to a hen-pecked husband.

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was
as much hen-pecked as his master ; for Dame Van Winkle
regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked
upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master's
going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit
befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an^animal
as ever scoured the woods — but what courage can with-
stand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman's
tongue ? The moment Wolf entered the house his crest
fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled between his
legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many
a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least
flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the door
with yelping precipitation.

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as

years of matrimony rolled on ; a tart temper never mellows

with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that

grows keener with constant use. For a long while he used

*W) console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting

a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and

Ipther idle personages of the village ; which held its sessions

pbii a bench before a small inn, designated by a rabicund

Hip Van WtrMe. 39

portrait of His Majesty George the Third. Here they
used to sit in the shade through a long lazy summer^s day,
talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless
sleepy stories . about nothing. But it would have been
worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound
discussions that sometimes took place, when by chance an
old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing
traveller. How solemnly tiicy would listen to the contents,
as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster,
a dapper, learned little man, who was not to be daunted by
the most ^gantic word in the dictionary ; and how sagely
they would delibe«*ate upon public events some months
after they bad taken place.

The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by
Nicholas Yeddcjv & patriarch of the village, and landlord of
the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning
till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep
in the shade of a large tree ; so that the neighbors could tell
the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial.
It is true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe
incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man
has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how
to gather his opinions. When anything that was read or
related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe
vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent and angry
puffs ; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly
and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds ; and
sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the
fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his
head in token of perfect approbation.

^ From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length
routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break
in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage and call the
members all to naught; nor was that august personage,
jncho|gg^^^ddar himself, sacred from the daring tongue
oitnwterrible virago, who charged him outright with en-
couraging her husband in habits of idleness.

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair ; and his
only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and

40 I%e Sketch-JBook.

clamor of his wife, was to take gun in band and stroll away
into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at
the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with
Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in per-
secution. " Poor Wolf," he would say, " thy mistress leads
thee a dog^s life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live
thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee ! " Wolf
would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and
if dogs can feel pity I verily believe he reciprocated the
sentiment with all his heart.

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip
had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of
the Kaatskill mountains. He was after his favorite sport
of squirrel-shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and
re-echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued,
he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll,
covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of
a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could
overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich
woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far,
far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course,
with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging
bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at
last losing itself in the blue highlands.

On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain
glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with frag-
ments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the
reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay
musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing;
the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over
the valleys ; he saw that it would be dark long before he
could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when
he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van
Winkle.

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a,
distance, hallooing, " Kip Van Winkle ! Rip Van WinklaJJ'l
He looked round, but could see nothing but a crow winging^
its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought hb fancy ^
must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when

Hip Van Winkk. 41

he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air ;
" Rip Van Winkle ! Kip Van Winkle ! " — at the same time
Woff bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked
to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen.
Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him ; he
looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a
strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending
under the weight of something he carried on his back. He
was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and
unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some one of the
neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down
to yield it.
7 On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the
singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short
square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled
beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion — a cloth
jerkin strapped round the waist — several pairs of breeches,
the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of
buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore
on his shoulder a gtou t keg, that seemed full of liquor, and
made signs for Rip to appTD a e h a nd assist him with the load.
Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance,
Rip complied with his usual alacrity ; and mutually relieving
one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently
the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip
every now and then heard long rolling peals, like distant
thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather
deft, between lofty rocks, towards which their rugged path
conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to
be the muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers
which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded.
Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a
small amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular precipices,
over the brinks of which impending trees shot their branches,
go that you only caught glimpses q^ the azure sky and the
brigh t e've nin gj olou^f During the whole^me Rip and his
companion hacTTabored on in silence ; for though the former
marvelled greatly what could be the object of carrying a
keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was some-

42 The Sketch-JBook.

thing strange and incomprehensible about the unknown,
that inspired awe and checked familiarity.
\^0n entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder
presented themselves. On a level spot in the center was a
company of odd-looking personages playing at nine-pins.
They were dressed in quaint outlandish fashion ; some wore
short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their
belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar
style with that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were
j pec aliaL; one had a large beard, broad face, and small pig-
gisli eyes; the face of another seemed to consist entirely of
nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off
with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various
shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the
commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather- "^
beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt
and hanger, high crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and
high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group
reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in
the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, and
which had been brought over from Holland at the time of
the settlement.

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though
these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they
maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence,
and were, withal, tlie most melancholy party of pleasure he
had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of
the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they
were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals
of thunder.

./' As Rip and his companion approached them, they sud-
denly desisted from their play, and* stared at him with such
fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre
countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his
knees smote together. His companion now emptied the
contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to
him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and
trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and
then returned to their game.

-Ri> Van Winkle. 43

•- By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He
even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste
the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of
excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and
was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste pro-
voked another ; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so
often that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes
swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell
into a deep sleep. —

\\ On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence
he had first seen the old man of the glen. lie rubbed his
eyes — it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were
hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle
was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze.
"Surely," thought Rip, "I have not slept here all night."
He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The
strange man with a keg of liquor — the mountain ravine
— the wiid rntrfiftt among; the rocks — the wo-begone party
atjDiji£«pins — the flagon — " Oh I that flagon ! that wicked
tfagon ! " thought Rip — " what excuse shall I make to
Dame Van Winkle I "

.^- He looked round for his gun, but in place of the cle«in
well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by
him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and
the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave
roysters of the mountain had played a trick upon him, and,
having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun.
Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away
after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him and
shouted his name, but all in vain ; the echoes repeated his
whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen,
v" He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's
gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his
dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in
the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. " These moun-
tain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, " and if this
frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall
have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some
difficulty he got down into the glen : he found the gully up

44 The Sketch-Book.

"f
which he and his companion had ascended the preceding
evening ; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was
now foamini; down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling
the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift
to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through
thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes
tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted
their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind
of network in his path.'

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened
through the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but no traces of
such opening remained. The rocks presented a high im-
penetrable wall over which the torrent came tumbling in a
sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin,
black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here,
then, poor Kip was brought to a stand. He again called and
whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the cawing
of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry
tree that overhung a sunny precipice ; and who, secure in
their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor
man's perplexities. What was to be done? the morning
was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his
breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun; he
dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve
among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the
rusty firelock, and with a heart full of trouble and anxiety,
turned his steps homeward.

As he approached the village he met a number of people,
bul none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him,
for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in
the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different
fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all
stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever
they cast their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their
chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced
Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonish-
ment, he found his beard had grown a foot long!

He ha<l now entered the skirts of the village. A troop
if strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and

-— -^^ - - " ■^■ t- .^ i

mp Van WifMe. 45

pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which
he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he
passed. The very village was altered ; it was larger and
more populous. There were rows of houses which he had
never seen before, and those which had been his familiar
haunts i^i| disappeared. Strange names were over the
doors JUtrange faces at the windows — everything was
strange. His mind now misgave him ; he began to doubt
whether both he and the world around him were not be-
witched. Surely this was his native village, which he had
left but the day before. There stood the Kaat9kill moun-
tains — there ran the silver Hudson at a distance — there
was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been
— Rip was sorely perplexed — "That flagon last night,"
thought he, ^ has addled my poor head sadly ! "
'^ It was with some difficulty that he found tlie way to his
own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting
every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle.
He found the house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the
windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-
starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it.
Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his
teeth, and passed on. Tiiis was an unkind cut indeed —
"My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten me I"
.^\ He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van
Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, for-
lorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolateness over-
came all his connubial fears — he called loudly for his wife
and children — the lonely chambers rang for a moment with
his voice, and then all again was silence.
:. >He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, tlie
village inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden
building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some
of them broken and mended with old hats and petticoats,
and over the door was painted, " The Union Hotel, by Jon-
athan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to
shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was
reared a tall naked pole, with something on the top that
looked like a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a

46 Th^ Sketch-Book.

flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes

— all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recog-
nized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George,
under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe ; but
even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was
changed for one x)f blue and buff, a sword wasfUd in the
hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decoratSr with a
cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters,
General Washington.

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but
none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people
seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious
tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy
tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Ved-
der, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe,
uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke instead of idle speeches ;
or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents
of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-
looking fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was
haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens — elections

— members of congress — liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes
of seventy-six — and other words, which were a perfect
Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.

The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his
rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of
women and children at his heels, soon attracted the atten-
tion of the tavern politicians. They crowded round him,
eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity. The
orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, in-
quired "on which side he voted?" Rip stared in vacant
stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled
him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in bis
ear, "Whether he was Federal or Democrat?" Rip was
equally at a loss to comprehend the question ; when a know-
ing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat,
made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right
and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself
before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting
on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it

JRip Van Winkle. 47

were, into his very soul, demanded in an anstere tone, ^ what
brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a
mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in
the village?" — "Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat
dismayed, " I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place,
and a l^u||pubject of the king, God bless him ! "

Her^^general shout broke from the bystanders — '^ A
toryl a tory! a spy! a refugee I hustle him! away with
him I " It was with great difficulty that the self-important
man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having assumed
a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown
culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking?
The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm,
but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors,
who used to keep about the tavern.

«* Well — who are they? — name them."

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, «< Where's
Nicholas Vedder?"

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man
replied, in a thin piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder ! why, he
is dead and gone diese eighteen years I There was a wooden
tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him,
but that's rotten and gone too."

"Where's Brom Dutcher?"

" Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the
war; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point
— others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of
Antony's Nose. I don't know — he never came back again."

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?"

"He went off to the wars, too, was a great militia general,
and is now in congress."

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in
his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the
world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treating of
such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he
could not understand: war — congress — Stony Point; —
he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but
cried out in despair, "Does nobody here know Rip Van

WinlrlA?"

48 The SketchrBooh

** Oh, Rip Van Winkle," exclaimed two or three, " Oh,
to be sure I that's Rip Van Winkle yonder,^ leaning against
the tree."

Rip looked, and beheld the precise counterpart of himself,
as he went up the mountain ; apparently as lazy, and cer-
tainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now ,^npletely
confounded. He doubted his own identity, an^Mrhether
he was himself or another man. In the midst of his
bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he
was and what was his name ?

"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end ; ** I'm not
myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no —
that's somebody else got into my shoes — I was myself
last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've
changed my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm
changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I
ami"

The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod,
wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their fore-
heads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun,
and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very
suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked
hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment
a fresh comely woman passed through the throng to ge
a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby ohil
in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to crj
"Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool; the old ma
won't hurt vou." The name of the child, the air of tht
mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of re(
ollections in his mind. "What is your name, my goo
woman ? " asked he.

"Judith Gardenier."

" And your father's name ? "

" Ah, poor man. Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it"*
twenty years since he went away from home with his gu*
and never has been heard of since — his dog came hon-
without him ; but whether he shot himself, or was carrii •'»
away bv the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but .
little girl."

Rip Van Winkle. 49

Rip had but one more question to ask ; but he put it with
a faltering voice : —

" Whereas your mother ? "

*^ Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; she broke
a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New England pedler."

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence.
The honest man could contain himself no longer, lie
caught his daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your
father!" cried he — "Young Rip Van Winkle once — old
Rip Van Winkle now I — Does nobody know poor Rip Van
Winkle?''

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from
among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering
under it in his face for a moment,.exclaimed, " Sure enough !
it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself I Welcome home
again, old neighbor — why, where have you been these
twenty long years?**

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had
been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when
they heard it; some were seen to wink at each other, and
put their tongues in their cheeks: and the self-important
man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had
returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his
mouth, and shook his head — upon which there was a
general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage.

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old
Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the
road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name,
who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province.
Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and
well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of
the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, and cor-
roborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He
assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from
his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill mountains
had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was
afiirmed that the great Ilendrick Hudson, the first discov-
erer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there
every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon ; being

50 The Sketch-Book.

permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise,
and keep a guardian eye apon the river, and the great city
called by his name. That his father had once seen them
in their old Dutch dresses playing at nine-pins in a hol-
low of the mountain ; and that he himself had heard, one
summer afternoon, the sound of their balls like distant
peals of thunder.

To make a long story short, the company broke up, and
returned to the more important concerns of the election.
Rip's daughter took him home to live with her ; she had
a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for
a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that
used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who
was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he
was employed to work on the farm ; but evinced an heredi-
tary disposition to attend to anything else but his business.
Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon
found many of his former cronies, though all rather the
worse for the wear and tear of time ; and preferred making
friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon
grew into great favor.

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that
happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took
his place once more on the bench at the inn door, and was
reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a
chronicle of old times "before the war." It was some
time before he could get into the regular track of gossip,
or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had
taken place during his torpor. How that there had been
a revolutionary war — that the country had thrown off the
yoke of old England — and that, instead of being a subject
of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen
of tlie United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the
chanpjes of states and empires ipade but little impression
on him; but there was one species of despotism under
which ho had long groaned, and that was — petticoat gov-
ernment. Happily that was at an end ; he had got his neck
out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and
wlienever he pleased, without dreading the tyrann} -

ifcjii

Rip Van Winkle. 51

Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name waa mentioned,
however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and
cast up his eyes ; which might pass either for an expres-
sion of resignation to his fate or joy at his deliverance.

He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived
at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary
on some points every time he told it, which was, doubt-
less, owing to his having so recently awaked. It at last
settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a
man, woman, or child in the neighborhood, but knew it by
heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it,
and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that
this was one point on which he always remained flighty.
The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally
gave it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a
thunderstorm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill,
but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their
game of nine-pins; and it is a common wish of all hen-
pecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs
heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting
draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon.

NOTE.

The foregoinff Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to
Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about tlio Em-
peror Frederick der Rothbart, and tlie Kyppliaiiser mountain : the
subjoined note, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows
that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity : —

** The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many,
but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know tlie vicinity
of our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvel-
lous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger
stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson ; all of which
were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even
talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him,
was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and con-
sistent on every other point, that I think no conscientiouB person
could refuse to take this into the bargain ; nay, I have seen a cer-
tificate on the subject taken before a country justice and signed
with a cross in the justice's own handwriting. The story, there-
fore, is beyond the possibility of doubt.

D. K."

52 The Sketch-JBook.

POSTSCRIPT.

The following are trayelling notes from a memorandum-book of
Mr. Knickerbocker : —

Tlio Eaatsberg or Catskill Mountains, have always been a region
fiill of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits,
who influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over
the landscape, and sending good or b^ hunting seasons. They
were ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to bo their mother. She
dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge of the
doors of day and night to open and shut them at the proper hour.
She hung up the new moons in the skies, and cut up the old ones
into stars. In times of drought, if properly propitiated, she would
spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, and
send them off from the crest of the mountain, flake after flake,
like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air ; until, dissolved
by the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, causing
the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an
inch an hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds
black as ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied
spider in tlie midst of its web ; and when these clouds broke, woe
betide the valleys I

In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of
Manitou or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the
Catskill Mountains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking
all kinds of evils and vexations upon the red men. Sometimes he
would assume the form of a boar, a panther, or a deer, lead the
bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forests and
among ragged rocks ; and then spring off with a loud ho! ho!
leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or raging
torrent.

The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great
rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the
flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers which
abound in its neighborhood, is known by the name of the Garden
Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the soli-
tary bittern, with water-snakes basking in the sun on the leaves
of the pond-lilies which lie on the surface. This place was held
in great awe by the Indians, insomuch that the boldest hunter
would not pursue his game within its precincts. Once upon a
time, however, a hunter who had lost his way penetrated to the
garden rock; where he behold a number of gourds placed in the
crotches of trees. One of these he seized and made off with it,
but in the hurry of his retreat he let it fall among the rocks, when
a great stream gushed forth, which washed him away and swept
him down the precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and the
stream made its way to the Hudson, and continues to flow to the
present day : being the identical stream known by the name of
the Kaaters-kili.

«.«

ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA.

Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, rouRing
herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible
locks : methinks I see her as an eagle, mewing her mighty youth,
and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full mid-day beam.

Milton on the Libekty of the Pkesb.

It is with feelings of deep regret that I observe the
literary animosity daily growing up between England and
Amerioa. '^ Great curiosity has been awakened of late witli
respect to the United States, and the London press has
teemed with volumes of travels through the Republic ; but
they seem intended to diffuse error rather than knowledge;
and so successful have they been, that, notwithstanding the
constant intercourse between the nations, there is no people
concerning whom the great mass of the British public
have less pure information, or entertain more numerous
prejudices.

English travellers are the best and the worst in the
world. -rWhere no motives of pride or interest intervene,
none can equal them for profound or philosophical views
of society, or faithful and graphical descriptions of external
objects ; but when either the interest or reputation of their
own country comes in collision with that of another, they
go to the opposite extreme, and forget their usual probity
and candor, in the indulgence of splenetic remark, and an
illiberal spirit of ridicule.

Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate, the
more remote the country described. I would place implicit
confidence in an Englishman's descriptions of the regions
beyond the cataracts of the Nile; of unknown islands in
the Yellow Sea ; of the interior of India ; or of any other
tract which other travellers might be apt to picture out
with the illusions of their fancies ; but I would cautiously
receive his account of his immediate neighbors, and of

54 The Sketch-Book.

those nations with which he is in habits of most frequent
intercourse. However I might be disposed to trust hb
probity, I dare not trust his prejudices.

It has also been the peculiar lot of our country to be
visited by the worst kind of English travellers. While
men of philosophical spirit and cultivated minds have been
sent from England to ransack the poles, to penetrate the
deserts, and to study the manners and customs of barbar-
ous nations, with which she can have no permanent inter-
course of profit or pleasure ; it has been left to the broken-
down tradesman, the scheming adventurer, the wandering
mechanic, the Manchester and Birmingham agent, to be her
oracles respecting America. From such sources she is con-
tent to receive her information respecting a country in a
singular state of moral and physical development; a coun-
try in which one of the greatest political experiments in
the history of the world is now performing; and which
presents the most profound and momentous studies to the
statesman and the philosopher.

That such men should give prejudicial accounts of Amer-
ica is not a matter of surprise. The themes it offers for
contemplation are too vast and elevated for their capaci-
ties. The national character is yet in a state of fermen-
tation; it may have its frothiness and sediment, but its
ingredients are sound and wholesome ; it has already given
proofs of powerful and generous qualities ; and the whole
promises to settle down into something substantially excel-
lent. But the causes which are operating to strengthen
and ennoble it, and its daily indications of admirable prop-
erties, are all lost upon these purblind observers ; who are
only affected by the little asperities incident to its present
situation. They are capable of judging only of the surface
of things; of those matters which come in contact with
their private interests and personal gratifications. They
miss some of the snug conveniences and petty comforts
which belong to an old, highly-finished, and over-populous
state of society, where the ranks of useful labor are
crowded, and many earn a painful and servile subsistence
by studying the very caprices of appetite and self-indnl-

English Writers on America. 56

gence. These minor comforts, however, are all-important
in the estimation of narrow minds ; which either do not
perceive or will not acknowledge, th<at they are more than
coonterbalanced among us by great and generally diffused
blessings.

They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in some un-
reasonable expectation of sudden gain. They may have
pictured America to themselves an Ei Dorado, where gold
and silver abounded, and the natives were lacking in saga-
city ; and where they were to become strangely and suddenly
rich, in some unforeseen, but easy manner. The same
weakness of mind that indulges absurd expectations pro-
duces petulance in disappointment. Such persons boeume
embittered against the country on finding that there, as
everywhere else, a man must sow before he can reap ; must
win wealth by industry and talent; and must contend with
the common difficulties of nature, and the shrewdness of
an intelligent and enterprising people.

Perhaps, through mistaken, or ill-directed hospitality, or
from the prompt disposition to cheer and countenance the
stranger, prevalent among my countrymen, they may have
been treated with unwonted respect in America ; and hav-
ing been accustomed all their lives to consider themselves
below the surface of good society, and brought up in a
servile feeling of inferiority, they become arrogant on the
common boon of civility : they attribute to the lowliness of
others their own elevation ; and underrate a society where
there are no artificial distinctions, and where, by any
chance, such individuals as themselves can rise to conse-
quence.

One would suppose, however, that information coming
from such sources, on a subject where the truth is so desir-
able, would be received with caution by the censors of the
press ; that the motives of these men, their veracity, their
opportunities of inquiry and observation, and their capa-
cities for judging correctly, would be rigorously scrutinized
before their evidence was admitted, in such sweeping ex-
tent, against a kindred nation. The very reverse, however,
is the case, and it furnishes a striking instance of human

56 TJie Sketch-Book.

inconsistency. Nothing can surpass the vigilance with
which English critics will examine the credibility of the
traveller who publishes an account of some distant, and
comparatively unimportant country. How warily will they
compare the measurements of a pyramid, or the descrip-
tions of a ruin; and how sternly will they censure any
inaccuracy in these contributions of merely curious knowl-
edge : while they will receive, with eagerness and unhesi-
tating faith, the gross misrepresentations of coarse and ob-
scure writers, concerning a country with which their own is
placed in the most important and delicate relations. Kay,
they will even make these apocryphal volumes text-books,
on which to enlarge with a zeal and an ability worthy of
a more generous cause.

I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome and hack-
neyed topic; nor should I have adverted to it, but for the
undue interest apparently taken in it by my countrymen,
and certain injurious effects which I apprehended it might
produce upon the national feeling. We attach too much
consequence to these attacks. They cannot do us any es-
sential injury. The tissue of misrepresentations attempted
to be woven round us are like cobwebs woven round the
limbs of an infant giant. Our country continually out-
grows them. One falsehood after anotlier falls off of
itself. We have but to live on, and every day we live a
whole volume of refutation.

All the writers of England united, if we could for a
moment suppose their great minds stooping to so unworthy
a combination, could not conceal our rapidly-growing im-
portance, and matchless prosperity. They could not con-
ceal that these are owing, not merely to physical and local,
but also to moral causes — to the political liberty, the gen-
eral diffusion of knowledge, the prevalence of sound moral
and religious principles, which give force and sustained
energy to the character of a people ; and which, in fact,
have been the acknowledged and wonderful supporters of
their own national power and glory.

But why are we so exquisitely alive to the aspersions of
England ? Why do we suffer ourselves to be so affected bv

English Writers on America, 57

the contumely she has endeavored to cast upon us ? It is
not in the opinion of England alone that honor lives, and
reputation has its being. The world at large is the arbiter
of a nation's fame ; with its thousand eyes it witnesses a
nation's deeds, and from their collective testimony is na-
tional glory or national disgrace established.

For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but little
importance whether England does us justice or not; it is,
perhaps, of far more importance to herself. She is instill-
ing anger and resentment into the bosom of a youthful
nation, to grow with its growth and strengthen with its
strength. If, in America, as some of her writers are labor-
ing to convince her, she is hereafter to find an invidious
rival, and a gigantic foe, she may thank those very writers
for having provoked rivalship and irritated hostility.
Every one knows the all-pervading influence of literature
at the present day, and how much the opinions and passions
of mankind are under its control. The mere contests of
the sword are temporary; their wounds are but in the flesh,
and it is the pride of the generous to forgive and forget
them. But the slanders of the pen pierce to the heart ; they
rankle longest in the noblest spirits ; they dwell ever pres-
ent in the mind, and render it morbidly sensitive to the
most trifling collision. It is but seldom that any one overt
act produces hostilities between two nations ; there exists,
most commonly, a previous jealousy and ill-will ; a predis-
position to take offence. Trace these to their cause, and
how often will they be found to originate in the mischiev-
ous effusions of mercenary writers; who, secure in their
closets, and for ignominious bread, concoct and circulate the
venom that is to inflame the generous and the brave.

I am not laying too much stress upon this point ; for it
applies most emphatically to our particular case. Over no
nation does the press hold a more absolute control than
over the people of America ; for the imiversal education of
the poorest classes makes every individual a reader. There
is nothing published in England on the subject of our
country that does not circulate through every part of it.
There is not a calunmy dropped from English pen, nor an

58 The Sketch-Book.

unworthy sarcasm uttered by an English statesman, that
does not go to blight good-will, and add to the mass of
latent resentment. Possessing, then, as England does, the
fountain-head whence the literature of the language flows,
how completely is it iij her power, and how truly is it her
duty, to make it the medium of amiable and magnanimous
feeling — a stream where the two nations might meet to-
gether, and drink in peace and kindness. Should she,
however, persist in turning it to waters of bitterness, the
time may come when she may repent her folly. The pres-
ent friendship of America may be of but little moment to
her ; but the future destinies of that country do not admit
of a doubt ; over those of England there lower some shadows
of uncertainty. Should, then, a day of gloom arrive : should
these reverses overtake her, from which the proudest em-
pires have not been exempt, — she may look back with regret
at her infatuation, in repulsing from her side a nation she
might have grappled to her bosom, and thus destroying her
only chance for real friendship beyond the boundaries of
her own dominions.

There is a general impression in England, that the people
of the United States are inimical to the parent country.
It is one of the errors which have been diligently propagated
by designing writers. There is, doubtless, considerable
political hostility, and a general soreness at the illiberality
of the English press ; but, generally speaking, the prepos-
sessions of the people are strongly in favor of England.
Indeed, at one time, they amounted, in many parts of the
Union, to an absurd degree of bigotry. The bare name of
Englishman was a passport to the confidence and hospitality
of every family, and too often gave a transient currency to
the worthless and the ungrateful. Throughout the country
there was something of enthusiasm connected with the idea
of England. We looked to it with a hallowed feeling of
tenderness and veneration, as the land of our forefathers —
the august repository of the monuments and antiquities of
our race — the birthplace and mausoleum of the sages and
heroes of our paternal history. After our own country,
there was none in whose glory we more delighted — none

English Writers on America, . 69

whose good opinion we were more anxious to possess — none
towards which our hearts yearned with such throbbings of
warm consanguinity. Even during the late war, whenever
tJiere was the least opportunity for kind feelings to spring
forth, it was the deUght of the generous spirits of our coun-
try to sl^ow that, in the midst of hostilities, they still kept
alive the sparks of future friendship.

Is all this to be at an end? Is this golden band of
kindred sympathies, so rare between nations, to be broken
forever? Perhaps it is for the best — it may dispel an
illusion which might have kept us in mental vassalage;
which might have interfered occasionally with our true
interests, and prevented the growth of proper national
pride. But it is hard to give up the kindred tic ! and there
are feelings dearer ^han interest — closer to the heart than
pride — ^that will still make us cast back a look of regret,
as we wander farther and farther from the paternal roof,
and lament the waywardness of the parent that would
repel the affections of the child.

Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the conduct of
England may be in this system of aspersion, recrimination
on our part would be equally ill-adjudged. I speak not of a
prompt and spirited vindication of our country, nor the
keenest castigation of her slanderers — but I allude to a
disposition to retaUate in kind ; to retort sarcasm, and in-
spire prejudice ; which seems to be spreading widely amon^jf
our writers. Let us guard particularly against such a
temper, for it would double the evil instead of redressing
the wrong. Nothing is so easy and inviting as the retort
of abuse and sarcasm ; but it is a paltry and an unprofitable
contest. It is the alternative of a morbid mind, fretted into
petulance, rather than warmed into indignation. If Eng-
land is willing to permit the mean jealousies of trade, or
the rancorous animosities of politics, to deprave the integ-
rity of her press, and poison the fountain of public opinion,
let us beware of her example. She may deem it her inter-
est to diffuse error, and engender antipathy, for the purpose
of checking emigration ; we have no purpose of the kind to
serve. Neither have we any spirit of national jealousy to

60 The SketchrBook.

gratify, for as yet, in all our rivalships with England, we
are the rising and the gaining party. There can be no end
to answer, therefore, but the gratification of resentment —
a mere spirit of retaliation ; and even that is impotent.
Our retorts are never republished in England: they fall
short, therefore, of their aim ; but they foster a queraloos
and peevish temper among our writers ; they sour the sweet
flow of our early literature, and sow thorns and brambles
among its blossoms. What is still worse, they circulate
through our own country, and, as far as they have effect,
excite virulent national prejudices. This last is the evil
most especially to be deprecated. Gk)verned, as we are, en-
tirely by public opinion, the utmost care should be taken
to preserve the purity of the pubJic mind. Knowledge is
power, and truth is knowledge ; whoever, therefore, know-
ingly propagates a prejudice, wilfully saps the foundation
of his country's strength.

The members of a republic, above all other men, should be
candid and dispassionate. They are, individually, portions
of the sovereign mind and sovereign will, and should be en-
abled to come to all questions of national concern with calm
and unbiased judgments. From the peculiar nature of our
relations with England, we must have more frequent ques-
tions of a difficult and delicate character with her than with
any other nation ; questions that affect the most acute and
excitable feelings; and as, in the adjusting of these, our
national measures must ultimately be determined by popu-
lar sentiment, we cannot be too anxiously attentive to purify
it from all latent passion or prepossession.

Opening, too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from
every portion of the earth, we should receive all with impar-
tiality. It should be our pride to exhibit an example of one
nation, at least, destitute of national antipathies, and exer-
cising not merely the overt acts of hospitality, but those
more rare and noble courtesies which spring from liberality
of opinion.

What have we to do with national prejudices? They are
the inveterate diseases of old countries, contracted in rude
ud ignorant ages, when nations knew but little of each

English Writers on America, 61

' ^ other, and looked beyond their own boundaries with dis-
1 trust and hostility. We, on the contrary, have sprung into

{national existence in an enlightened and philosophic age,
when the different parts of the habitable world, and the
various branches of the human family, have been inde-
fatigably studied and made known to each other ; and we
forego the advantages of our birth, if we do not shake off
the national prejudices, as we would the local superstitions,
of the old world.

But above all let us not be influenced by any angry feel-
ings, so far as to shut our eyes to the perception of what is
really excellent and amiable in the English character. We
are a young people, necessarily an imitative one, and must
take our examples and models, in a great degree, from the
existing nations of Europe. There is no country more
worthy of our study than England. The spirit of her con-
stitution IS niost analogous to ours. The manners of her
people — their intellectual activity — their freedom of opin-
ion — ^ their habits of thinking on those subjects which con-
cern the dearest interests and most sacred charities of
private life, are all congenial to the American character ;
and, in fact, are all intrinsically excellent ; for it is in the
moral feeling of the people that the deep foundations of
British prosperity are laid ; and however the superstructure
may be time-worn, or overrun by abuses, there must be
something solid in the basis, admirable in the materials,
and stable in the structure of an edifice, that so long has
towered unshaken amidst the tempests of the world.

Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, discarding
all feelings of irritation, and disdaining to retaliate the
illiberality of British authors, to speak of the English
nation without prejudice, and with determined candor.
While they rebuke the indiscriniinating bigotry witli
which some of our countrymen admire and imitate every-
thing English, merely because it is English, let them
frankly point out what is really worthy of approbation.
We may thus place England before us as a perpetual vol-
ume of reference, wherein are recorded sound deductions
from ages of experience ; and while we avoid the etto^^.

The Sketch-Book.

and absurdities which may have crept into the page,
we may draw thence golden maxims of practical wisdom,
wherewith to strengthen and to embellish our national
character.

"i^-n^ ■ — , Ml

RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND.

Oh I friendly to the best pursuits of man,
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace,
Domestic life in rural pleasures past I

COWPEB.

•The straDger who would form a correct opinion of the
English character must not confine his observations to the
metropolis. He mast go forth into the country ; he must
sojourn in villages and hamlets ; he must visit castles,
villas, farmhouses, cottages ; he must wander through
parks and gardens ; along hedges and green lanes ; he
must loiter about country churches; attend wakes and
fairs, and other rural festivals ; and cope with the people
in all their conditions, and all their habits and humors.

In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth and
fashion of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes of
elegant and intelligent society, and the country is inhab-
ited almost entirely by boorish peasantry. ' In England, on
the contrary, the metropolis is a mere gathering-place, or
general rendezvous, of the polite classes, where they de-
vote a small portion of the year to a hurry of gayety and
dissipation, and, having indulged this kind of carnival,
return again to the apparently more congenial habits of
rural life. The various orders of society are therefore
di£Pused over the whole surface of the kingdom, and the
most retired neighborhoods afford specimens 6i the differ-
ent ranks.

The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural
feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties
of nature, and a keen relish for the pleasures and employ-
ments of the country. This passion seems inherent in
them. Even the inhabitants of cities, born and brought
up among brick walls and bustling streets, enter with
facility into riiral habits, and evince a tact for rural occu-

64 The SketchrBook.

pation. The merchant has hb snag retreat in the vicinity *
of the metropolis, where he often displays as much pride
and zeal in the cultivation of his flower garden, and the
maturing of his fruits, as he does in the conduct of his
business, and the success of a commercial enterprise.
Even those less fortunate individuals, who are doomed to
pass their lives in the midst of din and trafiic, contrive to
have something that shall remind them of the green
aspect of nature. In the most dark and dingy quarters
of the city, the drawing-room window resembles fre-
quently a bank of flowers : every spot capable of vegeta-
tion has its grassplot and flower bed ; and every square its
mimic park, laid out with picturesque taste, and gleaming
with refreshing verdure.

Those who see the Englishman only in town are apt to
form an unfavorable opinion of his social character. He is
either absorbed in business, or distracted by the thousand
engagements that dissipate time, thought^ and feeling, in
this huge metropolis. He has, therefore, too commonly a
look of hurry and abstraction. Wherever he happens to
be, ho is on the point of going somewhere else; at the
moment he is talking on one subject, his mind is wander-
ing to another ; and while paying a friendly visit, he is cal-
culating how he shall economize time so as to pay the other
visits allotted to the morning. An immense metropolis, like
London, is calculated to make men selfish and uninteresting.
In their casual and transient meetings, they can but deal
briefly in commonplaces. They present but the cold super-
ficies of character — its rich and genial qualities have no
time to be warmed into a flow.

It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to
his natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold
formalities and negative civilities of town ; throws off his
habits of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free-hearted.
He manages to collect around him all the conveniences and
elegancies of polite life, and to banish its restraints. His
country-seat abounds with every requisite, either for stu-
dious retirement, tasteful gratification, or rural exercise.
Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, and sporting imple-

Burai Life in England. 65

ments of all kinds, are at hand. He puts no constraint
either upon his gaests or himself, but in the true spirit of
hospitality provides the means of enjoyment, and leaves
every one to partake according to his inclination.

The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and
in what is called landscape gardening, is unrivalled. Tliey
have studied nature uitently, and discover an exquisite
sense of her beautiful forms and harmonious combinations.
Those charms, which in other countries she lavishes in wild
solitudes, are here assembled round the haunts of domestic
life. They seem to have caught her coy and furtive
graces, and spread them, like witchery, about their rural
abodes.

Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence of
English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend hke sheets
of vivid green, with hereiind there clumps of gigantic trees,
heaping up rich piles of foliage : the solemn pomp of groves
and woodland glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds
across them; the hare, bounding away to the covert; or the
pheasant, suddenly bursting upon the wing: the brook,
taught to wind in natural meanderings or expand into a
glassy lake : the sequestered pool, reflecting the quivering
trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the
trout roaming fearlessly about its limpid waters; while
some rustic temple or sylvan statue, grown green and
dank with age, gives an air of classic sanctity to the se-
clusion.

These are but a few of the features of park scenery ; but
what most delights me, is the creative talent with which
the English decorate the unostentatious abodes of middle
life. The rudest habitation, the most unpromising and
scanty portion of land, in the hands of an Englishman of
taste, becomes a little paradise. With a nicely discnm-
inating eye, he seizes at once upon its capabilities, and
pictures in his mind the future landscape. The sterile
spot grows into loveliness under his hand ; and yet the
operations of art which produce the effect are scarcely to
be perceived. The cherishing and training of some trees,
the cautious pruning of others; the nice distribution of

66 The Sketch-Book.

flowers and plants of tender and graceful foliage ; the in-
troduction of a green slope of velvet tarf ; the partial
opening to a peep of hlue distance, or silver gleam of
water : all these are managed with a delicate tact, a per-
vading yet quiet assiduity, like the magic touchings with
which a painter finishes up a favorite picture.

The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the
country has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural
economy, that descends to the lowest class. The very la-
borer, with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground,
attends to their embellishment. The trim hedge, the grass-
plot before the door, the little flower bed bordered with snug
box, the woodbine trained up against the wall, and hanging
its blossoms about the lattice, the pot of flowers in the win-
dow, the holly, providently planted about the house, to cheat
winter of its dreariness, and to throw in a semblance of
green summer to cheer the fireside : all these bespeak the
influence of taste, flowing down from high sources, and per-
vading the lowest levels of the public mind. K ever Love,
as poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, it must be the
cottage of an English peasant.

'^ . The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of
the English has had a great and salutary effect upon the
national character. I do not know a finer race of men than
the English gentlemen. Instead of the softness and efl^em-
inacy which characterize the men of rank in most countries,
they exhibit a union of elegance and strength, a robustness
of frame and freshness of complexion, which I am inclined
to attribute to their living so much in the open air, and pur-
suing so eagerly the invigorating recreations of the country.
These hardy exercises produce also a healthful tone of
mind and spirits, and a manliness and simplicity of man-
ners, which even the follies and dissipations of the town
cannot easily pervert, and can never entirely destroy. In
the country, too, the different orders of society seem to ap-
proach more freely, to be more disposed to blend and
operate favorably upon each other. The distinctions be-
tween them do not appear to be so marked and impassable
as in the cities. The manner in which property has been

Hural I4fe in England. 67

distributed into small estates and farms has established a
regular gradation from the nobleman, through the classes
of gentry, small landed proprietors, and substantial
farmers, down to the laboring peasantry; and while it has
thus banded the extremes of society together, has infused
into each intermediate rank a spirit of independence.
This, it must be confessed, is not so universally the case at
present as it was formerly ; the larger estates having, in
late years of distress, absorbed the smaller, and, in some
parts of the country, almost annihilated the sturdy race
of small farmers. These, however, I believe, are but
casual breaks in the general system I have mentioned.

In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing.
It leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and
beauty; it leaves him to the workings of his own mind,
operated upon by the purest and most elevating of external
influences. Such a man may be simple and rough, but he
cannot be vulgar. The man of refinement, therefore, finds
nothing revolting in an intercourse with the lower orders
in rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with the
lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and
reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and
to enter into the honest, heartfelt enjoyments of common
life. Indeed the very amusements of the country bring
men more and more together ; and the sounds of hound and
horn blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one
great reason why the nobility and gentry are more popular
among the inferior orders in England than they are in
any other country; and why the latter have endured so
many excessive pressures and extremities, without repining
more generally at the unequal distribution of fortune and
privilege.

^To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may
also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through
British literature; the frequent use of illustrations from
rural life; those incomparable descriptions of nature that
abound in the British poets, that have continued down from
ITie Flower and the Leaf of Chaucer, and have brought
into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy
landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear

68 The SketchrBooh.

as if they had paid nature an occasional visit, and become
acquainted with her general charms ; but the British poets
have lived and revelled with her — they have wooed her
in her most secret haunts — they have watched her minut-
est caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze —
a leaf could not rustle to the ground — a diamond drop
could not patter in the stream — a fragrance could not
exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its
crimson tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by
these impassioned and delicate observers, and wrought up
into some beautiful morality.

The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural
occupations has been wonderful on the face of the country.
A great part of the island is rather level, and would be
monotonous, were it not for the charms of culture : but it
is studded and gemmed, as it were, with castles and palaces,
and embroidered with parks and gardens. It does not
abound in grand and sublime prospects, but rather in little
home scenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet. Every
antique farmhouse and moss-grown cottage is a picture :
and as the roads are continually winding, and the view is
shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is delighted by a
continual succession of small landscapes of captivating
loveliness.

The great charm, however, of English scenery is the
moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated
in the mind with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober well-
established principles, of hoary usage and reverend custom.
Everything seems to be the growth of ages of regular and
peaceful existence. The old church of remote architecture,
with its low massive portal; its gothic tower; its windows
rich with tracery and painted glass, in scrupulous preserva-
tion; its stately monuments of warriors and worthies of
the olden time, ancestors of the present lords of the soil ;
its tombstones, recording successive generations of sturdy
yeomanry, whose progeny still plough the same fields, and
kneel at the same altar — the parsonage, a quaint irregular
pile, partly antiquated, but repaired and altered in the
tastes of various ages and occupants — the stile and foot-
path leading from the churchyard, across pleasant fields,

Hural Life in England. 69

and along shady hedge-rows, according to an immemorial
right of way — the neighboring village, with its venerable
cottages, its pablic green sheltered by trees, under which
the forefathers of the present race have sported — the
antique family mansion, standing apart in some little rural
domain, but looking down with a protecting air on the sur-
rounding scene: all these common features of English
landscape evince a calm and settled security, and a hereditary
transmission of homebred virtues and local attachments,
that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character
of the nation.

It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when the
bell is sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to
behold the peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy faces
and modest cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along the
green lanes to church ; but it is still more pleasing to see
them in the evenings, gathering about their cottage doors,
and appearing to exult in the humble comforts and embel-
lishments which their own hands have spread around them.

It is this sweet home-feeling, this settled repose of affec-
tion in the domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent of
the steadiest virtues and purest enjoyments ; and I cannot
close these desultory remarks better, than by quoting the
words of a modern English poet, who has depicted it with
remarkable felicity : —

Through each gradation, froni the castled hall,
The city dome, the villa crown*d with shade,
But chief from modest mansions numberless,
In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life,
Down to the cottsu^ed vale, and straw roof d shed ;
This western isle hath long been famed for scenes
Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place ;
Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove,
(Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard,)
Can centre in a little quiet nest
All that desire would fly for through the earth ;
That can, the world eluding, be itself
A world enjoyed; that wants no witnesses
But its own sharers, and approving heaven;
That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft,
Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky.

From a Foem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the Reverend
Bann Kennedy, A. M .

THE BROKEN HEART.

I never heard
Of any true affection, but ^twas nipt
With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats
The leaves of the springes sweetest book, the rose.

MiDDLETOK.

It is a common practice with those who have outlived
the susceptibility of early feeling, or have been brought up
in the gay heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all
love stories, and to treat the tales of romantic passion as
mere fictions of novelists and poets. My observations on
human nature have induced me to think otherwise. They
have convinced me, that however the surface of the char-
acter may be chilled and frozen by the cares of the world,
or cultivated into mere smiles by the arts of society, still
there are dormant fires lurking in the depths of the coldest
bosom, which, when once enkindled, become impetuous,
and are sometimes desolating in their effects. Indeed, I
am a true believer in the blind deity, and go to the full ex-
tent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it?— ^I believe in
broken hearts, and the possibility of dying of disappointed
love. I do not, however, consider it a malady often fatal
to my own sex ; but I firmly believe that it withers down
many a lovely woman into an early grave.

Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature
leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world.
Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song
piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for
fortune, for space in the world^s thought, and dominion
over his fellow-men. ^ But a woman's whole life is a history
of the affections. The heart is her world : it is there her
ambition strives for empire ; it is there her avarice seeks
fpr hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on
idventure; she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of

The Broken Heart. 7 1

affection ; and if shipwrecked, her case is hopele>H — for it
is a bankrnptcy of the heart.

To a man the disappointment of love may occasion some
bitter pangs: it wounds some feelings of tenderness — it
blasts some prospects of felicity ; but he is an active being
— he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied oc-
cupation, or may plunge into the tide of pleasure ; or, if the
scene of disappointment be too full of painful associations,
he can shift his abode at will, and taking as it were the
wings of the morning, can ^^ Hy to the uttermost parts of
the earth, and be at rest."

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded and
meditative life. She is more the companion of her own
thoughts and feelings ; and if they are turned to ministers
of sorrow, where shall she look for consolation ? • Her lot
is to be wooed and won ; and if unhappy in her love, her
heart is like some fortress that has been captured, and
sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate.

How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft
cheeks grow pale — how many lovely forms fade away into
the tomb; and none can tell the cause that blighted their
loveliness ! As the dove will clasp its wings to its side,
and cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on its
vitals, so is it the nature of woman to hide from the
world the pangs of wounded affection. The love of a
delicate female is always shy and silent. Even when for-
tunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when
otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and
there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her peace.
With her the desire of the heart has failed. The great
charm of existence is at an end. She neglects all the
cheerful exercises which gladden the spirits, quicken the
pulses, and send the tide of life in healthful currents
through the veins. Her rest is broken — the sweet re-
freshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams —
" dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame
sinks under the slightest external injury. Look for her,
after a little while, and you find friendship weeping over
her untimely grave, and wondering that one, who but

72 The Sketch-Booh.

lately glowed with all the radiance of health and beauty,
should so speedily be brought down to " darkness and
the worm." You will be told of some wintry chill, some
casual indisposition, that laid her low ; — but no one knows
of the mental malady which previously sapped her strength,
and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler.

She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the
grove ; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with
the worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly with-
ering, when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We
see it drooping its branches to the earth, and shedding
leaf by leaf, until, wasted and perished away, it falls even
in the stillness of the forest ; and as we muse over the
beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast or
thunderbolt that could have smitten it with decay.

I have seen many instances of women running to waste
and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the
earth, almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven ; and
have repeatedly fancied that I could trace their death
through the various declensions of consumption, cold, de-
bility, languor, melancholy, until I reached the first symp-
tom of disappointed love. But an instance of the kind
was lately told to me ; the circumstances are well known
in the country where they happened, and I shall but give
them in the manner in which they were related.

Every one must recollect the tragical story of young

E , the Irish patriot; it was too touching to be soon

forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland, he was tried,
condemned, and executed, on a charge of treason. His
fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He waii
so young — so intelligent — so generous — so brave — so
everything that we are apt to like in a young man. His
conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The
noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of
treason against his country — the eloquent vindication of
his name — and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the
hopeless hour of condemnation — all these entered deeply
into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented
the stern policy that dictated his execution.

Tlie Broken Heart 73

But there is one heart, whose angnish it would be im-
possibie to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes,
lie had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting
^1, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She
oved him with the disinterested fervor of a woman's first
md early love. When every wordly maxim arrayed itself
igainst him; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and
langer darkened around his name, she loved him the more
u-dently for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could
iwaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have
3een the agony of her, whose whole soul was occupied by
lis image ! Let those tell who have had the portals of the
x>mb suddenly closed between them and the being they
noBt loved on earth — who have sat at its threshold, as one
»hnt out in a cold and lonely world, whence all that was
nost lovely and loving had departed.

But then the horrors of such a grave ! so frightful, so
lishonored there was nothing for memory to dwell on that
)ould soothe the pang of separation — none of those tender
ihough melancholy circumstances, which endear the parting
»cene — nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears,
lent like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the
mrting hour of anguish.

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had
ncnrred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attach-
nent, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could
/he sympathy and kind ofiices of friends have reached a
spirit 80 shocked and driven in by horror, she would have
experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a
people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most deli-
cate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of
Bvealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they
jded by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate
iier grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her lover.
But it was all in vain.^^are are some strokes of calamity
Rrhich scathe and sco^H|^ soul — which penetrate to the
dtal seat of happiness^/- and blast it, never again to put
:orth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the
launts of pleasure, but was as much aloiie \>\v^t^ ^Ji^ \sv n}cl^

74 The SketchrBook.

depths of solitude ; walking about in a sad reverie, appar-
ently unconscious of the world around her. She carried
with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandish-
ments of friendsliip, and "heeded not the song of the
charmer, charm he never so wisely."

The person who told me her story had seen her at a mas-
querade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretched-
ness more striking and painful than to meet it in such a
scene. To find it wandering like a spectre, lonely and joy-
less, where all around is gay — to see it dressed out in
trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and woebegone, as
if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a mo-
mentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through
the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter
abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra,
and, looking about for some time with a vacant air, that
showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she began,
with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a
little plaintive air. She had' an exquisite voice ; but on
this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed
forth such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd
mute and silent around her, and melted every one into
tears.

The story of one so true and tender could not but excite
great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It
completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his
addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead
could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined
his attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed
by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted
in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem.
He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her
sense of her own destitute and dependent situation, for she
was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he
at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with
the solemn assurance, that her heart was unalterably
another's.

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of
scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She

^*2rs— ^*3P

The Broken Heart.

•s an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to
a happy one; bat nothing could cure the silent and
vooring melancholy that had entered into her very soul.
le wasted away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and at
igth sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart.
It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet,
mposed the following lines : —

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers around her are sip^hing:
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,

For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild sonffs of her dear native plains,

Every note which he loved awaking —
Ah I little thev think, who delight in her strains,

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking I

He had lived for his love — for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwined him —

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh I make her a grave where the sunbeams rest.

When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o*er her sleep, like a smile from the west,

From her own loved island of sorrow!

ci-i

■ • • f ■ ..,■•• 4

'-(

*> r

THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING.

If that severe doom of Synesius be true — ^* It is a greater \r
oftence to steal dead men^s labor, than their clothes," what shall
become of most writers?

Burton's Anatobtt of Melangholt.

I HAYB often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the
press, and how it comes to pass that so many heads, on
which nature seemed to have inflicted the curse of barren-
ness, should teem with voluminous productions. As a man
travels on, however, in the journey of life, his objects of
wonder daily diminish, and he is continually finding out
some very simple cause for some great matter of marvel.
Thus have I chanced, in my peregrinations about this great
metropolis, to blunder upon a scene which unfolded to me
some of the mysteries of the book-making craft, and at
once put an end to my astonishment.

I was one summer's day loitering through the great
saloons of the British Museum, with that listlessness with
which one is apt to saunter about a museum in warm
weather ; sometimes lolling over the glass cases of min-
erals, sometimes studying the hieroglyphics on an Egyp-
tian mummy, and sometimes trying, with nearly equal suc-
cess, to comprehend the allegorical paintings on the lofty
ceilings. Whilst I was gazing about in this idle way, my
attention was attracted to a distant door, at the end of a
suite of apartments. It was closed, but every now and
then it would open, and some strange-favored being, gen-
erally clothed in black, would steal forth, and glide through
the rooms, without noticing any of the surrounding ob-
jects. There was an air of mystery about this that piqued
my languid curiosity, and I determined to attempt the
passage of that strait, and to explore the unknown regions
beyond. The door yielded to my hand, with that facility

The Art ^of Book-Making, 77

I which the portals of enchanted castles yield to the
enturous knight- errant. I found myself in a spacious
nber, surrounded with great cases of venerable books,
►ve the cases, and just under the cornice, were arranged
eat number of black-looking portraits of ancient au-
•8. About the room were placed long tables, with
ds for reading and writing, at which sat many pale,
lious person ages,, poring intently over dusty volumes,
maging among mouldy manuscripts, and taking copious
(8 of their contents. A hushed stillness reigned through
my^rious apartment, excepting that you might hear
racing of pens over sheets of paper, or occasionally,
deep sigh of one of these sages, as he shifted his posi-
to turn over the page of an old folio ; doubtless aris-
from that hollowness and flatulency incident to learned
arch.

ow and then one of these personages would write
ething on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell, where-
D a familiar would appear, take the paper in profound
ice, glide out of the room, and return shortly loaded
I ponderous tomes, upon which the other would fall
h and nail with famished voracity. I had no longer a
bt that I had happened upon a body of magi, deeply
iged in the study of occult sciences. The scene re-
ded me of an old Arabian tale, of a philosopher shut up
m enchanted library, in the bosom of a mountain,
ch opened only once a year; where he made the
its of the place bring him books of all kinds of dark
wledge, so that at the end of the year, when the
pic portal once more swung open on its hinges, he
ed forth so versed in forbidden lore, as to be able to
' above the heads of the multitude, and to control the
'erg of nature.

[y curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to

of the familiars, as he was about to leave the room,

begged an interpretation of the strange scene before

A few words were Efficient for the purpose. I found

't these mysterious personages, whom I had mistaken

magi, were principally authors, and in the very act of

78 The Sketch-BooJc, i

manufactunng books. I was, in fact, in the reading-room
of the great British Library — an immense collection of
volumes of all ages and languages, many of which are now
forgotten, and most of which are seldom read : one o{ these
sequestered pools of obsolete literature, to which modem
authors repair, and draw buckets full of classic lore, or i
" pure English, undefiled," wherewith to swell their own I
scanty rills of thought. j

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a I
corner, and watched the process of this book manufactory. 1
I noticed one lean, bilious-looking ^"ight, who sought none -
but the most worm-eaten volumes, printed in black-letter. I
He was evidently constructing some work of profound eru-
dition, that would be purchased by every man who wished
to be thought learned, placed upon a conspicuous shelf
of his library, or laid open upon his table ; but never read.
I observed him, now and then, draw a large fragment of
biscuit out of his pocket, and gnaw ; whether it was his
dinner, or whether he was endeavoring to keep off that
exhaustion of the stomach produced by much pondering
over dry works, I leave to harder students than myself to
determine.

There was one dapper little gentleman in bright-colored
clothes, with a chirping, gossiping expression of counte-
nance, who had all the appearance of an author on good
terms with his bookseller. After considering him atten-
tively, I recognized in him a diligent getter-up of miscella-
neous works, which bustled off well with the trade. I was
curious to see how he manufactured his wares. He made
more stir and show of business than any of the others ;
dipping into various books, fluttering over the leaves of
manuscri])t8, taking a morsel out of one, a morsel out of
another, "line upon line, precept upon precept, here a
little and there a little." The contents of his book
seemed to be as heterogeneous as those of the witches' cal-
dron in Macbeth. It was here a finger and there a thumb,
toe of frog and blind-worm's sting, with his own gossip
poured in like "baboon's blood," to make the medley " slab
and good."

The Art of Book- Making. 79

After all, thought I, may not this^ilfering disposition be
implanted in authors for wise purposes ; may it not be the
way in which Providence has taken care that the seeds of
knowledge and wisdom shall be preserved from age to age,
in spite of the inevitable decay of the works in which they
were first produced? We see that nature has wisely,
though whimsically, provided for the conveyance of seeds
from clime to clime, in the maws of certain birds ; so that
animals, which, in themselves, are little better than carrion,
and apparently the lawless plunderers of the orchard and
the cornfield, are, in fact, nature's carriers to disperse and
perpetuate her blessings. In like manner, the beauties and
fine thoughts of ancient and obsolete authors are caught up
by these flights of predatory writers, and cast forth again
to flourish and bear fruit in a remote and distant tract of
time. Many of their works, also, undergo a kind of me-
tempsychosis, and spring up under new forms. What was
formerly a ponderous history revives in the shape of a
romance — an old legend changes into a modern play — and
a sober philosophical treatise furnishes the body for a whole
series of bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus it is in the
clearing of our American woodlands ; where we burn down
a forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up
in their place : and we never see the prostrate trunk of a
tree mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to a whole tribe
of fungi.

Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion into
which ancient writers descend; they do but submit to the
great law of nature, which declares that all sublunary
shapes of matter shall be limited in their duration, but
which decrees, also, that their elements shall never perish.
Greneration after generation, both in animal and vegetable
life, passes away, but the vital principle is transmitted to
posterity, and the species continue to flourish. Thus, also,
do authors beget authors, and having produced a numerous
progeny, in a good old age they sleep with their fathers,
that is to say, with the authors who preceded them — and
from whom they had stolen.

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies^ I l\^d

80 Th^ Sketch-Book.

leaned my head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether
it was owing to the soporific emanations from these works ;
or to the profound quiet of the room ; or to the lassitude
arising from much wandering ; or to an unlucky habit of
napping at improper times and places, with which I am
grievously afflicted, so it was, that I fell into a doze. Still,
however, my imagination continued busy, and indeed the
same scene remained before my mind's eye, only a little
changed in some of the details. I dreamt that the chamber
was still decorated with the portraits of ancient authors,
but that the number was increased. The long tables had
disappeared, and, in place of the sage magi, I beheld a
ragged, threadbare throng, such as may be seen plying
about the great repository of cast-off clothes, Mon mouth-
street. "^ Whenever they seized upon a book, by one of
those incongruities common to dreams, metbought it turned
into a garment of foreign or antique fashion, with which
they proceeded to equip themselves. ^ I noticed, however,
that no one pretended to clothe himself from any particular
suit, but took a sleeve from one, a cape from another, a
skirt from a third, thus decking himself out piecemeal,
while some of his original rags would peep out from among
his borrowed finery.

There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I ob-
served ogling several mouldy polemical writers through an
eye-glass. He soon contrived to slip on the voluminous
mantle of one of the old fathers, and, having purloined
the gray beard of another, endeavored to look exceedingly
wise ; but the smirking commonplace of his countenance
set at nought all the trappings of wisdom. One sickly-
looking gentleman was busied embroidering a very flimsy
garment with gold thread drawn out of several old court-
dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Another had
trimmed himself magnificently from an illuminated manu-
script, had stuck a nosesjay in his bosom, culled from The
Paradise of Daintie DeviceSy and having put Sir Philip
Sidney's hat on one side of his head, strutted off with an
exquisite air of vulgar elegance. A third, who was but of
puny dimensions, had bolstered himself out bravely M'ith
the jspoils from several obscure tracts of philosophy, so that

Tlie Ah of Book-Making. 81

he had a very imposing front ; but he was lamentably tat-
tered in rear, and I perceived that he had patched his
small-clothes with scraps of parchment from a Latin
author.

There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who
only helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled
among their own ornaments, without eclipsing them. Some,
too, seemed to contemplate the costumes of the old writers,
merely to imbibe their principles of taste, and to catch
their air and spirit ; but I grieve to say, that too many
were apt to array themselves from top to toe in the patch-
work manner I have mentioned. I shall not omit to speak
of one genius, in drab breeches and gaiters, and an Arca-
dian hat, who had a violent propensity to the pastoral, but
whose rural wanderings had been confined to the classic
haunts of Primrose Hill, and the solitudes of the Regent's
Park. He had decked himself in wreaths and ribbons from
all the old pastoral poets, and, hanging his head on one
side, went about with a fantastical lack-a-daisical air, ^ bab-
bling about green fields.'' But the personage that most
struck my attention was a pragmatical old gentleman, in
clerical robes, with a remarkably large and square, but
bald head. He entered the room wheezing and puffing,
elbowed his way through the throng, with a look of sturdy
self-confidence, and having laid hands upon a thick Greek
quarto, clapped it upon his head, and swept majestically
away in a formidable frizzled wig.

In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenly
resounded from every side, of "Thieves! thieves!" I
looked, and lo ! the portraits about the wall became ani-
mated ! The old authors thrust out, first a head, then a
. shoulder, from the canvas, looked down curiously, for an
instant, upon the motley throng, and then descended with
fury in their eyes, to claim their rified property. The
scene of scampering and hubbub that ensued bafiles all
description. The unhappy culprits endeavored in vain to
escape with their plunder. On one side might be seen
half a dozen old monks, stripping a modem professor ; on
another, there was sad devastation carried into the ranks
of modern dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, side

82 The Sketch-Book.

by side, raged round the field like Castor and PoUoz, and
sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more wonders than when a
volunteer with the army in Flanders. As to the dapper
little compiler of farragos, mentioned sometime since, he
had arrayed himself in as many patcheiS and colors as
Harlequin, and there was as fierce a contention of claim-
ants about him, as about the dead body of Patroclus. I
was grieved to see many men, to whom I had been accus-
tomed to look up with awe and reverence, fain to steal off
with scarce a rag to cover their nakedness. Just then my
eye was caught by the pragmatical old gentlemen in the
Greek grizzled wig, who was scrambling away in sore af-
fright with half a score of authors in full cry after him !
They were close upon his haunches : in a twinkling off
went his wig ; at every turn some strip of raiment was
peeled away ; until in a few minutes, from his domineer-
ing pomp, he shrunk into a little, pursy, « chapped bald
shot," and made his exit with only a few tags and rags
fluttering at his back.

There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of
this learned Theban, that I burst into an immoderate fit of
laughter, which broke the whole illusion. The tumult and
the scuffle were at an end. The chamber resumed its
usual appearance. The old authors shrunk back into their
picture frames, and hung in shadowy solemnity along the
walls. In short, 1 found myself wide awake in my cor-
ner, with the whole assemblage of book-worms gazing at
me with astonishment. Nothing of the dream had been
real but my burst of laughter, a sound never before heard
in that grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the ears of
wisdom, as to electrify the fraternity.

The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded
whether I had a card of admission. At first I did not
comprehend him, but I soon found that the library was
a kind of literary " preserve," subject to game-laws, and
that no one must presume to hunt there without special
license and permission. In a word, I stood convicted of
being an arrant poacher, and was glad to make a precipi-
tate retreat, lest I should have a whole pack of authors let
loose upon me.

A ROYAL POET.

Though your body be confined,

And soft love a prisoner bound,
Yet the beauty of your mind
Neither check nor chain hath found,
Look out nobly, then, and dare
Even the fetters that you wear.

Fletcher.

On a Boft sunny morning in the genial month of May, I
made an excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place full
of storied and poetical associations. The very external
aspect of the proud old pile is enough to inspire high
thought. It rears its irregular walls and massive towers,
like a mural crown, round the brow of a lofty ridge, waves
its royal banner in the clouds, and looks down, with a lordly
air, upon the surrounding world.

On this morning the weather was of that voluptuous ver-
nal kind, which calls forth all the latent romance of a man's
temperament, filling his mind with music, and disposing
him to quote poetry and dream of beauty. Ill wandering
through the magnificent saloons and long echoing galleries
of the castle, I passed with indifference by long rows of
portraits of warriors and statesmen, but lingered in the
chamber, where hang the likenesses of the beauties which
graced the gay court of Charles the Second; and as I gazed
upon them, depicted with amorous, half-dishevelled tresses,
and the sleepy eye of love, I blessed the pencil of Sir Peter
Lely, which had thus enabled me to bask in the reflected
rays of beauty. In traversing also the " large green courts,"
with sunshine beaming on the gray walls, and glancing
along the velvet turf, my mind was engrossed with the
image of the tender, the gallant, but hapless Surrey, and
bis account of his loiterings about them in his stripling
days, when enamored of the Lady Geraldine —

84 The Sketch-BooJc,

** With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower,
With easie sighs, such as men draw in love."

In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visited the
ancient Keep of tlie Castle, where James the First of Scot-
laud, the pride and theme of Scottish poets and historians,
was for many years of his youth detained a prisoner of
state. It is a large gray tower, that has stood the brunt
of ages, and is still in good preservation. It stands on a
mound, which elevates it above the other parts of the castle,
and a great flight of steps leads to the interior. In the
armory, a Gothic hall, furnished with weapons of various
kinds and ages, I was shown a coat of armor hanging
against the wall, which had once belonged to James.
Hence I was conducted up a staircase to a suite of apart-
ments of faded magnificence, hung with storied tapestry,
which formed his prison, and the scene of that passionate
and fanciful amour, which has woven into the web of his
story the magical hues of poetry and fiction.

Tlie whole history of this amiable but unfortunate prince
is highly romantic. At the tender age of eleven he was
sent from home by his father, Robert III., and destined
for the French court, to be reared under the eye of the
French monarch, secure from the treachery and danger
that surrounded the royal house of Scotland. It was his
mishap in the course of his voyage to fall into the hands
of the English, and he was detained prisoner by Henry IV.,
notwithstanding that a truce existed between the two
countries.

The intelligence of his capture, coming in the train of
many sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to his unhappy
father. "The news," wo are told, "was brought to him
while at supper, and did so overwhelm him with grief, that
ho was almost ready to give up the ghost into the hands
of the servant that attended him. But being carried to his
bed-chamber, he abstained from all food, and in three days
died of huHger and grief at Rothesay." i

James was detained in captivity above eig hteen years;

* Buohanan. " ' '

A Royal Poet. 85

but though deprived of personal liberty, he was treated
with the respect due to his rank. Care was taken to in-
struct him in all the branches of useful knowle<lge culti-
vated at that period, and to give him those mental and
personal accomplishments deemed proper for a prince.
Perhaps, in this respect, his imprisonment was an advan-
tage, as it enabled him to apply himself the more exclusively
to his improvement, and quietly to imbibe that rich fund of
knowledge, and to cherish those elegant tastes, which have
given such a lustre to his memory. The picture drawn of
him in early life, by the Scottish historians, is highly cap-
tivating,* and seems rather the description of a hero of
romance, than of a character in real history. He was well
learnt, we are told, " to fight with the sword, to joust, to
toumay, to wrestle, to sing and dance; he was an expert
mediciner, right crafty in playing both of lute and harp,
and sundry other instruments of music, and was an expert in
grammar, oratory, and poetry." *

With this combination of manly and delicate accomplish-
ments, fitting him to shine both in active and elegant life,
and calculated to give him an intense relish for joyous
existence, it must have been a severe trial, in an age of
bustle and chivalry, to pass the springtime of his years
in monotonous captivity. It was the good fortune of
James, however, to be gifted with a powerful poetic fancy,
and to be visited in his prison by the choicest inspirations
of the muse. Some minds corrode and grow inactive, under
the loss of personal liberty; others grow morbid and irri-
table; but it is the nature of the poet to become tender and
imaginative in the loneliness of confinement. He banquets
upon the honey of his own thoughts, and, like the captive
bird, pours forth his soul in melody.

Have you not seen the nightingale,

A pilgrim coop'd into a cage,
How doth she chant her wonted tale,
In that her lonely hermitage!
Even there her charming melody doth prove
That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.*

1 BaUenden's Translation of Hector Boyce.
* Roger L' Estrange.

86 The Sketch-Book.

Indeed, it is tbe divine attribute of the imagination, that
it is irrepressible, an con finable ; that when the real world
is shut out, it can create a world for itself, and with a
necromantic power, can conjure up glorious shapes and
forms, and brilliant visions, to make solitude populous,
and irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. Such was the
world of pomp and pageant that lived round Tasso in his
dismal cell at Ferrara, when he conceived the splendid
scenes of his Jerusalem ; and we may consider the King^s
QtcaiVy composed by James, during his captivity at Wind-
sor, as another of those beautiful breakings-forth of the
soul from the restraint and gloom of the prison house.

The subject of the poem is his love for the Lady Jane
Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and a princess of
the blood royal of England, of whom he became enamored in
the course of his captivity. What gives it a peculiar value,
is that it may be considered a transcript of the royal bard's
true feelings, and the story of his real loves and fortunes.
It is not often that sovereigns write poetry, or that poets
deal in fact. It is gratifying to the pride of a common man,
to find a monarch thus suing, as it were, for admission into
his closet, and seeking to win his favor by administering to
his pleasures. It is a proof of the honest equality of intel-
lectual competition, which strips off all the trappings of
factitious dignity, brings the candidate down to a level
with his fellow-men, and obliges him to depend on his own
native powers for distinction. It is curious, too, to get at
the history of a monarch's heart, and to find the simple
affections of human nature throbbing under the ermine.
But James had learned to be a poet before he was a king ; he
was schooled in adversity, and reared in the company of
his own thoughts. Monarchs have seldom time to parley
with their hearts, or to meditate their minds into poetry ;
and had James been brought up amidst the adulation and
gayety of a court, we should never, in all probability, have
had such a poem as the Quair.

I have been particularly interested by those parts of the

poem which breathe his immediate thoughts concerning his

HHj|Giation, or which are connected with the apartment in the

A Royal Poet. 87

tower Tbey have thus a personal ana local charm, and
are given with such circumstantial truth, as to make the
reader present with the captive in his prison, and the com-
panion of his meditations.

Such is the account which he gives of Iiis weariness of
spirit, and of the incident which first suggested the idea
of writing the poem. It was the still mid watch of a clear
moonlight night; the stars, he says, were twinkling as fire
in the high vault of heaven: and '^ Cynthia rinsing her
golden locks in Aquarius.^' He lay in bed wakeful and
restless, and took a book to beguile the tedious hours. The
book he chose was Boetius' Consolations of Philosophy^ a
work popular among the writers of that day, and which had
been translated by his great prototype Chaucer. From the
high eulogium in which he indulges, it is evident this was
one of his favorite volumes while in prison : and indeed it
is an admirable text-book for meditation under adversity.
It is the legacy of a noble and enduring spirit, purified by
sorrow and suffering, bequeathing to its successors in
calamity the maxims of sweet morality, and the trains of
eloquent but simple reasoning, by which it was enabled to
bear up against the various ills of life. It is a talisman,
which the unfortunate may treasure up in his bosom, or,
like the good King James, lay upon his nightly pillow.

After closing the volume, he turns its contents over in
his mind, and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the
fickleness of fortune, the vicissitudes of his own life, and
the evils that had overtaken him even in his tender youth.
Suddenly he hears the bell ringing to matins; but its
sound, chiming in with his melancholy fancies, seems to
him like a voice exhorting him to write his story. In the
spirit of poetic errantry he determines to comply with
this intimation: he therefore takes pen in hand, makes
with it a sign of the cross to implore a benediction, and
sallies forth into the fairy land of poetry. There is some-
thing extremely fanciful in all this, and it is interesting as
furnishing a striking and beautiful instance of the simple
manner in which whole trains of poetical thought are
sometimes awakened, and literary enterprises suggested to
the mind.

88 The Sketch-Book.

In the course of his poem he more than once bewails the
peculiar hardness of his fate ; thus doomed to lonely and
inactive life, and shut up from the freedom and pleasure
of the world, in which the meanest animal indulges unre-
strained. There is a sweetness, however, in his very com-
plaints ; they are the lamentations of an amiable and social
spirit at being denied the indulgence of its kind and gener-
ous propensities; there is nothing in them harsh or exagger-
ated ; they flow with a natural and touching pathos, and
are perhaps rendered more touching by their simple brevity.
They contrast finely with those elaborate and iterated re-
pinings, which we sometimes meet with in poetry ; — the
effusions of morbid minds sickening under miseries of their
own creating, and venting their bitterness upon an unoiTend-
ing world. James speaks of his privations with acute
sensibility, but having mentioned them passes on, as if his
manly mind disdained to brood over unavoidable calamities.
When such a spirit breaks forth into complaint, however
brief, we are aware how great must be the suffering that
extorts the murmur. We sympathize with James, a roman-
tic, active and accomplished prince, cut off in the lustihood
of youth from all the enterprise, the noble uses, and vigor-
ous delights of life ; as we do with Milton, alive to all the
beauties of nature and glories of art, when he breathes
forth brief but deep-toned lamentations over his perpetual
blindness.

Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice,
we might almost have suspected that these lowerings of
gloomy reflection were meant as preparative to the bright-
est scene of his story ; and to contrast with that refulgence
of light and loveliness, that exhilarating accompaniment of
bird and song, and foliage and flower, and all the revel of
the year, with which he ushers in the lady of his heart.
It is this scene, in particular, which throws all the magic
of romance about the old Castle Keep. He had risen, he
says, at daybreak, according to custom, to escape from the
dreary meditations of a sleepless pillow. " Bewailing in
his chamber thus alone," despairing of all joy and remedy,
" for tired of thought and woebegone," he had wandered to

A Royal Poet. 89

the window, to indnlge the captive's miserable solace of
gazing wistfully upon the world from which he is ex-
oladed. The window looked forth upon a small garden
which lay at the foot of the tower. It was a quiet, shel-
tered spot, adorned with arbors and green alleys, and
protected from the passing gaze by trees and hawthorn
hedges.

Now was there made, fast by the tower's wall,
A garden faire, and in the comers set

An arbour green with wand is long and small
Railed about, and so with leaves beset.

Was idl the place and hawthorn hedges knet,
That lyf * was none, walkyng there forbye
That might within scarce any wight espye.

So thick the branches and the leves grene,
Beshaded all the alleys that their were,

And midst of every arbour might be sene
The sharpe, grene, swete juniper,

Growing so faire, with branches here and there,
That as it seemed to a lyf without,
The boughs did spread the arbour all about.

And on the small grene twistis ' set

The lytel swete nightingales, and sung

So loud and clear, the liymuis consecrate
Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among.

That all the garden and the wallis rung

Right of their song —

It was the month of May, when everything was in bloom ;
and he interprets the song of the nightingale into the
language of his enamored feeling :

Worship, all ye that lovers be, this May,
For of your bliss the kalends are begun,

And sing with us, away, winter, away,

Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun.

As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the notes of the
birds, he gradually relapses into one of those tender and
nndefinable reveries, which fill the youthful bosom in

1 Luft person. * TivistiSt small boughs or twigs.

iTote. — The language of the quotations is generally mooemised.

90 The Sketch'Book.

this delicious season. He wonders what this love may be,
of M'hich he has so often read, and which thus seems
breathed forth in the quickening breath of May, and melt-
ing all nature into ecstasy and song. If it really be so
great a felicity, and if it be a boon thus generally dispensed
to the most insignificant beings, why is he alone out off
from its enjoyments ?

Oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be,
That lovo is of such noble myght and kynde?

Lovinj; his folke, and such prosperitee
Is it of him, as we in books do find:
May he oure hertes setten^ and unbynd:

Hath he upon our hertes such maistrye?

Or is all this but fcynit fantasye?

For giif he be of so grete excellence,

That he of every wight hath care and charge,

What have 1 gilt ' to him, or done offense.
That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large?

In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye downward,
he beholds "the fairest and the freshest young floure"
tliat ever he had seen. It is the lovely Lady Jane, walk-
ing in the garden to enjoy the beauty of that " fresh May
niorroM-e." Breaking thus suddenly upon his sight, in the
moment of loneliness and excited susceptibility, she at
once captivates the fancy of the romantic prince, and be-
comes the object of his wandering wishes, the sovereign
of his ideal world.

There is, in this charming scene, an evident resemblance
to the early part of Chaucer's Knvjhfs Tale; where Pal-
amon and Arcite fall in love with Emilia, whom thev sec
walking in the garden of their prison. Perhaps the sim-
ilarity of the actual fact to the incident which he had read
in Chaucer may have induced James to dM^ell on it in his
poom. His description of the Lady Jane is given in the

Sioturosquo and minute manner of his master ; and being
oubtlcss taken from the life, is the perfect portrait of a
beauty of that day. He dwells, M^ith the fondness of a
lover, on every article of her apparel, from the net of pearl

> Stttetit inoUne. * QUt^ what injur>' I have done, etc.

A Royal Poet. 91

gplendent with emeralds and sapphires, that confined her
golden hair, even to the ^' goodly chaine of small orf ev-
erye '* ^ about her neck, whereby there hung a ruby in
shape of a heart, that seemed, he says, like a spark of fire
burning upon her white bosom. Her dress of white tissue
was looped up to enable her to walk with more freedom.
She was accompanied by two female attendants, and about
her sported a little hound decorated with bells ; probably
the small Italian hound of exquisite symmetry, which was
a parlor favorite ^d pet among the fashionable dames of
ancient times. James closes his description by a burst of
general eulogium :

In her was youth, beauty, "with humble port,
Bounty, richesse, and womanly feature;

Grod better knows then roy pen can report.

Wisdom, largesse, ' estate, * and cunning ^ sure,

In every point so guided her measure.

In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance.
That nature might no more her child advance.

The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden puts an
end to this transient riot of the heart. With her departs
the amorous illusion that had shed a temporary charm
over the scene of his captivity, and he relapses into loneli-
ness, now rendered tenfold more intolerable by this pass-
ing beam of unattailiable beauty. Through the long
and weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, and when
evening approaches, and Phccbus, as he beautifully ex-
presses it, had " bade farewell to every leaf and flower,"
he still lingers at the window, and, laying his head upon
the cold stone, gives vent to a mingled flow of love and
sorrow, until, gradually lulled by the mute melancholy of
the twilight hour, he lapses, " half sleeping, half swoon,"
into a vision, which occupies the remainder of the poem,
and in which is allegorically shadowed out the history of
his passion.

When he wakes from his trance, he rises from his stony
pillow, and, pacing his apartment, full of dreary reflections,
questions his spirit, whither it has been wandering;

> Wroagbt gold. • Largeue^ bounty. » Estate^ dignity. * Cunniixg^ discretion.

92 T?ie Sketch' Book.

whether, indeed, all that has passed before his dreaming
fancy has been conjured up by preceding circumstances ; or
whether it is a vision, intended to comfort and assure him
in his despondency. If the latter, he prays that some
token may be sent to confirm the promise of happier days,
given him in his slumbers. Suddenly, a turtle dove, of the
purest whiteness, comes flying in at the window, and alights
upon his hand, bearing in her bill a branch of red gilli-
flower, on the leaves of which is written, in letters of gold,
the following sentence : — »

Awake I awake ! I bring, lover, I bring

The newis glad that blissful is and sure

Of thy comfort; now laugh, and play, and sing,
For in the heaven decretit is thy cure.

He receives the branch with mingled hope and dread ;
reads it with rapture : and this, he says, was the first token
of his succeeding happiness. Whether this is a mere poetic
fiction, or whether the Lady Jane did actually send him a
token of her favor in this romantic way, remains to be de-
termined according to the faith or fancy of the reader. He
concludes his poem by intimating that the promise con-
veyed in the vision and by the flower is fulfilled, by his
being restored to liberty, and made happy in the possession
of the sovereign of his heart.

Such is the poetical account given by James of his love
adventures in Windsor Castle. How much of it is absolute
fact, and how much the embellishment of fancy, it is fruit-
less to conjecture: let us not, however, reject every roman-
tic incident as incompatible with real life ; but let us some-
times take a poet at his word. I have noticed merely those
parts of the poem immediately connected with the tower,
and have passed over a large part, written in the allegor-
ical vein, so much cultivated in that day. The language,
of course, is quaint and antiquated, so that the beauty of
many of its golden phrases will scarcely be perceived at
the present day ; but it is impossible not to be charmed
with the genuine sentiment, the delightful artlessness and
urbanity, which prevail throughout it. The descriptions of

A Royal Poet. 98

\ too, with which it is embellished, are given with a
a diflcrimination, and a freshness, worthy of the most
ited periods of the art.

an amatory poem, it is edifying in these days of
r thinking, to notice the nature, refinement, and ex-
\ delicacy which pervade it ; banishing every gross
It or immodest expression, and presenting female
1688, clothed in all its chivalrous attributes of almost
latural purity and grace.

les flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and
•, and was evidently an admirer and studier of their
gs. Indeed, in one of the stanzas he acknowledges
is his masters ; and, in some parts of his poem, we
races of similarity to their productions, more espe-
to those of Chaucer. There are always, however,
il features of resemblance in the works of contempo-
nthors, which are not so much borrowed from each
as from the times. Writers, like bees, toll their
> in the wide world ; they incorporate with their own
>tions the anecdotes and thoughts current in society ;
us each generation has some features in common,
teristic of the age in which it lived,
es belongs to one of the most brilliant eras of our
Y history, and establishes the claims of his country to
icipation in its primitive honors. Whilst a small
• of English writers are constantly cited as the fathers
' verse, the name of their great Scottish compeer is
be passed over in silence ; but he is evidently worthy
ig enrolled in that little constellation of remote but
failing luminaries, who shine in the highest iirma-
of literature, and who, like morning stars, sang to-
at the bright dawning of British poesy.
ti of my readers as may not be familiar with Scot-
istory (though the manner in which it has of late
iToven with captivating fiction has made it a univer-
dy), may be curious to learn something of the subse-
history of James, and the fortunes df his love. His
I for the Lady Jane, as it was the solace of his cap-
so it facilitated his release, it being imagined by the

94 Tht Sketch-Book.

court that a connection with the blood royal of Englano
would attach him to its own interests. He was ultimately
restored to his liberty and crown, having previously es-
poused the Lady Jane, who accompanied him to Scotland,
and made him a most tender and devoted wife.

He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feuda'
chieftains having taken advantage of the troubles ano
irregularities of a long interregnum to strengthen them-
selves in their possessions, and place themselves above the
power of the laws. James sought to found the basis of ^
his power in the affections of his people. He attached the <
lower orders to him by the reformation of abuses, the tem- ]
perate and equable administration of justice, the encour- ^
agement of the arts of peace, and the promotion of every-
thing that could diffuse comfort, competency, and innocent
enjoyment through the humblest ranks of society. He
mingled occasionally among the common people in dis-
guise ; visited their firesides ; entered into their cares, their
pursuits, and their amusements ; informed himself of the
mechanical arts, and how they could best be patronized and
improved ; and was thus an all-pervading spirit, watching
with a benevolent eye over the meanest of his subjects.
Having in this generous manner made himself strong in the
hearts of the common people, he turned himself to curb the
power of the factious nobility ; to strip them of those dan-
gerous immunities which they had usurped ; to punish such
as had been guilty of flagrant offences ; and to bring the
whole into proper obedience to the crown. For some time
they bore this with outward submission, but with ^secret
impatience and brooding resentment. A conspiracy was at
length formed against his life, at the head of which was his
own uncle, Robert Stewart, earl of Athol, who, being too
old himself for the perpetration of the deed of blood, insti-
gated his grandson, Sir Robert Stewart, together with Sir
Robert Graham, and others of less note, to commit the deed.
They broke into his bedchamber at the Dominican Convent
near Perth, where he was residing, and barbarously mur-
dered him by oft-repeated wounds. His faithful queen,
rushing to throw her tender body between him and the

A Roycd Poet. 95

9 twice wounded in the ineffectual attempt to

from the assassin ; and it was not until she had
bly torn from his person, that the murder was
led.
he recollection of this romantic tale of former

of the golden little poem which had its birth-
lis Tower, that made me visit the old pile with

common interest. The suit of armor hanging up
I, richly gilt and embellished, as if to figure in
y, brought the image of the gallant and romantic
idly before my imagination. I paced the deserted
where he had composed his poem ; I leaned upon
w, and endeavored to persuade myself it was the
^here he had been visited by his vision ; I looked
!;he spot where he had first seen the Lady Jane.
) same genial and joyous month ; the birds were
ig with each other in strains of liquid melody;
5 was bursting into vegetation, and budding forth
• promise of the year. Time, which delights to

the sterner memorials of human pride, seems
assed lightly over this little scene of poetry and
to have withheld his desolating hand. Several
lave gone by, yet the garden still flourishes at the
B Tower. It occupies what was once the moat of
; and though some parts have been separated by
^alls, yet others have still their arbors and shaded
in the days of James, and the whole is sheltered,

and retired. There is a charm about a spot that
Printed by the footsteps of departed beauty, and
}d by the inspirations of the poet, which is height-
ler than impaired, by the lapse of ages. It is,
Q gift of poetry to hallow every place in which it
) breathe around nature an odor more exquisite
perfume of the rose, and to shed over it a tint
ical than the blush of the morning,
may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a
id a legislator ; but I have delighted to view him
a companion of his fellow-men, the benefactor of
a heart, stooping from his high estate to sow thft

96 The SketcJ^Book.

sweet flowers of poetry and song in the paths of common
life. He was the first to cultivate the vigorous and hardy
plant of Scottish genius, which has since become so prolific
of the most wholesome and highly flavored fruit. He car- I
ried with him into the sterner regions of the north all the /
fertilizing arts of southern refinement. He did everything i
in his power to win his countrymen to the gay, the elegant '
and gentle arts, which soften and refine the character of a I
people, and wreathe a grace round the loftiness of a proud .
and warlike spirit. He wrote many poems which, unfor- ^
tunately for the fullness of his fame, are now lost to the '
world ; one, which is still preserved, called Christ'* 8 Kirk
of the Green^ shows how diligently he had made himself
acquainted with the rustic sports and pastimes, which con-
stitute such a source of kind and social feeling among the |
Scottish peasantry ; and with what simple and happy humor |
he could enter into their enjoyments. He contributed ^
greatly to improve the national music; and traces of his I
tender sentiment, and elegant taste, are said to exist in
those witching airs, still piped among the wild mountains
and lonely glens of Scotland. He has thus connected his
image with whatever is most gracious and endearing in the
national character ; he has embalmed his memory in song,
and floated his name to after ages in the rich streams of
Scottish melody. The recollection of these things was kin-
dling at my heart as I paced the silent scene of his impris-
onment. I have visited Vancluse with as much enthusiasm
as a pilgrim would visit the shrine at Loretto ; but I have
never felt more ])oetical devotion than when contemplating
the old Tower and the little garden at Windsor, and musing
over the romantic loves of the Lady Jane and the Royal
Poet of Scotland.

^^^^

™

^""^

1
*..•

•

1 ..

•

• •

Ji'.'K-

, •

. *

;... '-

■

THE COUNTRY CHURCH.

A gentleman !
What, o* the woolpack? or the sugar chest?
Or lists of velvet? which is% pound, or yard,
You vend your gentry by?

Beqqab's Bush.

There are few places more favorable to the study of
character than an English country church. I was once
passing a few weeks at the seat of a friend, wlio resided
in the vicinity of one, the appearance of which particuhirly
struck my fancy. It was one of those rich morsels of quaint
antiquity which give such a peculiar charm to P^nglish land-
scape. It stood in the midst of a country filled with ancient
families, and contained, within its cold and silent aisles, the
congregated dust of many noble generations. The interior
walls were incrusted with monuments of every ago and
style. The light streamed through windows dimmed with
armorial bearings, richly emblazoned in stained glass. In
various parts of the church were tombs of knights, and
high-born dames, of gorgeous workmanship, with their effi-
gies in colored marble. On every side the eye was struck
with some instance of aspiring mortality; some haughty
memorial which human pride had erected over its kindred
dust, in this temple of the most humble of all religions.

The congregation was composed of the neighboring people
of rank, who sat in pews, sumptuously lined and cushioned,
furnished with richly-gilded prayer-books, and det^orated
with their arms upon the pew doors ; of the villagers and
peasantry, who filled the back seats, and a small gallery
beside the organ ; and of the poor of the parish, who were
ranged on benches in the aisles.

The service was performed by a snuffling well-fed vicar,
who had a snug dwelling near the church. lie was a priv-

98 The Sketch-Book.

ileged guest at all the tables of the neighborhood, and had
been the keenest fox-hunter in the country; until age and
good living had disabled him from doing anything more than
ride to see the hounds throw off, and make one at the hunt-
ing dinner.

Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it impossi-
ble to get into the train of thought suitable to the time and
place : so, having, like many other feeble Christians, com-
promised with my conscience, by laying the sin of my own
delinquency at another person's threshold, I occupied myself
by making observations on my neighbors.

I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to notice
the manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as usual,
that tliere was the least pretension where there was the
most acknowledged title to respect. I was particularly
struck, for instance, with the family of a nobleman of high
rank, consisting of several sons and daughters. Nothing
could be more simple and unassuming than their appear-
ance. They generally came to church in the plainest
equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies would stop
and converse in the kindest manner with the peasantry,
caress the children, and listen to the stories of the humble
cottagers. Their countenances were open and beautifully
fair, with an expression of high refinement, but, at the
same time, a frank cheerfulness, and an engaging affability.
Their brothers were tall, and elegantly formed. They were
dressed fashionably, but simply; with strict neatness and
propriety, but without any mannerism or foppishness.
Their whole demeanor was easy and natural, with that
lofty grace, and noble frankness, which bespeak freeborn
souls that have never been checked in their growth by
feelings of inferiority. There is a healthful hardiness
about real dignity, that never dreads contact and communion
with others, however humble. It is only spurious pride
that is morbid and sensitive, and shrinks from every touch.
I was pleased to see the manner in which they would con-
verse with the peasantry about those rural concerns and
field-sports, in which the gentlemen of this country so
much delight. In these conversations there was neither

I%e Countfy Church. 09

hanghtinegs on the one part, nor servility on the other ;
and yon were only reminded of the difference of rank by
the habitual respect of the peasant.

In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy citizen,
who had amassed a vast fortune ; and, having purchased
the estate and mansion of a ruined nobleman in the neigh-
borhood, was endeavoring to assume all the style and
dignity of an hereditary lord of the soil. The family
always came to church en prince. They were rolled majes-
tically along in a carriage emblazoned with arms. The
crest glittered in silver radiance from every part of the
harness where a crest could possibly be placed. A fat
coachman, in a three-cornered hat, richly laced, and a
flaxen wig, curling close round his rosy face, was seated on
the box, with a sleek Danish dog beside him. Two footmen,
in gorgeous hveries, with huge bouquets, and gold-headed
canes, lolled behind. The carriage rose and sunk on its
long springs with peculiar stateliness of motion. The very
horses champed their bits, arched their necks, and glanced
their eyes more proudly than common horses ; either because
they had caught a little of the family feeling, or were
reined up more tightly than ordinary.

I could not but admire the style with which this splendid
pageant was brought up to the gate of the churchyard.
There was a vast effect produced at the tnrning of an angle
of the wall ; — a great smacking of the whip, straining and
scrambling of horses, glistening of harness, and flashing
of wheels through gravel. This was the moment of triumph
and vainglory to the coachman. The horses were urged
and checked until they were fretted into a foam. They
threw out their feet in a prancing trot, dashing about
pebbles at every step. The crowd of villagers sauntering
quietly to church, opened precipitately to the right and
left, gaping in vacant admiration. On reaching tlie gate,
the horses were pulled up with a suddenness that pro-
duced an immediate stop, and almost threw them on their
haunches.

There was an extraordinary hurry of the footman to
alight, pull down the steps, and prepare everything for

100 The Sketch- Book.

the descent on earth of this august family. The old citi-
zen first emerged his round red face from out the door,
looking about him with the pompons air of a man accus-
tomed to rule on 'Change, and shake the Stock Market
with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, comfortable dame,
followed him. There seemed, I must confess, but little
pride in her composition. She was the picture of broad,
honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world went well with her;
and she liked the world. She had fine clothes, a fine
house, a fine carriage, fine children, everything was fine
about her : it was nothing but driving about, and visiting
and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel ; it was
one long Lord Mayor's day.

Two daughters succeeded this goodly couple. They
certainly were handsome ; but had a superciUous air, that
chilled admiration, and disposed the spectator to be critical.
They were ultra-fashionable in dress ; and, though no one
could deny the richness of their decorations, yet their
appropriateness might be questioned amidst the simplicity
of a country church. They descended loftily from the
carriage, and moved up the line of peasantry with a step
that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. They cast an
excursive glance around, that passed coldly over the burly
faces of the peasantry, until they met the eyes of the
nobleman's family, when their countenances immediately
brightened into smiles, and they made the most profound
and elegant courtesies, which were returned in a manner
that showed they were but slight acquaintances.

I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen,
who came to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders.
They were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all
that pedantry of dress which marks the man of questionable
pretensions to style. They kept entirely by themselves,
eyeing every one askance that came near them, as if meas-
ig his claims to respectability ; yet they were without

iversation, except the exchange of an occasional cant

je. Thev even moved artificiallv; for their bodies, in

ipliance with the caprice of the day, had been disci-

llined into the absence of all ease and freedom. Art had

to V

Th£ Country Church. 101

done everything to accomplish them as men of fashion,
bat nature had denied them the nameless grace. They
were vulgarly shaped, like men formed for the common
purposes of life, and had that air of supercilious assump-
tion which is never seen in the true gentleman.

I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of
these two families, because^ I considered them specimens
of what is often to be met with in this country — the
unpretending great, and the arrogant little. I have no re-
spect for titled rank, unless it be accompanied with true
nobility of soul; but I have remarked in all countries
where artificial distinctions exist, that the very highest
classes are always the most courteous and unassuming.
Those who are well assured of their own standing are least
apt to trespass on that of others : whereas nothing is so
offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to
elevate itself by humiliating its neighbor.

As I have brought these families into contrast, I must
notice their behavior in church. That of the nobleman's
family was quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they
appeared to have any fervor of devotion, but rather a
respect for sacred things, and sacred places, inseparable
from good breeding. The others, on the contrary, were in
a perpetual flutter and whisper ; they betrayed a continual
consciousness of finery, and a sorry ambition of being the
wonders of a rural congregation.

The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to
the service. He took the whole burden of family devotion
upon himself, standing bolt upright, and uttering the
responses with a loud voice that might be heard all over
the church. It was evident that he was one of those
thorough church and king men, who connect the idea of
devotion and loyalty ; who consider the Deity, somehow
or other, of the government party, and religion " a very
excellent sort of thing, that ought to be countenanced and
kept up."

When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more
by way of example to the lower orders, to show them that,
though so great and wealthy, he was not above being rcli-

102

The Sketch-Book.

gions ; as I have seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow pub-
Hcly a basin of charity soup, smacking his lips at every
mouthful and pronouncing it '^ excellent food for the
poor."

When the service was at an end, I was curious to wit-
ness the several exits of my groups. The young noblemen
and their sisters, as the day was iine, preferred strolling
home across the fields, chatting with the country people as
they went. The others departed as they came, in grand
parade. Again were the equipages wheeled up to the
gate. There was again the smacking of whips, the clat-
tering of hoofs, and the glittering of harness. The horses
started off almost at a bound ; the villagers again hurried
to right and left ; the wheels threw up a cloud of dust;
and the aspiring family was rapt out of sight in a whirl-
wind.

THE WIDOW AND HER SON.

Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires
Honour and reverence evermore have raignM.

Maulowe's Tambuklaine.

Those who are in the habit of remarking such matters,
must have noticed the passive quiet of an English land-
scape on Sunday. The clacking of the mill, the regularly
recurring stroke of the flail, the din of the blacksmith's
hammer, the whistling of the ploughman, the rattling of
the cart, and all other sounds of rural labor are suspended.
The very farm-dogs bark less frequently, being less dis-
turbed by passing travellers. At such times I have almost
fancied the winds sunk into quiet, and that the sunny
landscape, with its fresh green tints melting into blue haze,
enjoyed the hallowed calm.

Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky.

Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a
day of rest. The holy repose which reigns over the face
of nature, has its moral influence ; every restless passion is
charmed down, and we feel the natural religion of the soul
gently springing up within us. For my part, there are
feelings that visit me, in a coiintry church, amid the beau-
tiful serenity of nature, which I experience nowhere else ;
and if not a more religious, I think I am a better man on
Sunday than on any other day of the seven.

During my recent residence in the country, I used fre-
quently to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy
aisles; its mouldering monuments; its dark oaken panel-
ling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed
to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation ; but being in
a wealthy aristocratic neighborhood, the glitter of fashion

103

104 The Sketch-Book.

penetrated even into the sanctuary ; and I felt myself con-
tinually thrown back upon the world by the frigidity and
pomp of the poor worms around me. The only being in
the whole congregation who appeared thoroughly to feel
the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian was a
poor decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of
years and infirmities. She bore the traces of something
better than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent
pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though
humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean. Some
trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did not
take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the
steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love,
all friendship, all society ; and to have nothing left her but
the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and
bending her aged form in prayer ; habitually conning her
prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes
would not permit her to read, but which she evidently
knew by heart ; I felt persuaded that tne faltering voice
of that poor woman arose to heaven far before the re-
sponses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting
of the choir.

I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this
was so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me.
It stood on a knoll, round which a small stream made a
beautiful bend, and then wound its way through a long
reach of soft meadow scenery. The church was surrounded
by yew-trees which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its
tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with
rooks and crows generally wheeling about it. I was seated
there one still sunny morning, watching two laborers who
were digging a grave. They had chosen one of the most
remote and neglected corners of the churchyard ; where,
from the number of nameless ffraves around, it would
appear that the indigent and friendless were huddled into
the earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for the
only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating on the
distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down to
the veiy dust^ the toll of the bell announced the approach

The Widow and Her Son. 105

of the funeral. They were the obseqnies of poverty, with
which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest
materials, without pall or other covering, was borne by
some of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an
^r of cold indifference. There were no mock mourners
in the trappings of affected woe ; but there was one real
mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse, ft was the
aged mother of the deceased — the poor old woman whom I
had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was sup-
ported by a humble friend, who was endeavoring to comfort
her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train,
and some children of the village were running hand in hand,
now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to
gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner.

As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson
issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with
prayer-book in hand, and attended by the clerk. The ser-
vice, however, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had
been destitute, and the survivor was penniless. It was shuf-
fled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly.
The well-fed priest moved but a few steps from the church
door ; his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave ; and
never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touch-
injr ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words.

I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the
crround. On it were inscribed the name and age of the
deceased — "George Somers, aged 26 years." The poor
mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it.
Her withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer, but I
could perceive by a feeble rocking of the body, and a con-
vulsive motion of her lips, that she was gazing on the last
relics of her son, with the yearnings of a mother's heart.

Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth.
There was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on
the feelings of grief and affection ; directions given in the
cold tones of business; the striking of spades into sand and
irravel " which, at the grave of those we love, is, of all
^unds! the most withering. The bustle around seemed to
waken the mother from a wretched reverie. She raised

106 The Sketch-Book.

her glazed eyes, and looked abont with a faint wildnesa.
As the men approached with cords to lower the coffin into
the grave, she wrung her hands, and broke into an agony of
grief. The poor woman who attended her took her by the
arm, endeavoring to raise her from the earth, and to whis-
per something like consolation — "Nay, now — nay, now —
don't take it so sorely to heart." She could only shake her
head and wring her hands, as otie not to be comforted.

As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the
dords seemed to agonize her ; but when, on some accidental
obstruction, there was a justling of the coffin, all the tender-
ness of the mother burst forth; as if any harm could come
to him who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering.

I could see no more — my lieart swelled into my throat —
my eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I were acting a bar-
barous part in standing by, and gazing idly on this scene of
maternal anguish. I wandered to another part of the church-
yard, where I remained until the funeral train had dispersed.

When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting
the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was
dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and destitu-
tion, my heart ached for her. What, thought I, are the
distresses of the rich! they have friends to soothe — pleas-
ures to beguile — a world to divert and dissipate their
griefs. What are the sorrows of the young ! Their grow-
ing minds soon close above the wound — their elastic spirits
soon rise beneath the pressure — their green and ductile
affections soon twine round new objects. But the sorrows
of the poor, who have no outward appliances to soothe —
the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best is but a
wintry day, and who can look for no after-growth of joy —
the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning
over an only son, the last solace of her years ; these are
indeed sorrows which make us feel the impotency of con-
solation.

It was some time before I left the churchyard. On my
way homeward I met with the woman who had acted as com-
forter : she was just returning from accompanying the mother
to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particu-
lars connected with the affecting scene I had witnessed.

The Widow and Her Son. 107

The parents of the deceased had resided in the village
from childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest
cottages, and by various rural occupations, and the assist-
ance of a small garden, had suppoited themselves creditably
and comfortably, and led a happy and a blameless life.
They had one son, who had grown up to be the staff and
pride of their age. — "Oh, sir!" said the good woman,
^ he was such a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, so kind to
ever^c one around him, so dutiful to his parents! It did
one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, dressed out in his
best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his old
mother to church — for she was always fonder of leaning
on Greorge's arm, than on her good man's ; and, poor soul,
she might weU be proud of him, for a finer lad there was
not in the country round."

Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of
scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service
of one of the small craft that plied on a neighboring river.
He had not been long in this employ when he was en-
trapped by a press-gang, and carried off to sea. His
parents received tidings of his seizure, but beyond that
they could learn nothing. It was the loss of their main
prop. The father, who was already infirm, grew heartless
and melancholy and sunk into his grave. The widow, left
lonely in her age and feebleness, could no longer support
herself, and came upon the parish. Still there was a kind
feeling toward her throughout the village, and a certain
respect as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one
applied for the cottage, in which she had passed so many
happy days, she was permitted to remain in it, where she
lived solitary and almost helpless. The few wants of
nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty productions of
her little garden, which the neighbors would now and then
cultivate for her. It was but a few days before the time
at which these circumstances were told me, that she was
gathering some vegetables for her repast, when she heard
the cottage door which faced the garden suddenly opened.
A stranger came out, and seemed to be looking eagerly and
wildly around. He was dressed in seaman's clothes^ was

108 The Sk^tch-Booh.

emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken
by sickness and hardships. He saw her, and hastened
towards her, but his steps were faint and faltering; he
sank on his knees before her, and sobbed like a child.
The poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant and wan-
dering eye. — " Oh, my dear, dear mother ! don't you know
your son? your poor boy, George?" It was indeed the
wreck of her once noble lad, who, shattered by wounds, by
sickness and foreign imprisonment, had, at length, dragged
his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the scenes of
his childhood.

I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a
meeting, where joy and sorrow were so completely blended:
still he was alive ! he was come home ! he might yet live
to comfort and cherish her old age ! Nature, however, was
exhausted in him; and if anything had been wanting to
finish the work of fate, the desolation of his native cottage
would have been sufficient. He stretched himself on the
pallet on which his widowed mother had passed many a
sleepless night, and he never rose from it again.

The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had
returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and
assistance that their humble means afforded. He was too
weak, however, to talk — he could only look his thanks.
His mother was his constant attendant ; and he seemed
xmwilling to be helped by any other hand.

There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride
of manhood ; that softens the heart, and brings it back to
the feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even in
advanced life, in sickness and despondency ; who that has
pined on a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness of a for-
eign land; but has thouglit on the mother ^Hhat looked on
his childhood," that smoothed his pillow, and administered
to his helplessness? Oh! there is an enduring tenderness
in the love of a mother to her son that transcends all other
affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by sel-
fislincss, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worth-
lessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every
comfort to his convenience ; she will surrender every pleas-

The Widow and Her Son. 109

ore to his enjoyment ; she will glory in his fame, and exnlt
in his prosperity: — and, if misfortune overtake him, he
will be the dearer to her from misfortune ; and if disgrace
settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him in
spite of his disgrace; and if all the world beside cast him
ofiE, she will be all the world to him.

Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in sick-
ness, and none to soothe — lonely and in prison, and none
to visit him.' He could not endure his mother from his
sight; if she moved away, his eye would follow her. She
would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he slept.
Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, and look
anxiously up until he saw her bending over hira ; when he
would take her hand, lay it on his bosom and fall asleep,
with the tranquility of a child. In this way he died.

My first impulse on hearing this humble talc of affliction
was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pe-
cuniary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, how-
ever, on inquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers had
prompted tiiem to do everything that the case admitted :
and as the poor know best how to console each other's
sorrows, I did not venture to intrude.

The next Sunday I was at the village church ; when, to
my surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the
aisle to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar.

She had made an effort to put on something like mourn-
ing for her son ; and nothing could be more touching than
this struggle between pious affection and utter poverty : a
black ribhon or so — a faded black handkerchief, and one or
two more such humble attempts to express by outward signs
that grief which passes show. When I looked round upon
the storied monuments, the stately hatchments, the cold
marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned magnificently
over departed pride, and turned to this poor widow, bowed
down by age and sorrow, at the altar of her God, and offer-
ing up the prayers and praises of a pious, though a broken
heart, I felt that this living monument of real grief was
worth them all.

I related her story to some of the wealthy members of

110

The Sketch-Book.

the congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted
themselves to render her sitoation more comfortable, and to
lighten her afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few
steps to the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after,
she was missed from her usual seat at church, and before I
left the neighborhood, I heard, with a feeling of satisfac-
tion, that she had quietly breathed her last, and had gone
to rejoin those she loved, in that world where sorrow is
never known, and friends are never parted.

A SUNDAY IN LONDON.*

In a preceding paper I have spoken of an English Sunday
in the oountry, and its tranquilizing effect upon the land-
scape; but where is its sacred influence more strikingly
apparent than in the very heart of that great Babel, Lon-
don ? On this sacred day, the gigantic monster is charmed
into repose. The intolerable din and struggle of the week
are at an end. The shops are shut. The fires of forges
and manufactories are extinguished ; and the sun, no longer
obscured by murky clouds of smoke, pours down a sober,
yellow radiance into the quiet streets. The few pedes-
trians we meet, instead of hurrying forward with anx-
ious couirtenances, move leisurely along ; their brows are
smoothed from the wrinkles of business and care ; they
have put on their Sunday looks, and Sunday manners, with
their Sunday clothes, and are cleansed in mind as well as
in person.-

And now the melodious clangor of bells from church
towers summons their several flocks to the fold. Forth
issues from his mansion the family of the decent trades-
man, the small children in advance ; then the citizen and
his comely spouse, followed by the grown-up daughters,
with small morocco-bound prayer-books laid in the folds
of their pocket-handkerchiefs. The housemaid looks after
them from the window, admiring the finery of the family,
and receiving, perhaps, a nod and smile from her young
mistresses, at whose toilet she has assisted.

Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of the
city, peradventure an alderman or a sheriff ; and now the
patter of many feet announces a procession of charity
scholars, in uniforms of antique cut, and each with a
prayer-book under his arm.

The ringing of bells is at an end ; the nimbling of the
carriage has ceased ; the pattering of feet is heard no more ;

^ Part of a sketch omitted in the earlier editions.

Ill

112 Th€ Sktich'Book.

the flocks are folded in ancient churches cramped up in by-
lanes and comers of the crowded citr, where the Tigilant
beadle keeps watch, like the shepherd's dog, ronnd the
threshold of the sanctuary. For a time everything is
hashed; bat soon is heard the deep, pervading soond of
the organ, rolling and vibrating through the empty lanes
and coarts ; and the sweet chanting of the choir making
them resound with melody and praise. Never have I been
more senHible of the sanctifying effect of church music,
than when I have heard it thus poured forth, like a river of
joy, through the inmost recesses of this great metropolis,
elevating it, as it were, from all the sordid pollutions of
the week ; and bearing the poor world- worn soul on a tide
of triumphant harmony to heaven.

The morning service is at an end. The streets are again
alive with the congregation returning to their l\,omes, but
soon again relapse into silence. Now comes on the Sunday
dinner, which, to the city tradesman, is a meal of some
importance. There is more leisure for social enjoyment at
the board. Members of the family can now gather together,
who are separated by the laborious occupations of the week.
A Hchool-boy may be permitted on that day to come to the
[>aternal home ; an old friend of the family takes his accus-
tomed Sunday seat at the board, tells over his well-known
stories, and rejoices young and old with his well-known
jokes.

On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth*its legions to
breathe the fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the parks
and rural environs. Satirists may say what they please
about the rural enjoyments of a London citizen on Sunday,
but to mo there is something delightful in beholding the
poor prisoner of the crowded and dusty city enabled thus
to como forth once a week and throw himself upon the
green bosom of nature. lie is like a child restored to the
mother's breast; and they who first spread out these noble
parks and magnificent pleasure-grounds which surround
this huge metropolis, have done at least as much for its
health and morality, as if they had expended the amount of
oost in hospitals, prisons, and penitentiaries.

THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EAST-
CHEAP.

A SHAKESPEARIAN RESEARCH

A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good
fellows. I have heard my great-grandfather tell, how his great-
great-grandfather should say, that it was an old proverb when
liis great-grandfather was a child, that ** it was a good wind that
blew a man to the wine/*

MomER BOMBIE.

It is a pious custom, in some Catholic countries, to
honor the memory of saints by votive lights burnt before
their pictures. The popularity of a saint, therefore, may be
known by the number of these offerings. One, perhaps, is
left to moulder in the darkness of his little chapel; another
may have a solitary lamp to throw its blinking rays athwart
his effigy ; while the whole blaze of adoration is lavished
at the shrine of some beatified father of renown. The
wealthy devotee brings his huge luminary of wax ; the
eager zealot his seven-branched candlestick, and even the
mendicant pilgrim is by no means satisfied that sufficient
light is thrown upon the deceased, unless he hangs up his
little lamp of smoking oil. The consequence is, that in
the eagerness to enlighten, they are often apt to obscure ;
and I have occasionally seen an unlucky saint almost
smoked out of countenance by the officiousness of his
followers.

In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shake-
speare. Every writer considers it his bounden duty to light
up some portion of his character or works, and to rescue
some merit from oblivion. The comme^ator, opulent in
words, produces vast tomes of dissertations ; the common
herd of editors send up mists of obscurity from their notes

113

114 The Sketch-Book.

at the bottom of each page; and eyery casual scribbler
brings his farthing rushlight of eulogy or research, to swell
the cloud of incense and of smoke.

As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the
quill, I thought it but proper to contribute my mite of
homage to the memory of the illustrious bard. I was for
some time, however, sorely puzzled in what way I should
discharge this duty. I found myself anticipated in every
attempt at a new reading; every doubtful line had been
explained a dozen different ways, and perplexed beyond
the reach of elucidation ; and as to fine passages, they
had all been amply praised by previous admirers ; nay, so
completely had the bard, of late, been overlarded with
panegyric by a great German critic, that it was difficult
now to find even a fault that had not been argued into a
beauty.

In this perplexity, I was one morning turning over his
pages, when I casually opened upon the comic scenes of
Henry IV.^ and was, in a moment, completely lost in the
madcap revelry of the Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly
and naturally are these scenes of humor depicted, and with
such force and consistency are the characters sustained,
that they become mingled up in the mind with the facts
and personages of real life. To few readers does it occur,
that these are all ideal creations of a poet's brain, and that,
in sober truth, no such knot of merry roysters ever enliv-
ened the dull neighborhood of Eastcheap.

For my part I love to give myself up to the illusions of
poetry. A hero of fiction that never existed is just as val-
uable to me as a hero of history that existed a thousand
years since : and, if I may be excused such an insensibility
to the common ties of human nature, I would not give
up fat Jack for half the great men of ancient chronicle.
What have the heroes of yore done for me, or men like
me? They have conquered countries of which I do not
enjoy an acre ; or they have gained laurels of which I do
not inherit a leaf ; or they have furnished examples of hair-
brained prowess, which I have neither the opportunity nor
the inclination to follow. But, old Jack FalstaffI — kind

T?ie Boards Head Tavern^ JEJastcheap, 115

Jack Falstaff I — sweet Jack Falstaff ! — has enlarged the
boundaries of human enjoyment; he has added vast regions
of wit and good humor, in which the poorest man may
revel ; and has bequeathed a never-failing inheritance of
jolly laughter, to make mankind merrier and better to the
latest posterity.

A thought suddenly struck me : '^ I will make a pilgrim-
age to Eastcheap,'' said I, closing the book, «^ and see if the
old Boards Head Tavern still exists. Who knows but I may
light upon some legendary traces of Dame Quickly and her
guests 4 at any rate there will be a kindred pleasure, in
treading the halls once vocal with their mirth,, to that the
toper enjoys in smelling to the empty cask once filled with
generous wine."

The resolution was no sooner formed than put in execu-
tion. I forbear to treat of the various adventures and
wonders I encountered in my travels ; of the haunted re-
gions of Cock Lane ; of the faded glories of little Britain,
and the parts adjacent; what perils I ran in Cateaton-
street and old Jewry ; of the renowned Guildhall and its
two stunted giants, the pride and wonder of the city, and
the terror of all unlucky urchins; and how I visited London
Stone, and struck my staff upon it, in imitation of that arch
rebel, Jack Cade.

Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in merry
Eastcheap, that ancient region of wit and wassail, where
the very names of the streets relished of good cheer, as
Pudding Lane bears testimony even at the present day.
For Eastcheap, says old Stowe, " was always famous for
its convivial doings. The cookes cried hot ribbes of beef
roasted, pies well baked, and other victuals: there was
clattering of pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and sawtrie." Alas !
how sadly is the scene changed since the roaring days of
FalstafE and old Stowe I The madcap royster has given
place to the plodding tradesman ; the clattering of pots and
the sound of "harpe and sawtrie," to the din of carts and
the accursed dinging of the dustman's bell ; and no song is
heard, save, haply, the strain of some siren from Billings-
gate, chanting the eulogy of deceased mackerel.

116 The SkeichrBook.

I 8oaght,u] yain^for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly.
The only relic of it is a boar's bead, carved in relief in
stone, which formerly served as the sign, but at present is
boilt into the parting line of two houses, which stand on
the site of the renowned old tavern.

For the history of this little abode of good fellowship,
I was referred to a tallow-chandler's widow, opposite, who
had been born and brought up on the spot, and was looked
up to as the indisputable chronicler of the neighborhood.
I found her seated in a little back parlor, the window of
which looked out upon a yard about eight feet square, laid
out as a flower-garden ; while a glass door opposite afforded
a distant peep of the street, through a vista of soap and
tallow candles : the two views, which comprised, in all
probability, her prospects in life, and the little world in
which she had lived, and moved, and had her being, for the
better part of a century.

To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and little,
from London Stone even unto the Monument, was doubt-
less, in her opinion, to be acquainted with the history of the
universe. Yet, with all this, she possessed the simplicity
of true wisdom, and that liberal communicative disposition,
which I have generally remarked in intelligent old ladies,
knowing in the concerns of their neighborhood.

Iler information, however, did not extend far back into
antiquity. She could throw no light upon the history of
the Boar's Head, from the time that Dame Quickly espoused
the valiant Pistol, until the great fire of London, when it
was unfortunately burnt down. It was soon rebuilt, and
continued to flourish under the old name and sign, until a
dying landlord, struck with remorse for double scores, bad
measures and other iniquities, which are incident to the
sinful race of publicans, endeavored to make his peace with
heaven, by bequeathing the tavern to St. Michael's Church,
Crooko<l Lane, towards the supporting of a chaplain. For
some time the vestry meetings were regularly held there ;
but it was observed that the old Boar never held up
L his head under church government. He gradually de-
I olined, and finally gave his last gasp about thirty years

The Boards Head Tavern^ Ea%tcheap, 117

since. The tavern was then turned into shops ; but she
informed me that a picture of it was still preserved in St.
Michaers Church, which stood just in the rear. To get a
sight of this picture was now my determination ; so, having
informed myself of the abode of the sexton, I took my
leave of the venerable chronicler of Eastcheap, my visit
having doubtless raised greatly her opinion of her legendary
lore, and furnished an important incident in the history of
her life.

It cost me some difficulty, and much curious inquiry, to
ferret out the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to
explore Crooked Lane, and divers little alleys, and elbows,
and dark passages, with which this old city is perforated,
like an ancient cheese, or a worm-eaten chest of drawers.
At length I traced him to a comer of a small court sur-
rounded by lofty houses, where the inhabitants enjoy about
as much of the face of heaven, as a community of frogs at
the bottom of a well.

The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man, of a bow-
ing, lowly habit: yet he had a pleasant twinkling in his
eye, and, if encouraged, would now and then hazard a
small pleasantry ; such as a man of his low estate might
venture to make- in the company of high churchwardens,
and other mighty men of the earth. I found hira in com-
pany with the deputy organist, seated apart, like Milton's
angels, discoursing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points, and
settling the affairs of the church over a friendly pot of ale —
for the lower classes of English seldom deliberate on any
weighty matter without the assistance of a cool tankard to
clear their understandings. I arrived at the moment
when they had finished their ale and their argument, and
were about to repair to the church to put it in order ; so
having made known my wishes, I received their gracious
permission to accompany them.

The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, standing a
short distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the
tombs of many fishmongers of renown ; and as every pro-
fession has its galaxy of glory, and its constellation of
great men, I presume the monument of a mighty fish-

118 The Sketch- Book.

monger of the olden time is regarded with as much rever-
ence by succeeding generations of the craft, as poets feel
on contemplating the tomb of Virgil, or soldiers the mon-
ument of a Marlborough or Turenne.

I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illustrious
men, to observe that St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, contains
also the ashes of that doughty champion, William Wal-
worth, knight, who so manfully clove down the sturdy
wight, Wat Tyler, in Smithfield ; a hero worthy of honor-
able blazon, as almost the only Lord Mayor on record
famous for deeds of arms : — the sovereigns of Cockney
being generally renowned as the most pacific of all poten-
tates.^

Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately
under the back window of what was once the Boar's Head,
stands the tombstone of Robert Preston, whilom drawer
at the tavern. It is now nearly a century since this trusty
drawer of good liquor closed his bustling career, and was
thus quietly deposited within call of his customers. As I
was clearing away the weeds from his epitaph, the little
sexton drew me on one side with a mysterious air, and
informed me in a low voice, that once upon a time, on a
dark wintry nighty when the wind was unruly, howling, and
whistling, banging about doors and windows, and twirling

i The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of this
worthy; which, uuhap))ily, was destroyed in the great conflagration.

Hereunder lyth a man of Fame,
William Walworth callvd bv name ;
Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here,
And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere;
Who, with cohrage stout and manly myght,
Blew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight.
For which act done, and trew entent,
The Kyng made him knyght incontinent ;
And gave him arroes, as here you see,
To declare his fact and chivaldrie.
He left this lyff the yere of our God
Thirteen hun'dred fourscore and three odd.

An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected hj the ven-
erable Stowe. "Whereas," saith he, "it hath been far spread abroad by
vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir William
Walworth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was named Jack Straw, and
not Wat Tyler, I thought good to reconcile this rash-conceived doubt by
such testimony as I find in ancient and good records. The principal leaders,
or captains, of the commons, were Wat T>'ler, as the first man ; the second
was John, or Jack, Straw," etc., etc. — Stowe*8 London,

The jBoar'*8 Head Tavern^ Eastcheap. 119

weatheroocks, so that the living were frightened out of
their beds, and even the dead could not sleep quietly in
their graves, the ghost of honest Preston which happened
to be airing itself in the churchyard, was attracted by the
well-known call of " waiter " from the Boar's Head, and
made its sudden appearance in the midst of a roaring club,
just as the parish clerk was singing a stave from the
"mirre garland of Captain Death;" to the discomfiture of
sundry train-band captains, and the conversion of an infidel
attorney, who became a zealous Christian on the spot, and
was never known to twist the truth afterwards, except in
the way of business.

I beg it may be remembered, that I do not pledge myself
for the authenticity of this anecdote ; though it is well
known that the churchyards and by-corners of this old
metropolis are very much infested with perturbed spirits ;
and every one must have heard of the Cock Lane ghost,
and the apparition that guards the regalia in the Tower
which has frightened so many bold sentinels almost out of
their wits.

Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to have
been a worthy successor to the nimble-tongued Francis,
who attended upon the revels of Prince Hal ; to have been
equally prompt with his " anon, anon, sir ; " and to have
transcended his predecessor in honesty ; for Falstaff, the
veracity of whose taste no man will venture to impeach,
flatly accuses Francis of putting lime in his sack ; whereas
honest Preston's epitaph lauds him for the sobriety of his
conduct, the soundness of his wine, and the fairness of his
measure.^ The worthy dignitaries of the church, however,

1 As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe it for
the admonition of delinquent tapsters. It is, no doubt, the production of
some choice q>irit, who once frequented the Boar's Head.

Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise.
Produced one sober son, and here he lies.
Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defy'd,
The charms of wine, and ever>'one beside.
O reader, if to justice thou'rt inclined.
Keep honest Preston daily in thy raina.
He drew good wine, took care to illl his pots.
Had sundry virtues that excused his faults.
Yoa that on Bacchus have the like dependence.
Fray copy Bob in measure and attendance.

120 The Sketch^Book.

did not appear much captivated by the sober virtues of the
tapster ; the deputy organist, who had a moist look out of
the eye, made some shrewd remark on the abstemiousness
of a man brought up among full hogsheads ; and the little
sexton corroborated his opinion by a significant wink, and
a dubious shake of the head.

Thus far my researches, though they threw much light
on the history of tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors,
yet disappointed me in the great object of my quest, the
picture of the Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting was
to be found in the church of St. Michael. '^ Marry and
amen 1 " said I, " here endeth my research ! " So 1 was
giving the matter up, with the air of a baified antiquary,
when my friend the sexton, perceiving me to be curious in
everything relative to the old tavern, offered to show me
the choice vessels of the vestry, which had been handed
down from remote times, when the parish meetings were
held at the Boar's Head. These were deposited in the
parish clubroom, which had been transferred, on the de-
cline of the ancient establishment, to a tavern in the neigh-
borhood.

A few steps brought us to the house, which stands
No. 12 Miles Lane, bearing the title of The Mason's Arms,
and is kept by Master Edward Honeyball, the "bully-rook"
of the establishment. It is one of those little taverns
which abound in the heart of the city, and foi-tn the centre
of gossip and intelligence of the neighborhood. We entered
the bar-room, which was narrow and darkling; for in these
close lanes but few rays of reflected light are enabled to
struggle down to the inhabitants, whose broad day is at best
but a tolerable twilight. The room was partitioned into
boxes, each containing a table spread with a clean white
cloth, ready for dinner. This showed that the guests were
of the good old stamp, and divided their day equally, for it
was but just one o'clock. At the lower end of the room was
a clear coal fire, before which a breast of lamb was roasting.
A row of bright brass candlesticks and pewter mugs glis-
tened along the mantlepiece, and an old-fashioned clock
ticked in one corner. There was something primitive in

The Boards Head Tavern^ Eastcheap, 121

this medley of kitcben, parlor, and hall, that carried me
back to earlier times, and pleased me. The place, indeed,
was humhle, but everything had that look of order and
neatness, which bespeaks the superintendence of a notable
English housewife. A group of amphibious-looking beings,
who might be either fishermen or sailors, were regaling
themselves in one of the boxes. As I was a visitor of
rather high pretensions, I was ushered into a little mis-
shapen back-room, having at least nine corners. It was
lighted by a skylight, furnished with antiquated leathern
chairs, and ornamented with the portrait of a fat pig. It
was evidently appropriated to particular customers, and I
found a shabby gentleman, in a red nose and oil-cloth hat,
seated in one corner, meditating on a half -empty pot of
porter.

The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with
an air of profound importance imparted to her my errand.
Dame Honeyball was a likely, plump, bustling little woman,
and no bad substitute for that paragon of hostesses. Dame
Quickly. She seemed delighted with an opportunity to
oblige ; and hurrying up stairs to the archives of the house,
where the precious vessels of the parish club were depos-
ited, she returned, smiling and courtesying, with them in
her hands.

The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobacco-
box, of gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the vestry
had smoked at their stated meetings, since time immemo-
rial ; and which was never suffered to be profaned by vulgar
hands, or used on common occasions. I received it with
becoming reverence ; but what was my delight, at beholding
on its cover the identical painting of which I was in quest !
There was displayed the outside of the Boar's Head Tavern,
and before the door was to be seen the whole convivial group,
at table, in full revel ; pictured with that wonderful fidelity
and force, with which the portraits of renowned generals
and commodores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for the
benefit of posterity. Lest, however, there should be any
mistake, the cunning limner had warily inscribed the names
of Prince Hal and Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs.

122 The Sketch-Book.

On the inside of the oover was an inscriptioii, nearly
obliterated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir
Richard Gore, for the use of the vestry meetings at the
Boar's Head Tavern, and that it was " repaired and beauti-
fied by his successor, Mr. John Packard, 1767." Such is a
faithful description of this august and venerable relic ; and
I question whether the learned Scriblerius contemplated his
Roman shield, or the Knights of the Round Table the long-
sought san-greal, with more exultation.

While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, Dune
Honeyball, who was highly gratified by the interest it ex-
cited, put in my hands a drinking cup or goblet, which also
belonged to the vestry, and was descended from the old
Boar's Head. It bore the inscription of having been the
gift of Francis Wythers, knight, and was held, she told me,
in exceeding great value, being considered very "antyke."
This last opinion was strengthened by the shabby gentle-
man in the red nose and oil-cloth hat, and whom I strongly
suspected of being a lineal descendant from the valiant
Bardolph. He suddenly roused from his meditation on the
pot of porter, and, casting a knowing look at the goblet,
exclaimed, '^ Ay, ay ! the head don't ache now that made
that there article !"

The great importance attached to this memento of ancient
revelry by modem churchwardens at first puzzled me ; but
there is nothitig sharpens the apprehensions so much as an-
tiquarian research ; for I immediately perceived that this
could be no other than the identical " parcel-gilt goblet **
on which Falstaff made his loving, but faithless vow to
Dame Quickly ; and which would, of course, be treasured
up with care among the regalia of her domains, as a testi-
mony of that solemn contract.^

Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the
goblet had been handed down from generation to gen-
eration. She also entertained me with many particulars

> Thou didBt swear to me npon a pnrcel-gilt goblet, Rittinfr in my Dolphin
chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal flre, on Wednesday, in Whltsim-
week, when the prince broke thy head for likening his father to a singing: man
at Windsor; thou didst swear to me then, as I was washine thy wound, to
marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny it? ^Henry /r.,
PaH2,

Ths Boards Head Tavern^ ^astcheap. 128

concerning the worthy vestrymen who have seated them-
selves thus quietly on the stools of the ancient roysters
of Eastcheap, and, like so many commentators, utter clouds
of smoke in honor of Shakespeare. These I forbear to
relate, lest my readers should not be as curious in these
matters as myself. Suffice it to say, the neighbors one and
all, about Eastcheap, believe that Falstaff and his merry
crew actually lived and revelled there. Nay, there are
several legendary anecdotes concerning him still extant
among the oldest frequenters of the Mason's Arms, which
they give as transmitted down from their forefathers ; and
Mr. M'Kash, an Irish hairdresser, whose shop stands on the
site of the old Boar's Head, has several dry jokes of Fat
Jack's, not laid down in the books, with which he makes
his customers ready to die of laughter.

I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some
further inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive medita-
tion. His head had declined a little on one side; a deep
sigh heaved from the very bottom of his stomach; and,
though I could not see a tear trembling in his eye, yet a
moisture was evidently stealing from a corner of his mouth.
I followed the direction of his eye through the door which
stood open, and found it fixed wistfully on the savory
breast of lamb, roasting in dripping richness before the
fire.

I now called to mind that, in the eagerness of my recon-
dite investigation, I was keeping the poor man from his
dinner. My bowels yearned with sympathy, and, putting
in his hand a small token of my gratitude and goodness, I
departed, with a hearty benediction on him. Dame Honey-
ball, and the Parish Club of Crooked Lane; — not for-
getting my shabby but sententious friend, in the oil-cloth
hat and copper nose.

Thus have I given a " tedious brief " account of this
interesting research, for which, if it prove too short and
unsatisfactory, I can only plead my inexperience in this
branch of literature, so deservedly popular at the present
day. I am aware that a more skillful illustrator of the
immortal bard would have swelled the materials I have

124

The SketchrBooh.

touched upon, to a good merchantable bulk ; comprising the
biographies of William Walworth, Jack Straw, and Robert
Preston ; some notice of the eminent fishmongers of St.
Michael's ; the history of Eastcheap, great and little ; pri-
vate anecdotes of Dame Honeyball, and her pretty daugh-
ter, whom I have not even mentioned; to say nothing of a
damsel tending the breast of lamb, (and whom, by the way,
I remarked to be a comely lass, with a neat foot and
ankle;) — the whole enlivened by the riots of Wat Tyler,
and illuminated by the great fire of London.

All this I leave, as a rich mine, to be worked by future
commentators ; nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco-box,
and the "parcel-gilt goblet," which I have thus brought to
light, the subjects of future engravings, and almost as fruit-
ful of voluminous dissertations and disputes as the shield
of Achilles, or the far-famed Portland vase.

THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE.

A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

I know that all beneath the moon decays,
And what by mortals in this world is brought,
In timers great period shall return to nought

I know that all the muse^s heavenly lays,
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought,
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought,

That there is nothing lighter than mere praise.

Dbummond of Hawthorndkn.

There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, in

t 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. In such a mood I

was loitering about the old gray cloisters of Westminster

Abbey, enjoying that luxury of wandering thought which

one is apt to dignify with the name of reflection ; when

suddenly an irruption of madcap boys from Westminster

School, playing at foot-ball, broke in upon the monastic

^ stillness of the place, making the vaulted passages and

mouldering tombs echo with their merriment. I sought

to take refuge from their noise by penetrating still deeper

into the solitudes of the pile, and applied to one of the

vergers for admission to the library. He conducted me

through a portal rich with the crumbling sculpture of

. former ages, which opened upon a gloomy passage leading

i to the chapter-house and the chamber in which Doomsday

^ Book is deposited. Just within the passage is a small

^ door on the left. To this the verger applied a key; it

was double locked, and opened with some difliculty, as if

seldom used. We now ascended a dark, narrow

staircase, and, passing through a second door, entered

4 • the library.

J 12&

126 The Sketch-Booh.

I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof sn
ported by massive joists of old English oak. It \v
soberly lighted by a row of Gothic windows at a consid^
able height from the iloor, and which apparently open*
upon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient picture
some reverend dignitary of the church in his robes hui
over the fireplace. Around the hall and in a small gallei
were the books, arranged in carved oaken cases. Th<
consisted principally of old polemical writers, and we
much more worn bv time than use. In the centre of tl
library was a solitary table with two or three books on ;
an inkstand without ink, and a few pens parched by loi
disuse. The place seemed fitted for quiet study and pr
found meditation. It was buried deep among the massif
walls of the abbey, and shut up from the tumult of tl
world. I could only hear now and then the shouts of tl
school-boys faintly swelling from the cloisters, and tl
sound of a bell tolling for prayers, echoing soberly aloi
the roofs of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of men
ment grew fainter and fainter, and at length died away; tl
bell ceased to toll, and a profound silence reigned throu^
the dusky hall.

I bad taken down a little thick quarto, curiously boui
in parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at tl
table in a venerable elbow-chair. Instead of reading, he
ever, I was beguiled by the solemn monastic air, and lifele
quiet of the place, into a train of musing. As I look
around upon the old volumes in their mouldering covei
thus ranged on the shelves, and apparently never disturb
in their repose, I could not but consider the library a kii
of literary catacomb, where authors, like mummies, a
piously entombed, and left to blacken and moulder in dus
oblivion.

How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, nc
thrust aside with such indifference, cost some achii
head ! how many weary days ! how many sleepk
nights ! IIow have their authors buried themselves in t
solitude of cells and cloisters; shut themselves up frc
the face of man, and the still more blessed face of natur

TTie Mutability of Literature. 127

and devoted themselves to painful research and intense
reflection ! And all for what ? to occupy an inch of
dusty shelf — to have the title of their works read now
and then in a future age, by some drowsy churchman or
casual straggler like myself; and in another age to be
lost, even to remembrance. Such is the amount of this
boasted immortality. A mere temporary rumor, a local
sound; like the tone of that bell which has just tolled
among these towers, filling the ear for a moment — lingering
traiisiently in echo — and then passing away like a thing
that was not I

While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these un-

frofitable speculations with my head resting on my hand,
was thrumming with the other hand upon the quarto,
until I accidentally loosened the clasps ; when to my utter
astonishment, the little book gave two or three yawns, like
one awakening from a deep sleep; then a husky hem;
and at length began to talk. At first its voice was very
hoarse and broken, being much troubled by a cobweb which
some studious spider had woven across it; and having
probably contracted a cold from long exposure to the chills
and damps of the abbey. In a short time, however, it be-
came more distinct, and I soon found it an exceedingly
fluent conversable little tome. Its language, to be sure,
was rather quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation, what,
in the present day, would be deemed barbarous; but I
shall endeavor, as far as I am able, to render it in modern
parlance.

It began with railings about the neglect of the world —
about merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, and
other such commonplace topics of literary repining, and
complained bitterly that it had not been opened for more
than two centuries. That the dean only looked now and
then into the library, sometimes took down a volume or
two, trifled with them for a few moments, and then returned
them to their shelves. " What a plague do they mean,"
said the little quarto, which I began to perceive was some-
what choleric, " what a plague do they mean by keeping
several thousand volumes of us shut up here, and watched

128 The Sketch-Book.

by a set of old vergers, like so many beauties in a harem,
merely to be looked at now and then by the dean ? Books
were written to give pleasure and to be enjoyed ; and I |
would have a rule passed that the dean should pay each of *
us a visit at least once a year ; or if he is not equal to the |
task, let them once in a while turn loose the whole school
of Westminster among us, that at any rate we may now
and then have an airing.''

"Softly, my worthy friend," replied I, "you are not
aware how much better you are olf than most books of
your generation. By being stored away in this ancient
library, you are like the treasured remains of those saints
and monarchs, which lie enshrined in the adjoining chap-
els ; while the remains of your contemporary mortals, left
to the ordinary course of nature, have long since returned
to dust."

" Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and looking
big, " I was written for all the world, not for the book-
worms of an abbey. I was intended to circulate from hand
to hand, like other great contemporary works ; but here
have I been clasped up for more than two centuries, and
might have silently fallen a prey to these worms that are
playing the very vengeance with my intestines, if you had
not by chance given me an opportunity of uttering a few
last words before I go to pieces."

" My good friend," rejoined I, " had you been left to the
circulation of which you speak, you would long ere this
have been no more. To judge from your physiognomy,
you are now well stricken in years ; very few of your con-
temporaries can be at present in existence ; and those few
owe their longevity to being immured like yourself in old
libraries ; which, suffer me to add, instead of likening to
harems, you might more properly and gratefully have com-
pared to those infirmaries attached to religious establish-
ments, for the benefit of the old and decrepit, and where,
by quiet fostering and no employment, they often endure
to an amazingly good-for-nothing old age. You talk of
your contemporaries as if in circulation — where do we
meet with their works ? what do we hear of Robert Gro-

The MutaMUty of Literature. 129

teste, of Lincoln ? No one could have toiled harder than
he for immortality. He is said to have written nearly two
hondred volumes. He built, as it were, a pyramid of
books to perpetuate his name : but, alas ! the pyramid has
long since fallen, and only a few fragments are scattered
in various libraries, where they are scarcely disturbed
even by the antiquarian. What do we hear of Giraldus
Cambrensis, the historian, antiquary, philosopher, theolo-
gian, and poet? He declined two bishoprics, that he
might shut himself up and write for posterity; but pos-
terity never inquires after his labors. What of Henry of
Huntingdon, who, besides a learned history of England,
wrote a treatise on the contempt of the world, which the
world has revenged by forgetting him ? What is quoted
of Joseph of Exeter, styled the miracle of his age in classi-
cal composition ? Of his three great heroic poems one is
lost forever, excepting a mere fragment; the others are
known only to a few of the curious in literature ; and as
to his love verses and epigrams, they have entirely disap-
peared. What is in current use of John Wallis, the
Franciscan, who acquired the name of the tree of life?
Of William of Malmsbury; — of Simeon of Durham; — of
Benedict of Peterborough; — of John Hanvill of St.
Albans; — of — "

"Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy tone,
" how old do you think me ? You are talking of authors
that lived long before my time, and wrote either in Latin
or French, so that they in a manner expatriated them-
selves, and deserved to be forgotten ; * but I, sir, was
ushered into the world from the press of the renowned
Wynkyn de Worde. I was written in my own native
tongue, at a time when the language had become fixed ;
and indeed I was considered a model of pure and elegant
English."

(1 should observe that these remarks were couched in

1 In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had fcreat delyte to en-
dite, and have many imble things fulfllde, but certes there ben some that
spea^en their poisve in French, of which speche the Frenchmen have as fi^ood
a fantasye at we nave in heairlng of Frenohmen*t BngUahe.— Chauokb's
Tettameni qf Utvt.

180 The Sketch'Book.

such intolerably antiqaated terms, that I hare had i
difficulty in rendering them into modem phraseologrj
" I cry your mercy," said I, " for mistaking your ag
it matters little : almost all the writers of your tim<
likewise passed into forgetfulness ; and De Worde\s
cations are mere literary rarities among book-coll
The purity and stability of language, too, on whic
found your claims to perpetuity, have been the fall
dependence of authors of every age, even back to the
of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, who wrote his 1
in rhymes of mongrel Saxon .^ Even now many t
Spenser's * well of pure English undefiled,' as if tt
guage ever sprang from a well or fountain-head, an
not rather a mere confluence of various tongues, perp<
subject to changes and intermixtures. It is this
has made English literature so extremely mutable, ai
reputation built upon it so fleeting. Unless thoug
be committed to something more permanent and unci
able than such a medium, even thought must share tl
of everything else, and fall into decay. This should
as a check upon the vanity and exultation of the
popular writer. He finds the language in which ]
embarked his fame gradually altering, and subject
dilapidations of time and the caprice of fashion. H<
back and beholds the early authors of his country, or
favorites of their day, supplanted by modern write
few short ages have covered them with obscurity, an<
merits can only be relished by the quaint taste
bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will be the i
his own work, which, however it may be admired
day, and held up as a model of purity, will in the
of years grow antiquated and obsolete ; until ii
become almost as unintelligible in its native land

1 Holinstaed, in his chronicle, obnervefl, "afterwards, also, bv
travell of (JefTry Chaucer and of .John Oowre, in the time of Ric
8econ«l, and after them of John Scopran and John Lyd^ato, nionkc o
our Mid toont; waa broupht to an excellent ]>a."*se.'notwithstan<lin;
never came Into the tvi)e of |>erf(M'tion until the time of (jueen £
wherein John .lewell. Bishop of Sarum, John Fox, and sundrie Icai
ezoellentwriteni, have fully accom]di8hcd the omature of the same
irreat praise and immortal commendation."

The Mutability of Literature. 181

Egyptian obelisk, or one of those Runic inscriptions said
to exist in tl>e deserts of Tartary. I declare," added I,
with some emotion, " when I contemplate a modern library,
filled with new works, in all the bravery of rich gilding
and binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep ; like
the good Xerxes, when he surveyed his army, pranked out
in ail the splendor of military array, and reflected that in
one hundred years not one of them would be in existence!"

" Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, " I see
how it is ; these modern scribblers have superseded all the
good old authors. I suppose nothing is read nowadays
but Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia^ Sackville's stately plays
and Mirror for Magistrates^ or the fine-spun euphuisms
of the * unparalleled John Lyly.' "

*« There you are again mistaken," said I ; " the writers
whom you suppose in vogue, because they happened to be
so when you were last in circulation, have long since had
their day. Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia^ the immortality
of which was so fondly predicted by his admirers,^ and
which, in truth, is full of noble thoughts, delicate images,
and graceful turns of language, is now scarcely ever men-
tioned. Sackville has strutted into obscurity; and even
Lyly, though his writings were once the delight of a court,
and apparently perpetuated by a proverb, is now scarcely
known even by name. A whole crowd of authors who
wrote and wrangled at the time, have likewise gone down,
with all their writings and their controversies. Wave after
wave of succeeding literature has rolled over them, until
they are buried so deep, that it is only now and then that
some industrious diver after fragments of antiquity brings
up a specimen for the gratification of the curious.

" For my part," I continued, " I consider this mutability
of language a wise precaution of Providence for the benefit
of the world at large, and of authors in particular. To

1 Live ever Bweete booke ; the simple imapreof his gentle wItt, and thegolrlen-
pillar of his noble courage; and ever notify unto the world that thy writer
was the secretary of eloquence, the breath of the muses, the honey-bee of the
daintyest flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale and intellectual virtues,
the arme of Bellona in the field, the tonierue of Suada in the chamber, the
sprite of Practise in esse, and the paragon of exceUency in print. —UAJtvEY's
Pi9rce*$ SvpereroffcUion.

182 The SketchrBook.

reason from analogy, we daily behold the yaried and beaa-
tif ul tribes of vegetables springing up, flourishing, adorning
the fields for a short time, and then fading into dust, to
make way for their successors. Were not this the case,
the fecundity of nature would be a grievance instead of
a blessing. The earth would groan with rank and excessive
vegetation, and its surface become a tangled wilderness.
In like manner the works of genius and learning decline^
and make way for subsequent productions. Language
gradually varies, and with it fade away the writings of
authors who have flourished their allotted time; otherwise,
the creative powers of genius would overstock the world,
and the mind would be completely bewildered in the endless
mazes of literature. Formerly there were some restraints
on this excessive multiplication. Works had to be tran-
scribed by hand, which was a slow and laborious operation;
they were written either on parchment, which was expen-
sive, so that one work was often erased to make way for
another; or on papyrus, which was fragile and extremely
perishable. Authorship was a limited and unprofitable
craft, })ursued chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude
of their cloisters. The accumulation of manuscripts was
slow atid costly, and confined almost entirely to monasteries.
To these circumstances it may, in some measure, be owing
that we have not been inundated by the intellect of
antiquity: that the fountains of thought have not been
broken up, and modern genius drowned in the deluge. But
the inventions of paper and the press have put an end to
all these restraints. They have made every one a writer,
and enabled every mind to pour itself into print, and
diffuse itself over the whole intellectual world. The con-
sequences are alarming. The stream of literature has
swollen into a torrent — augmented into a river — expanded
into a sea. A few centuries since, five or six hundred
manuscripts constituted a great library ; but what would
you say to libraries such as actually exist, containing three
or four hundred thousand volumes; legions of authors at
the same time busy; and the press going on with fearfully
increasing activity, to double and quadruple the number?

The MutaMlity of Literature. 183

Unless some unforeseen mortality should break out among
the progeny of the muse, now that she has become so
prolific, I tremble for posterity. I fear the mere fluctuation
of language will not be sufficient. Criticism may do much.
It increases with the increase of literature, and resembles
one of those salutary checks on population spoken of by
economists. All possible encouragement, therefore, should
be given to the growth of critics, good or bad. But I fear
all will be in vain : let criticism do what it may, writers
will write, printers will print, and the world will inevitably
be overstocked with good books. It will soon be the
employment of a lifetime merely to learn their names.
Many a man of passable information, at the present day,
reads scarcely anything but reviews; and before long a
man of erudition will be little better than a mere walking
catalogue."

** My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most
drearily in my face, " excuse my interrupting you, but I
perceive you are rather given to prose. I would ask the
fate of an author who was making some noise just as I left
the world. His reputation, however, was considered quite
temporary. The learned shook their heads at him, for he
was a poor half-educated varlet, that knew little of Latin,
and nothing of Greek, and had been obliged to run the
country for deer-stealing. I think his name was Shake-
speare. I presume he soon sunk into oblivion."

«' On the contrary," said I, " it is owing to that very man
that the literature of his period has experienced a duration
beyond the ordinary term of English literature. There rise
authors now and then, who seem proof against the muta-
bility of language, because they have rooted themselves in
the unchanging principles of human nature. They are like
gigantic trees that we sometimes see on the banks of a
stream; which, by their vast and deep roots, penetrating
through the mere surface, and laying hold on the very
foundations of the earth, preserve the soil around them
from being swept away by the over-flowing current, and hold
up many a neighboring plant, and, perhaps, worthless weed,
to perpetuity. Such is the case with Shakespeare, whom

184 The Shetch-Book.

we behold defying the encroachmeDts of time, retaining in
modern use the language and literature of his day, and
giving duration to many an indifferent author, merely from
having flourished in his vicinity. But even he, I grieve to
say, is gradually assuming the tint of age, and his whole
form is overrun by a profusion of commentators, who, like
clambering vines and creepers, almost bury the noble plant
that upholds them."

Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and
chuckle, until at length he broke out in a plethoric fit of
laughter that had well-nigh choked him, by reason of his
excessive corpulency. " Mighty well ! " cried he, as soon
as he could recover breath, "mighty well I and so you
would persuade me that the literature of an age is to be
perpetuated by a vagabond deer-stealer I by a man with-
out learning ; by a poet, forsooth — a poet ! " And here
he wheezed forth another fit of laughter.

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled isit this rudeness,
which, however, I pardoned on account of his having flour-
ished in a less polished age. I determined, nevertheless,
not to give up my point.

" Yes," resumed I, positively, " a poet ; for of all writers
he has the best chance for immortality. Others may write
from the head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart
will always understand him. He is the faithful portrayer
of nature, whose features are always the same, and always
interesting. Prose wnters are voluminous and unwieldy;
their pages are crowded with commonplaces, and their
thoughts expanded into tediousness. But with the true
poet everything is terse, touching, or brilliant. He gives
the choicest thoughts in the choicest language. He illus-
trates them by everything that he sees most striking in
nature and art. He enriches them by pictures of human
life, such as it is passing before him. His writings, there-
fore, contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase,
of the age in which he lives. They are caskets which
enclose within a small compass the wealth of the language
— its family jewels, which are thus transmitted in a porta-
ble form to posterity. The setting may occasionally be

The Mutability of Literature, 135

antiquated, and require now and then to be renewed, as in
the case of Chaucer; but the brilliancy and intrinsic value
of the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back over the
long reach of literary history. What vast valleys of dul-
ness, tilled with monkish legends and academical contro-
versies! what bogs of theological speculations I what
dreary wastes of metaphysics ! Here and there only do we
behold the heaven-illuminated bards, elevated like beacons
on their widely separated heights, to transmit the pure
light of poetical intelligence from age to age." *

I was just about to launch forth into eulogiumsupon\he
poets of the day, when the sudden opening of the door
caused me to turn my head. It was the verger, who came
to inform me that it was time to close the library. I sought
to have a parting word with the quarto, but the worthy
little tome was silent; the clasps were closed: and it
looked perfectly unconscious of all that had passed. I
have been to the library two or three times since, and have
endeavored to draw it into further conversation, but in
vain ; and whether all this rambling colloquy actually took
place, or whether it was another of those odd day-dreams
to which I am subject, I have never to this moment been
able to discover.

1 Thorow earth and waters deepe,

The pen by skill doth passe :
And featly nyps the worldes abuse,

And shoes us in a elasse,
The vertu and the vice

Of every wight aljrve ;
The honey comb that bee doth make

Is not so sweet in hyve,
As are the golden leves

That drop from poet's head I
Which dotn surmount our common talke

As fane at dross doth lead.

Chubohyabd.

RURAL FUNERALS.

Here's a few flowers! but about midnight more:
The herbs tliat have on them cold dew o* the night
Are strewings Attest for graves —
You were as flowers now withered; even so
These herblets shall, which we upon you stro^.

Cymbeline.

Among the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of
rural life which still linger in some parts of England, are
those of strewing flowers before the funerals, and planting
them at the graves of departed friends. These, it is said,
are the remains of some of the rites of the primitive
church ; but they are of still higher antiquity, having been
observed among the Greeks and Romans, and frequently
mentioned by their writers, and were no doubt, the spon-
taneous tributes of unlettered affection, originating long
before art had tasked itself to modulate sorrow into song,
or story it on the monument. They are now only to be
met with in the most distant and retired places of the
kingdom, where fashion and innovation have not been able
to throng in, and trample out all the curious and interest-
ing traces of the olden time.

In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the
corpse lies is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to
in one of the wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia : —

White his shroud as the mountain snow

Larded all with sweet flowers;
Which be-wept to the grave did go,

With true love showers.

There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite observed
in some of the remote villages of the south, at the funeral
of a female who has died young and unmarried. A chaplet

130

Hural Funerals. 137

of white flowers is borne before the corpse by a young girl
nearest in age, size, and resemblance, and is afterwards
hung up in the church over the accustomed seat of the
deceased. These chaplets are sometimes made of white
paper, in imitation of flowers, and inside of them is gener-
ally a pair of white gloves. They are intended as emblems
of the purity of the deceased, and the crown of glory
which she has received in heaven.

In some pai-ts of the country, also, the dead are carried
to the grave with the singing of psalms and hymns : a kind
of triumph, " to show," says Bourne, " that they have fin-
ished their course with joy, and are become conquerors."
This, I am informed, is observed in some of the northern
counties, particularly in Northumberland, and it has a
pleasing though melancholy effect, to hear, of a still even-
ing, in some lonely country scene, the mournful melody of
a funeral dirge swelling from a distance, and to see the
train slowly moving along the landscape.

Thus, thus, and thug, we compass round
Thy haimlesse and unhaunted ground.
And as we sing thv dirge, we will

The daffodU
And other flowers lay upon
The altar of our love, thy stone.

Hbrbick.

There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveller to
the passing funeral in these sequestered places ; for such
spectacles, occurring among the quiet abodes of nature,
sink deep into the soul. As the mourning train ap-
proaches, he pauses, uncovered, to let it go by ; he then
follows silently in the rear ; sometimes quite to the grave,
at other times for a few hundred yards, and, having paid
this tribute of respect to the deceased, turns and resumes
his journey.

The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the
English character, and gives it some of its most touching
and ennobling graces, is finely evidenced in these pathetic
customs, and in the solicitude shown by the common people

138 The Skeieh-Book.

for an bonored and a peaceful grave. The humblest peasant,
whatever may be his lowly lot while living, is anxious that
some little respect may be paid to his remains. Sir Thomas
Overbury, describing the " faire and happy milkmaid,'^ ob-
serves, ^^ thus lives she, and all her care is, that she may
die in the springtime, to have store of flowers stucke upon
her windingsheet." The poets, too, who always breathe
the feeling of a nation, continually advert to this fond soli-
citude about the grave. In Tfie MaicTs Tragedy by Beau-
mont and Fletcher, there is a beautiful instance of the
kind, describing the capricious melancholy of a broken-
hearted girl :

When she sees a bank
Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell
Her servants, what a pretty place it were
To bury lovers in ; and make her maids
Pluck ^em, and strew her over like a corse.

The custom of decorating graves was once universally
prevalent : osiers were carefully bent over them to keep the
turf uninjured, and about them were planted evergreens
and flowers. " We adorn their graves," says Evelyn, in his
Sylva^ " with flowers and redolent plants, just emblems
of the life of man, which has been compared in Holy Scrip-
tures to those fading beauties, whose roots being buried in
dishonor, rise again* in glory." This usage has now become
extremely rare in England ; but it may still be met with in
the churchyards of retired villages, among the Welsh moun-
tains ; and I recollect an instance of it at the small town of
Ruthen, which lies at the head of the beautiful vale of
Clewyd. I have been told also by a friend, who was pres-
ent at the funeral of a young girl in Glamorganshire, that
the female attendants had their aprons full of flowers,
which, as soon as the body was interred, they stuck about
the grave.

He noticed several graves which had been decorated in
the same manner. As the flowers had been merely stuck
in the ground, and not planted, they had soon withered,
and might be seen in various states of decay ; some droop-
ing, others quite perished. They were afterwards to be

Mural .Funerals. 139

mipplanted by holly, rosemary, and other eyergreens ; which
on some graves had grown to great luxuriance, and over-
shadowed the tombstones.

There was formerly a melancholy fancifnlness in the
arrangement of these rustic offerings, that had something
in it truly poetical. The rose was sometimes blended with
the lily, to form a general emblem of frail mortality. " This
sweet flower,'* said Evelyn, "borne on a branch set
with thorns, and accomp;inied with the lily, are natural
hieroglyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, anxious, and tran-
sitory life, which, making so fair a show for a time, is not
yet without its thorns and crosses." The nature and color
of the flowers, and of the ribbons with which they were
tied, had often a particular reference to the qualities or
story of the deceased, or were expressive of the feelings
of the mourner. In an old poem, entitled CorydorHs Dole-
Jul ITneUj a lover specifies the decorations he intends to

use: —

A garland shall be framed

By art and nature^s skill,
Of sundry-colored flowers,

In token of good-will.

And sundry -colorM ribands

On it I will bestow;
But chiefly black and yellowe

With her to grave shall go.

ril deck her tomb with flowers,

The rarest ever seen;
And with ray tears as showers,

1*11 keep them fresh and green.

The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave of
a virgin ; her chaplet was tied with white ribbons, in token
of her spotless innocence ; though sometimes black ribbons
were intermingled, to bespeak the grief of the survivors.
The red rose was occasionally used in remembrance of such
as had been remarkable for benevolence ; but roses in gen-
eral were appropriated to the graves of lovers. Evelyn
tells us that the custom was not altogether extinct in his
time, near his dwelling in the county of Surrey, " where

140 The Sketch-Book.

the maidens yearly planted and decked the graves of their
defunct sweethearts with rose-bushes." And Camden like-
wise remarks, in his Britannia : '^ Here is also a certain
custom, observed time out of mind, of planting rose-trees
upon the graves, especially by the young men and maids
who have lost their loves ; so that diis churchyard is now
full of them."

When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, em-
blems of a more gloomy character were used, such as the
yew and cypress ; and if flowers were strewn, they were of
the most melancholy colors. Thus, in poems by Thomas
Stanley, Esq. (published in 1651), is the following stanza:

Yet strew
Upon my dismall grave
Such offerings as you have,

Forsaken cypresse and sad yewe ;
For kinder flowers can take no birth
Or growth from such unhappy earth.

In The Maid^e Tragedy a pathetic little air is intro-
duced, illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals
of females who had been disappointed in love :

Lay a garland on my hearse,

Of the dismall yew,
Maidens, willow branches wear,

Say I died true.

My love was false, but I was flrm,

From my hour of birth;
Upon my buried body lie

Lightly, gentle earth.

The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to reflne and
elevate the mind ; and we have a proof of it in the purity
of sentiment and the unaffected elegance of thought which
pervaded the whole of these funeral observances. Thus,
it was an especial precaution that none but sweet-scented
evergreens and flowers should be employed. The intention
seems to have been to soften the horrors of the tomb, to be-
guile the mind from brooding over the disgraces of perish-

Rural FunerdlB. 141

ing mortality, and to associate the memory of the deceased
with the most delicate and beautiful objects in nature.
There is a dismal process going on in the grave, ere dust
can return to its kindred dust, which the imagination shrinks
from contemplating ; and we seek still to think of the form
we have loved, with those refined associations which it
awakened when blooming before us in youth and beauty.
" Lay her i' the earth," says Laertes, of his virgin sister.

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets spring!

Herrick, also, in his Dirge of Jephtha^ pours forth a
fragrant flow of poetical thought and image, which in a
manner embalms the dead in the recollections of the living.

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice,

And make this place all Paradise:

May sweets grow here I and smoke from hence

Fat frankincense.
Let balme and cassia send their scent
From out thy maiden monument.

May all shie maids at wonted hours

Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers!

May virgins, when they come to mourn,

Male incense bum
Upon thine altar! then return
And leave thee sleeping in thine urn.

I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older
British poets who wrote when these rites were more preva-
lent, and delighted frequently to allude to them ; but I have
already quoted more than is necessary. I cannot however
refrain from giving a passage f ronj Shakespeare, even though
it should appear trite ; which illustrates the emblematical
meaning often conveyed in these floral tributes ; and at the
same time possesses that magic of language and apposite-
ness of imagery for which he stands pre-eminent.

With fairest flowers.
While summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,
I'll sweeten thy sad grave ; thou shalt not lack

142 The Sketch^Book.

The flower that^s like thy face, pale primrose; nor
The azured harebell, like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of eglantine; whom not to slander,
Outsweetn'd not thy breath.

There is certainly something more affecting in these
prompt and spontaneous offerings of natare, than in the
most costly monuments of art ; the hand strews the flower
while the heart is warm, and the tear falls on the grave as
affection is binding the osier round the sod; but pathos
expires under the slow labor of the chisel, and is chilled
among the cold conceits of sculptured marble.

It is greatly to be regretted, that a custom so truly ele-
gant and touching has disappeared from general use, and
exists only in the most remote and insignificant villages.
But it seems as if poetical custom always shuns the walks
of cultivated society. In proportion as people grow polite
they cease to be poetical. They talk of poetry, but they
have learned to check its free impulses, to distrust its sally-
ing emotions, and to apply its most affecting and pictur-
esque usages, by studied form and pompous ceremonial.
Few pageants can be more stately and frigid than an Eng-
lish funeral in town. It is made up of show and gloomy
parade; mourning carriages, mourning horses, mourning
plumes, and hireling mourners, who make a mockery of
grief. "There is a grave digged," says Jeremy Taylor,
" and a solemn mourning, and a great talk in the neighbor-
hood, and when the daies are finished, they shall be, and
they shall be remembered no more." The associate in the
gay and crowded city is soon forgotten ; the hurrying suc-
cession of new inmates and new pleasures effaces him
from our minds, and the very scenes and circles in which
he moved are incessantly fluctuating. But funerals in the
country are solemnly impressive. The stroke of death
makes a wider space in the village circle, and is an awful
event in the tranquil uniformity of rural life. The passing
bell tolls its knell in every ear; it steals with its pervading
melancholy over hill and vale, and saddens all the land-
scape.

The fixed and unchanging features of the country also

Rural Funerals. 1 48

perpetuate the memory of the friend with whom we once
enjoyed them ; who was the companion of oar most retired
walks, and gave animation to every lonely scene. His idea
is associated with every charm of nature ; we hear his voice
in the echo which he once delighted to awaken ; his spirit
haunts the grove which he once frequented ; we think of
him in the wild upland solitude, or amidst the pensive
beauty of the valley. In the freshness of joyous morning,
we remember his beaming smiles and bounding gayety ; and
when sober evening returns with its gathering shadows
and subduing quiet, we call to mind many a twilight hour
of gentle talk and sweet-souled melancholy.

Each lonely place shall him restore,

For him the tear be duly shed ;
Beloved, till life can charm no more:

And moum'd till pity^s self be dead.

Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the de-
ceased in the country is that the grave is more immediately
in sight of the survivors. They pass it on their way to
prayer, it meets their eyes when their hearts are softened by
the exercises of devotion ; they linger about it on the Sab-
bath, when the mind is disengaged from worldly cares, and
most disposed to turn aside from present pleasures and
present loves, and to sit down among the solemn mementos
of the past. In North Wales the peasantry kneel and pray
over the graves of their deceased friends, for several Sun-
days after the interment ; and where the tender rite of
strewing and planting flowers is still practised, it is always
renewed on Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festivals, when
the season brings the companion of former festivity more
vividly to mind. It is also invariably performed by the
nearest relatives and friends ; no menials nor hirelings are
employed ; and if a neighbor yields assistance, it would be
deemed an insult to ofPer compensation.

I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because, as
it is one of the last, so is it one of the holiest offices of love.
The grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is there that
the divine passion of the soul manifests its superiority to

144 The Sketch-Book.

the instinctive impalse of mere animal attachment. The
latter must be continually refreshed and kept alive by the
presence of its object ; but the love that is seated in the
soul can live on long remembrance. The mere inclinations
of sense languish and decline with the charms which excited
them, and turn with shuddering disgust from the dismal
precincts of the tomb ; but it is thence that truly spiritual
affection rises, purified from every sensual desire, and
returns, like a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify the
heart of the survivor.

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 affiction 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 sud-
den anguish and the convulsive agony over the present
ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into
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 gayety, 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 I —

Rural FunerdU. 146

It buries every error — covers every defect — extingoishes
every resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring none
but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look
down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a
compunctious throb, that he should ever have warred with
the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him.

But the grave of those we loved — what a place for medi-
tation ! There it is that we call up in long review the whole
history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endear-
ments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily in-
tercourse of intimacy — there it is that we dwell upon the
tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting
scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs — its
noiseless attendance — its mute, watchful assiduities. The
last testimonies of expiring love I The feeble, fluttering,
thrilling — oh! how thrilling! — pressure of the hand!
The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give
one more assurance of affection ! The last fond look of
the glazing eye, turned upon us even from the threshold
of existence !

Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate ! There
settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit
unrequited — every past endearment unregarded, of that
departed being, who can never — never — never return to
be soothed by thy contrition !

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the
soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate
parent — if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the
fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms
to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth — if thou
art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or
deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee — if thou
art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that
true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; —
then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word,
every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy
memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul — then be sure
that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the
grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavail-

146 The /^etch-Book.

ing tear; more deep, more bitter, because anheard and
anavailiDg.

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties
of nature about the grave ; console thy broken spirit, if thou
canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret ; but
take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction
over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affec-
tionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living.

In writing the preceding article, it was not intended to
give a full detail of the funeral customs of the English
peasantry, but merely to furnish a few hints and quotations
illustrative of particular rites, to be appended, by way of
note, to Another paper, which has been withheld. The
article swelled insensibly into its present form, and this is
mentioned as an apology for so brief and casual a notice of
these usages, after they have been amply and learnedly in-
vestigated in other works.

I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this cus-
tom of adorning graves with flowers prevails in other coun-
tries besides England. Indeed, in some it is much more
general, and is observed even by the rich and fashionable ;
but it is then apt to lose its simplicity, and to degenerate
into affectation. Bright, in his travels in lower Hungary,
tells of monuments of marble, and recesses formed for re-
tirement, with seats placed among bowere of greenhouse
plants; and that the graves generally are covered with the
gayest flowers of the season. He gives a casual picture of
filial piety, which I cannot but transcribe ; for I trust it is
as useful as it is delightful, to illustrate the amiable virtues
of the sex. " When I was at Berlin," says he, " I followed
the celebrated Ifiland to the grave. Mingled with some
pomp, you might trace much real feeling. In the midst
of the ceremony, my attention was attracted by a young
woman, who stood on a mound of earth, newly covered with
turf, which she anxiously protected from the feet of the
passing crowd. It was the tomb of her parent ; and the
figure of this affectionate daughter presented a monument
more striking than the most costly work of art."

Rural Funerals. 147

I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration that
I once met with among the mountains of Switzerland. It
was at the village of Gersau, which stands on the borders
of the Lake of Lucerne, at the foot of Mt. Rigi. It was
once the capital of a miniature republic, shut up between
the Alps and the Lake, and accessible on the land side only
by foot-paths. The whole force of the republic did not
exceed six hundred fighting men ; and a few miles of cir-
cumference, scooped out as it were from the bosom of the
mountains, comprised its territory. The village of Gersau
seemed separated from the rest of the world, and retained
the golden simplicity of a purer age. It had a small
church, with a burying-ground adjoining. At the heads of
the graves were placed crosses of wood or iron. On some
were affixed miniatures, rudely executed, but evidently at-
tempts at likenesses of the deceased. On the crosses were
hung chaplets of flowers, some withering, others fresh, as if
occasionally renewed. I paused with interest at this scene ;
I felt that I was at the source of poetical description, for
these were the beautiful but unaffected offerings of the
heart which poets are fain to record. In a gayer and more
populous place, I should have suspected them to have been
suggested by factitious sentiment, derived from books ; but
the good people of Gersau knew little of books ; there was
not a novel nor a love poem in the village ; and I question
whether any peasant of the place dreamt, while he was
twining a fresh chaplet for the grave of his mistress, that
he was fulfilling one of the most fanciful rites of poetical
devotion, and that he was practically a poet.

THE INN KITCHEN.

Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?

Falstaff.

DuRiXG a journey that I once made through the Nether-
lands, I had arrived one evening at the Pomme cTOr^ the
principal inn of a small Flemish village. It was after the
hour of the table d^hOte^ so that I was obliged to make a
solitary supper from the relics of its ampler board. The
weather was chilly ; I was seated alone in one end of a
great gloomy dining-room, and, my repast being over, I had
the prospect before me of a long dull evening, without any
visible means of enlivening it. I summoned mine host, and
requested something to read ; he brought me the whole
literary stock of his household, a Dutch family Bible, an
almanac in the same language, and a number of old Paris
newspapers. As I sat dozing over one of the latter, reading
old and stale criticisms, my ear was now and then struck
with bursts of laughter which seemed to proceed from the
kitchen. Every one that has travelled on the continent
must know how favorite a resort the kitchen of a country
inn is to the middle and inferior order of travellers; par-
ticularly in that equivocal kind of weather, when a fire
becomes agreeable toward evening. I threw aside the
newspaper, and explored my way to the kitchen, to take
a peep at the group that appeared to be so merry. It was
composed partly of travellers who had arrived some hours
before in a diligence, and partly of the usual attendants
and hangers-on of inns. They were seated round a great
burnished stove, that might have been mistaken for an
altar, at which they were worshipping. It was covered
with various kitchen vessels of resplendent brightness;
among which steamed and hissed a huge copper tea-kettle.

14a

The Inn Kitchen. 149

A large lamp threw a strong mass of light upon the group,
bringing out many odd features in strong relief. Its yellow
rays partially illumined the spacious kitchen, dying duskily
away into remote corners; except where they settled in
mellow radiance on the broad side of a flitch of bacon, or
were reflected back from well-scoured utensils, that gleamed
from the midst of obscurity. A strapping Flemish lass,
with long golden pendants in her ears, and a necklace with
a golden heart suspended to it, was the presiding priestess
of the temple.

Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and
most of them with some kind of evening potation. 1 found
their mirth was occasioned by anecdotes, which a little
swarthy Frenchman, with a dry weazen face and large
whiskers, was giving of his love adventures ; at the end of
each of which there was one of those bursts of honest
unceremonious laughter, in which a man indulges in that
temple of true liberty, an inn.

As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious
blustering evening, I took my seat near the stove, and lis-
tened to a variety of traveller's tales, some very extrava-
gant, and most very* dull. All of tJiem, however, have
faded from my treacherous memory except one, which I
will endeavor to relate. I fear, however, it derived its
chief zest from the manner in which it was told, and the
peculiar air and appearance of the narrator. He was a
corpulent old Swiss, who had the look of a veteran traveller.
He was dressed in a tarnished green travelling-jacket with
a broad belt round his waist, and a pair of overalls, with
buttons from the hips to the ankles. He was of a full, rubi-
cund countenance, with a double chin, aquiline nose, and a
pleasant, twinkling eye. His hair was light, and curled
from under an old green velvet travelling-cap stuck on one
side of his head. He was interrupted more than once by
the arrival of guests, or the remarks of his auditors ; and
paused now and then to replenish his pipe ; at which times
he had generally a roguish leer, and a sly joke for the
buxom kitchen-maid.

I wish my readers cou^a imagine the old fello'^ W^-w^

150

The l^etch-Book.

in a hage arm-chair, one arm akimbo, the other holding a
curiously twisted tobacco pipe, formed of genuine icume de
m^, decorated with silver chain and silken tassel — his
head cocked on one side, and a whimsical cut of the eye
occasionally, as he related the following story.

THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. .

A travellek's tale.^

He that supper for is dight,

He lyes full cold, I trow, this night I

Yestreen to chamber I him led.

This night Gray-Steel has made his bed.

Sir Eoer, Sir Grahame, and Sir Gray-Steel.

On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a
wild and romantic tract of Upper Germany, that lies not
far from the confluence of the Main and the Rhine, there
stood, many, ipany years since, the castle of the Baron Von
Landshort. It is now quite fallen to decay, and almost
buried among beech-trees and dark lirs ; above which, how-
ever, its old watch tower may still be seen, struggling, like
the former possessor I have mentioned, to carry a high
head, and look down upon the neighboring country.

The baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katz^n-
ellehbogen,* and inherited the relics of the property, and all
the pride of his ancestors. Though the warlike disposition
of his predecessors had much impaired the family posses-
sions, yet the baron still endeavored to keep up some show
of former state. The times were peaceable, and the Ger-
man nobles, in general, had abandoned their inconvenient
old castles, perched like eagles' nests among the mountains,
and had built more convenient residences in the valleys :
still the baron remained, proudly drawn up in his little
fortress, cherishing with the hereditary inveteracy, all the

> The erudite reader, well versed In f^ood-for-nothing lore, will per-
ceive that the above Tale must have been suegested to the old SwIm
by a little French anecdote, a circumstance said to have taken place at
PariB. .

* i. e., Cat*s-Elbow. The name of a family of those parts very powerful
In former thnes. The appellation, we are told, was g ivep i n compiimentto a
peerless dame of the family, celebrated for her fine

151

152 Tfie Sketch- Book.

old family feuds ; so that he was on ill terms with some of
his nearest neighbors, on account of disputes that had hap-
pened between their great-great-grandfathers.

The baron had but one child, a daughter ; but nature,
when she grants but one child, always compensates by
making it a prodigy ; and so it was with the daughter of
the baron. All the nurses, gossips, and country cousins, as-
sured her father that she had not her equal for beauty in
all Germany ; and who should know better than they? She
had, moreover, been brought up with great care under the
superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had spent some
years of their early life at one of the little German courts,
and were skilled in all the branches of knowledge necessary
to the education of a fine lady. Under their instructions
she became a miracle of accomplishments. By the time she
was eighteen, she could embroider to admiration, and had
worked whole histories of the saints in tapestry, with such
strength of expression in their countenances, that they
looked like so many souls in purgatory. She could rea^d
without great difficulty, and had spelled her way through
several church legends, and almost all the chivalric wonders
of the Heldenbuch, She had even made considerable pro-
ficiency in wilting; could sign her own name without
missing a letter, and so legibly, that her aunts could read it
without spectacles. She excelled in making little elegant
good-for-nothing lady -like nicknacks of all kinds; was
versed in the most abstruse dancing of the day; played a
number of airs on the harp and guitar ; and knew all the
tender ballads of the Minne-lieders by heart.

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in
their yourtger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant
guardians and strict censors of the conduct of their -niece;
for there is no duenna so rigidly prudent,* and inexorably
decorous, as a superannuated coquette. She was rarely suf-
fered out of their sight; never went beybnd the domains of
the castle, unless well attended, or rather well watched;
had continual lectures read to her about strict decorym and
implicit obedience ; and, as to the men — pah ! — she was
taught to hold them at such a distance, and in such abso-

The /Spectre Bridegroom. 153

lute distrust, that, unless properly authorized, she would
not have cast a glance upon the handsomest cavalier in the
world — no, not if he were even dying at her feet.

The good effects of this system were wonderfully appar-
ent. The young lady was a pattern of docility and correct-
ness. While others were wasting their sweetness in the
glare of the world, and liable to be plucked and thrown
aside by every hand, she was coyly blooming into fresh and
lovely womanhood under the protection of those immacu-
late spinsters, like a rosebud blushing forth among guardian
thorns. Her aunts looked upon her with pride and exulta-
tion, and vaunted that though all the other young ladies in
the world might go astray, yet, thank Heaven, nothing of
the kind could happen ito the heiress of Katzenellenbogen.

But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might
be provided with children, his household was by no means
a small one : for Providence had enriched him with abun-
dance of poor relations. They, one and all, possessed the
affectionate dispo'^ition common to humble relatives; were
wonderfully attached to the baron, and took every pos- ^
Bible occasion to*come in swarms and enliven the castle.
All family festivals were commemorated by these good
people at the baron's expense ; and when they were filled
with good cheer, they would declare that there was nothing
on earth so delightful as these family meetings, these
jubilees of the heart.

The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it
swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness of being the
greatest man in the little world about him. He loved to
tell long stories about the dark old warriors whose portraits
looked grimly down from the walls around, and he found
no listeners equal to those who fed at his expense. He was |
much given to the marvellous, and a firm believer in all \
those supernatural tales with which every mountain and ',
valley in Germany abounds. The faith of his guests ex- •
ceeded even his own : they listened to every tale of wonder
with open eyes and mouth, and never failed to be aston-
ished even though repeated for the hundredth time. Thus
lived the Baron Von Landshort, the oracle of his table, the

154 The SketchrBook.

absolute monarch of his little territory, and hamy^ above
all things, in the persuasion that he was the wisiit man of
the age.

At the time of which my story treats, there was a great
family gathering at the castle, on an affair of the utmost
I importance : it was to receive the destined bridegroom of
vthe baron's daughter. A negotiation had been carried on
Detween the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria, to
unite the dignity of their houses by the marriage of their
children. The preliminaries had been conducted with
proper punctilio. The young people were betrothed without
seeing each other ; and the time was appointed for the
marriage ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg
had been recalled from the army for the purpose, and was
actually on his way to the baron's to receive his bride.
Missives had even been received from him, from Wurtz-
burg, where he was accidentally detained, mentioning the
day and hour when he might be expected to arrive.

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him
a suitable welcome. The fair bride had been decked out
with uncommon care. The two aunts had superintended
her toilet, and quarrelled the whole mornine about every
article of her dress. The young lady had taken advantage
of their contest to follow the bent of her own taste ; and
fortunately it was a good one. She looked as lovely as
youthful bridegroom could desire ; and the flutter of expec-
tation heightened the lustre of her charms.

The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle
heaving of the bosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie,
all betrayed the soft tumult that was going on in her little
heart. The aunts were continually hovering around her ;
for maiden aunts are apt to take great interest in affairs of
this nature. They were giving her a world of staid counsel
how to deport herself, what to say, and in what manner to
receive the expected lover.

The baron was no less busied in preparations. He had,

in truth, nothing exactly to do : but he was naturally a

fuming bustling little man, and could not remain passive

• when all the world was in a hurry. He worried fron^ top

■- T-arff

The Spectre Bridegroom. - 155

to bottom of the castle with an air of infinite anxiety ; he
continual called the servants from their work to exhort
them to be diligent; and buzzed about every hall and
chamber, as idly restless and importunate as a blue-bottle
fly on a warm summer's day.

In the meantime the fatted calf had been killed ; the '
forests had rung with the clamor of the huntsman ; the
kitchen was crowded with good cheer ; the cellars had \
yielded up whole oceans of lihein-toein and Feme-wein;
and even the great Heidelberg tun had been laid under
contribution. Everything was ready to receive the dis-
tinguished guest with Saua und JBraus in the true spirit of
German hospitality — but the guest delayed to make his
appearance. .Hour rolled after hour. The sun, that had
poured his downward rays upon the rich forest of the Oden-
wald, now just gleamed along the summits of the moun-
tains. The baron mounted the highest tower, and strained
his eyes in hope of catching a distant sight of the count
and his attendants. Once he thought he beheld them;
the sound of horns came floating from the valley, pro-
longed by the mountain echoes. A number of horsemen
were seen far below, slowly advancing along the road;
bat when they had nearly reached the foot of the moun-
tain, they^ suddenly struck ofiE in a difEerent direction.
The last ray of sunshine departed — the bats began to flit
by in the twilight — the road grew dimmer and dimmer
to the view; and nothing appeared stirring in it but now
and then a peasant lagging homeward from his labor.

While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of
perplexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a
different part of th€ Odenwald.

The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursu-
ing his route in that sober jog-trot way, in which a man
travels toward matrimony when his friends have taken all
the trouble ai^d uncertainty of courtship off his hands, and
a bride is waiting for him, as certainly as a dinner at the
end of his jourjiey. He had encountered at Wurtzburg,
a youthful compg-nion in arras, with whom he had seen
some service on the frontiers ; Herman Von Starkeufaust,*

,-i

166 Tfie Shuch-Book.

one of the Btoutest hands, and worthiest hearts, of Grerman
chivalry, who was now returning from the aAiy. His
father's castle was not far distant from the old fortress of
Landshort, although an hereditary feud rendered the fami-
lies hostile, and strangers to each other.

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young
friends related all their past adventures and fortunes, and
the count gave the wliole history of his intended nuptials
with a young lady whom he had never seen, but of whose
charms he had received the most enrapturing descriptions.

As the route of the friends lay in the same direction,
they agreed to perform the rest of their journey together;
and, that they might do it the more leisurely, set off from
Wurtzburg at an early hour, the count having given direc-
tions for his retinue to follow and overtake him.

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their
military scenes and adventures ; but the count was apt to
be a little tedious, now and then, about the reputed charms
of his bride, and the felicity that awaited him.

In this way they had entered among the moimtains of
the Odonwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely
and thickly- wooded passes. It is well known that the for-
ests of Germany have always been as much infested by
robbers as its castles by spectres; and, at this time, the
former were particularly numerous, from the hordes of dis-
banded soldiers wandering about the country. It will not
appear extraordinary, therefore, that the cavaliers were
attacked by a gang of these stragglers, in the midst of the
forest. They defended themselves with bravery, but were
nearly overpowered, when the count's retinue arrived to
their assistance. At sight of them the robbers fled, but
not until the count had received a mortal wound. He was
'slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city of Wurtz-
burg, and a friar summoned from a neighboring convent,
who was famous for his skill in administering to both soul
and bodv ; but half of his skill was superfluous ; the mo-
ments of the unfortunate count were numbered.

With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair
instintly to the castle of Landshort, and explain the fatal

The Spectre Bridegroom. 157

cause of his not keeping his appointment with his bride.
Though not the most ardent of lovers, he was one of the
most punctilious of men, and appeared earnestly solicitous
that his mission should be speedily and courteously exe-
cuted. " Unless this is done," said he, "I shall not sleepA
quietly in my grave ! " He repeated these last words with
peculiar solemnity. A request, at a moment so impressive,
admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored to soothe
him to calmness ; promised faithfully to execute his wish,
and gave him his hand in solemn pledge. The dying man
pressed it in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed into de-
lirium — raved about his bride — his engagements — his
plighted word ; ordered his horse, that he might ride to the
castle of Landshort; and expired in the fancied act of
vaulting into the saddle.

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on the
untimely fate of his CQmrade ; and then pondered on the
awkward mission he had undertaken. His heart was heavy,
and his head perplexed ; for he was to present himself an
unbidden guest among hostile people, and to damp their
festivity with* tidings fatal to their hopes. Still there were
certain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see this
far-famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut
up from the world ; for he was a passionate admirer of the
sex, and there was a dash of eccentricity and enterprise in
his character that made him fond of all singular adventure.

Previous to his departure he made all due arrangements
with the holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral
solemnities of his friend, who was to be buried in the
cathedral of Wurtzburg, near some of his illustrious rela-
tives ; and the mourning retinue of the count took charge
of his reinains.

It is now high time that we should return to the ancient
family of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their
guest, and still more for their dinner ; and to the worthy little
baron, whom we left airing himself on the watch-tower.

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron
descended from the tower in despair. The banquet, which
had been delayed from hour to hour, could no longer be

158 The SketchrBook.

postponed. The meats were already overdone ; the cook in
an agony ; and the whole household had the look of a gar-
rison that had been reduced by famine. The baron was
obliged reluctantly to give orders for the feast without the
presence of the guest. All were seated at table, and just
on the point of commencing, when the sound of a horn
from without the gate gave notice of the approach of a
stranger. Another long blast filled the old courts of the
castle with its echoes, and was answered by the warder
from the walls. The baron hastened to receive his future
son-in-law.

The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was
before the gate. He was a tall, gallant cavalier, mounted
on a black steed. His countenance was pale, but he had a
beaming, romantic eye, and an air of stately melancholy.
The baron was a little mortified that he should have come
in this simple, solitary style. His dignity for a moment
was ruffled, and he felt disposed to consider it a want of
proper respect for the important occasion, and the impor-
tant family with which he was to be connected. He paci-
fied himself, however, with the conclusion, that it must
have been youthful impatience which had induced him thus
to spur on sooner than his attendants.

" I am sorry," said the stranger, " to break in upon you
thus unseasonably — "

Here the baron interrupted him with a world of compli-
ments «and greetings ; for, to tell the truth, he prided himself
upon his courtesy and eloquence. The stranger attempted,
once or twice, to stem the torrent of words, but in vain, so
he bowed his head and suffered it to flow on. By the time
the baron had come to a pause, they had reached the inner
court of the castle ; and the stranger was again about to
speak, when he was once more interrupted by the appear-
ance of the female part of the family, leading forth the
shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her for a
moment as one entranced ; it seemed as if his whole soul
beamed forth in his gaze, and rested upon that lovely form.
One of the maiden aunts whispered something in her
ear ; she made an effort to speak ; her moist blue eye was

The Spectre Bridegroom. 159

timidly raised ; gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stran-
ger ; and was cast again to the ground. The words died
away ; but there was a sweet smile playing about her lips,
and a soft dimpling of the cheek that showed her glance
had not been unsatisfactory. It was impossible for a girl
of the fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed for love
and matrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier.

The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no
time for parley. The baron was peremptory, and deferred
all particular conversation until the morning, and led the
way to the untasted banquet.

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around
the wall hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of
the house of Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they
had gained in the field and in the chase. Hacked corselets,
splintered jousting spears, and tattered banners, were min-
gled with the spoils of sylvan warfare ; the jaws of the
wolf, and the tusks of the boar, grinned horribly among
cross-bows and battle-axes, and a huge pair of antlers
branched immediately over the head of the youthful bride-
groom.

The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the
entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed
absorbed in admiration of his bride. He conversed in a
low tone that could not be overheard — for the language of
love is never loud ; but where is the female ear so dull that
it cannot catch the softest whisper of the lover ? There
was a mingled tenderness and gravity in his manner, that
appeared to have a powerful effect upon the young lady.
Her color came and went as she listened with deep atten-
tion. Now and then she made some blushing reply, and
when his eye was turned away, she would steal a sidelong
glance at his romantic countenance, and heave a gentle sigh
of tender happiness. It was evident that the young couple
were completely enamored. The aunts, who were deeply
versed in the mysteries of the heart, declared that they had
fallen in love with each other at first sight.

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the
guests were all blessed with those keen appetites that at-

160 Tlie SketchrBook.

tend upon light parses and mountain air. The baron told his
best and longest stories, and never had he told them so
well, or with such great effect. If there was anything
marvellous, his auditors were lost in astonishment; and if
anything facetious, they were sure to laugh exactly in the
right place. The baron, it is true, like most great men,
was too dignified to utter any joke but a dull one ; it was
always enforced, however, by a bumper of excellent Hock-
heimer; and even a dull joke, at one's own table, served
up with jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many good things
were said by poorer and keener wits, that would not bear
repeating, except on similar occasions ; many sly speeches
whispered in ladies' ears, that almost convulsed them
with suppressed laughter; and a song or two roared
out by a poor but merry and broad-faced cousin of the
baron, that absolutely made the maiden aunts hold up
their fans.

Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained a
most singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance
assumed a deeper cast of dejection as the evening advanced ;
and, strange as it may appear, even the baron's jokes seemed
only to render him the more melancholy. At times he was
lost in thought, and at times there was a perturbed and rest-
less wandering of the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at
ease. His conversations with the bride became more and
more earnest and mysterious. Lowering clouds began to
steal over the fair serenity of her brow, and tremors to run
through her tender frame.

All this could not escape the notice of the company.
Their gayety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of
the bridegroom ; their spirits were infected ; whispers and
glances were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs and du-
bious shakes of the head. The song and the laugh grew
less and less frequent ; there were dreary pauses in the con-
versation, which were at length succeeded by wild tales and
supernatural legends. One dismal story produced another
still more dismal, and the baron nearly frightened some of
the ladies into hysterics with the history of the goblin
horseman that carried away the fair Leonora ; a dreadful

Ths Spectre Bridegroom. 161

stonr, which has since been pat into excellent verse, and is
read and believed by all the world.

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound atten*
tion. He kept his eye steadily fixed on the baron, and, as
the story drew to a close, began gradually to rise from his
seat, growing taller and taller, until, in the baron's entranced
eye, he seemed almost to tower into a giant. The moment
the tale was finished, he heaved a deep sigh, and took a sol«
emn farewell of the company. They were all amazement.
The baron was perfectly thunderstruck.

"What! going to leave the castle at midnight? Why,
everything was prepared for his reception ; a chamber was
ready for him if he wished to retire."

The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously;
"I must lay my head in a different chamber to-night !"

There was something in his reply, and the tone in which
it was uttered, that made the baron's heart misgive him ; but
he rallied his forces, and repeated his hospitable entreaties.

The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at
every offer; and, waving his farewell to the company,
stalked slowly out of the hall. The maiden aunts were
absolutely petrified — the bride hung her head, and a tear
stole to her eye.

The baron followed the stranger to the great court of the
castle, where the black charger stood pawing the earth, and
snorting with impatience. — When they had reached the por-
tal, whose deep archway was dimly lighted by a cresset, the
stranger paused, and addressed the baron in a hollow tone
of voice, which the vaulted roof rendered still more se-
pulchral.

" Now that we are alone," said he, " I will impart to you
the reason of my going. I have a solemn and indispensa-
ble engagement" —

" Why," said the baron, " cannot you send some one in
your place?"

"It admits of no substitute — I must attend it in per-
son — I must away to Wurtzburg cathedral " —

"Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, "but not until
to-morrow — to-morrow you shall take your bride there."

162 Tfie SketchrBook.

** No ! no ! " replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity,
^' my engagement is with no bride — the worms ! the worms
expect me ! I am a dead man — I have been slain by robbers
— my body lies at Wurtzburg — at midnight I am to be
buried — the grave is waiting for me — I must keep my
appointment !"

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the draw-
bridge, and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in
the whistling of the night blast.

The baron returned to the hall in the utmost consterna-
tion, and related what had passed. Two ladies fainted out-
right, others sickened at the idea of having banqueted with
a spectre. It was the opinion of some, that this might be
the wild huntsman, famous in German legend. Some talked
of mountain spirits, of wood-demons, and of other super-
natural beings, with which the good people of Germany
have been so grievously harassed since time immemorial.
One of the poor relations ventured to suggest that it might
be some sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and that
the very gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with
so melancholy a personage. This, however, drew on him
the indignation of the whole company, and especially of
tlie baron, who looked upon him as little better than an
infidel ; so that he was fain to abjure his heresy as speedily
as possible, and come into the faith of the true believers.

But whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they
were completely put to an end by the arrival, next day, of
regular missives, confirming the intelligence of the young
count's murder, and his interment in Wurtzburg cathedral.

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The
baron shut himself up in his chamber. The guests, who
had come to rejoice with him, could not think of abandon-
ing him in his distress. They wandered about the courts,
or collected in groups in the hall, shaking their heads and
shrugging their shoulders, at the troubles of so good a man ;
and sat longer than ever at table, and ate and drank more
stoutly than ever, by way of keeping up their spirits. But
the situation of the widowed bride was the most pitiable.
To have lost a husband before she had even err^rn ted him

T?ie Spectre Bridegroom. 163

— and snch a husband! if the very spectre could be so
gracious and noble, what must have been the living man.
She filled the house with lamentations.

On the night of the second day of her widowhood, she
had retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her
aunts, who insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt, who
was one of the best tellers of ghost stories in all Germany,
had just been recounting one of her longest, and had fallen
asleep in the very midst of it. The chamber was remote,
and overlooked a small garden. The niece lay pensively
gazing at the beams of the rising moon, as they trembled on
the leaves of an aspen-tree before the lattice. The castle
clock had just tolled midnight, when a soft strain of music
stole up from the garden. She rose hastily from her bed,
and stepped lightly to the window. A tall figure stood
among the shadows of the trees. As it raised its head, a
beam of moonlight fell upon the countenance. Heaven and
earth I she beheld the Spectre Bridegroom ! A loud shriek
at that moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, who had
been awakened by the music, and had followed her silently
to the window, fell into her arms. When she looked again,
the spectre had disappeared.

Of the two females, the aunt now required the most
soothing, for she was perfectly beside herself with terror.
As to the young lady, there was something, even in the
spectre of her lover, that seemed endearing. There was
still the semblance of manly beauty; and though the
shadow of a man is but little calculated to satisfy the affec-
tions of a love-sick girl, yet, where the substance is not to
be had, even that is consoling. The aunt declared she
would never sleep in that chamber again ; the niece, for
once was refractory, and declared as strongly that she
would sleep in no other in the castle : the consequence was,
that she had to sleep in it alone ; but she drew a promise
from her aunt not to relate the story of the spectre, lest she
should be denied the only melancholy pleasure left her
on earth — that of inhabiting the chamber over which the
guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils.

How long the good old lady would have observed this

16i The Sketch-Book.

promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the
marvellous, and there is a triamph in being the first to tell
a frightful story; it is, however, still quoted in the neigh-
borhood, as a memorable instance of family secrecy, that
she kept it to herself for a whole week ; when she was sud-
denly absolved from all further restraint, by intelligence
brought to the breakfast table one morning that the young
lady was not to be found. Her room was empty — the bed
had not been slept in — the window was open, and the bird
had flown !

The astonishment and concern with which the intelli-
gence was received, can only be imagined by those who
have witnessed the agitation which the mishaps of a great
man cause among his friends. Even the poor relations
paused for a moment from the indefatigable labors of the
trencher; when the aunt, who had at first been struck
speechless, wrung her hands, and shrieked out, '^The gob-
lin ! the goblin ! she's carried away by the goblin."

In a few words she related the fearful scene of the gar-
den, and concluded that the spectre must have carried off
his bride. Two of the domestics corroborated the opinion,
for they had heard the clattering of a horse's hoofs down
the mountain about midnight, and had no doubt that it
was the spectre on his black charger, bearing her away to
the tomb. All present were struck with the direful proba-
bihty; for events of the kind are extremely common in
Germany, as many well authenticated histories bear witness.

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor baron !
What a heart-rending dilemma for a fond father, and a
member of the great family of Katzenellenbogen ! His
only daughter had either been rapt away to the grave, or he
was to have some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and, per-
chance, a troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, he was
completely bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar.
The men were ordered to take horse, and scour every road
and path and glen of the Odenwald. The baron himself
had just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and
was about to mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful
quest, when he was brought to a pause by a new apparition.

T?ie Spectre Bridegroom. 165

A lady was seen approaching the castle, mounted on a pal-
frey, attended by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped
up to the gate, sprang from her horse, and falling at the
baron's feet, embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter,
and her companion — the Spectre Bridegroom ! The baron
was astounded. He looked at his daughter, then at the
spectre, and almost doubted the evidence of his senses.
The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his appear-
ance since his visit to the world of spirits. His dress was
splendid, and set off a noble figure of manly symmetry.
He was no longer pale and melancholy. His fine counte-
nance was flushed with the glow of youth, and joy rioted
in his large dark eyes.

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for, in
truth, as you must have known all the while, he was no
goblin) announced himself as Sir Herman Von Starken-
faust. He related his adventure with the young count.
He told how be had hastened to the castle to deliver the
unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of the baron had
interrupted him in every attempt to tell his tale. How the
sight of the bride had completely captivated him, and that
to pass a few hours near her, he had tacitly suffered the
mistake to continue. How he had been sorely perplexed in
what way to make a decent retreat, until the baron's goblin
stories had suggested his eccentric exit. How, fearing the
feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated his visits by
stealth — had haunted the garden beneath the young lady's
window— had wooed— had won — had borne away in tri-
umph — and, in a word, had wedded the fair.

Under any other circumstances the baron would have
been inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority,
and devoutly obstinate in all family feuds : but he loved
his daughter ; he had lamented her as lost ; he rejoiced to
find her still alive ; and, though her husband was of a hos-
tile house, yet, thank Heaven, he was not a goblin. There
was something, it must be acknowledged, that did not
exactly accord with his notions of strict veracity, in the
joke the knight had passed upon him of his being a dead
man ; but several old friends present, who had served in

166

The SketchrBook.

the wars, assnred him that every stratagem was excusable
in love, and that the cavalier was entitled to especial privi-
lege, having lately served as a trooper.

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron
pardoned the youcg couple on the spot. The revels at the
castle were resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed this
new member of the family with loving kindness ; he was so
gallant, so generous — and so rich. The aunts, it is true,
were somewhat scandalized that their system of strict
seclusion and passive obedience should be so badly exem-
plified, but attributed it all to their negligence in not
having the windows grated. One of them was particularly
mortified at having her marvellous story marred, and that
the only spectre she had ever seen should turn out a
counterfeit ; but the niece seemed perfectly happy at having
found him substantial flesh and blood — and so the story
ends.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

When I behold, with deep astonishment,
To famous Westminster how there resorte,
Living in brasse or stoney monument,
The princes and the worthies of all sorte;
Doe not I see reformde nobilitie,
Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation,
And looke upon ofEenselesse majesty,
Naked of pomp or earthly domination?
And how a play-game of a painted stone
Contents the quiet now and silent sprites,
Whome all the world which late they stood upon
Could not content or quench their appetites.
Life is a frost of cold felicitie,
And death the thaw of all our vanitie.

Christolebo^s Epiobams, by T. B. 1598.

On one of those sober and rather melancholy days, m the
,tter part of Autumn, when the shadows of morning and
jirening almost mingle, together, and throw a sloom over

e decline of the year, I passed several hours m rambling

out Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial
to the season in the^nnoumful magnificence of the old pile;
and, as I passed its threshold, it seemed like stepping back
into the regions of antiquity, and losing myself among the
shades of former ages.

I entered from the inner court of Westminster School,
through a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost
subterranean look, being dimly lighted in one part by
circular perforations in the massive walls. Through this
dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters, with the
figure of ap old verger, in his black gown, moving along
their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre from one
of the neighboring tombs. The approach to the abbey
through these gloomy monastic remains prepares the mind
for its solemn contemplation. The cloisters still retain

1«7

168 Tfie Sketch-Book.

Bomething of the quiet and seclusion of former days. The
gray walls are discolored by damps, and crumbling with
age ; a coat of hoary moss has gathered over the inscrip-
tions of the mural monuments, and obscured the death's
head, and other funereal emblems. The sharp touches of
the chisel are gone from the rich tracery of the arches ;
the roses which adorned the keystones have lost their leafy
beauty ; everything bears marks of the gradual dilapida-
tions of time, which yet has something touching and pleas-
ant in its very decay.

The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into
the square of the cloisters ; beaming upon a scanty plot of
grass in the centre, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted
passage with a kind of dusky splendor. From between the
arcades, the eye glanced up to a bit of blue slnr or a pass-
ing cloud ; and beheld the sungilt pinnacles of the abbey
towering into the azure heaven.

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this
mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes en-
deavoring to decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones,
which formed the pavement beneath my feet, my eye was
attracted to three figures, rudely carved in relief, but nearly
worn away by the lootsteps of many generations. They
were the effigies of three of the early abbots ; the epitaphs
were entirely effaced ; the name alone remained, having no
doubt been renewed in later times. (Vitalis. Abbas. 1082,
and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius.
Abbas. 1176.) I remained some little while, musing over
these casual relics of antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon
this distant shore of time, telling no tale but that such
boinj^n had been, and had perished ; teaching no moral but
the fiitility of that pride which hopes still to exact homage
in its ashes, and to live in an inscription. A little longer,
and even these faint records will be obliterated, and the
monument will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet
looking down upon these gravestones, I was roused by the
sound of the abbev clock, reverberating from buttress to
buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost
startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding

Westminster Abbey, 169

among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which,
like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. I
pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the interior
of the abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the
building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the
vaults of the cloisters. The eyes gaze with wonder at
clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, with arches
springing from them to such an amazing height; and man
wandering about their bases, shrunk into insignificance in
comparison with his own handiwork. The spaciousness
and gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound and
mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly about, as
if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb ;
while every footfall whispers along the wails, and chatters
among the sepulchres, making us more sensible of the quiet
we have interrupted.

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down
upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless
reverence. We feel that we are surrounded by the
congregated bones of the great men of past times, who
have filled history with their deeds, and the earth with their
renown.

And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of
human ambition, to see how they are crowded together and
jostled in the dust ; what parsimony is observed in doling
out a scanty nook, a gloomy comer, a Uttle portion of earth,
to those, whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy ;
and how many shapes, and forms, and artifices, are devised
to catch the casual notice of the passenger, and save from
forgetfulness, for a few short years, a name which once
aspired to occupy ages of the world's thought and ad-
miration.

I passed some time in Poet's Comer, which occupies an
end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey.
The monuments are generally simple; for the lives of
literary men afford no striking themes for the sculptor.
Shakespeare and Addison have statues erected to their
memories ; but the greater part have busts, medallions, and
sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwithstanding the sim-

170 The Sketch- Book.

plioity of these memorials, I have always observed that the
visitors to the abbey remained longest about them. A kinder
and fonder feeling takes the place of that cold curiosity
or vague admiration with which they gaze on the splendid
monuments of the great and the heroic. They linger about
these as about the tombs of friends and companions ; for
indeed there is something of companionship between the
author and the reader. Other men are known to posterity
only through the medium of history, which is continually
growing faint and obscure: but the intercourse between
the auuior and his fellow-men is ever new, active, and
immediate. He has lived for them more than for himself;
he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and shut himself
up from the delights of social life, that he might the more
intimately commune with distant minds and distant ages.
Well may the world cherish his renown ; for it has been
purchasea, not by deeds of violence and blood, but by the
diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may posterity be
grateful to his memory ; for he has left it an inheritance,
not of empty names and sounding actions, but whole treas-
ures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins
of language.

From Poet's Comer I continued my stroll towards that

Eart of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the
ings. I wandered among what once were chapels, but
which are now occupied by the tombs and monuments of
the great. At every turn I met with some illustrious
name ; or the cognizance of some powerful house renowned
in history. As the eye darts into these dusky chambers of
death, it catches glimpses of quaint efiigies ; some kneeling
in niches, as if in devotion; others stretched upon the
tombs, with hands piously pressed together: warriors in
armor, as if reposing after battle; prelates with crosiers
and mitres; and nobles in robes and coronets, lying as it
were in state. In glancing over this scene, so strangely
populous, yet where every form is so still and silent, it
seems almost as if we were treading a mansion of that
fabled city, where every being had been suddenly trans-
muted into stone.

Westminster Abbey. 171

I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy
of a knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on
one arm ; the hands were pressed together in supplication
upon the breast : the face was almost covered by the morion;
the legs were crossed, in token of the warrior's having
been engaged in the holy war. It was the tomb of a
crusader; of one of those military enthusiasts, who so
strangely mingled religion and romance, and whose exploits
form the connecting link between fact and fiction; between
the history and the fairy tale. There is something ex-
tremely picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers,
decorated as they are with rude armorial bearings and
Gothic sculpture. They comport with the antiquated
chapels in which they are generally found ; and in consid-
ering them, the imagination is apt to kindle with the
legendary associations, the romantic fiction, the chivalrous
pomp and pageantry, which poetry has spread over the
wars for the sepulchre of Christ. They are the relics of
times utterly gone by; of beings passed from recollection;
of customs and manners with which ours have no affinity.
They are like objects from some strange and distant land,
of which we have no certain knowledge, and about which
all our conceptions are vague and visionary. There is,
something extremely solemn and awful in those effigies on
Gothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep of death, or in
the supplication of the dying hour. They have an effect
infinitely more impressive on my feelings than the fanciful
attitudes, the overwrought conceits, and allegorical groups,
which abound on modern monuments. I have been struck,
also, with the superiority of many of the old sepulchral
inscriptions. There was a noble way, in former times, of
saying things simply, and yet saying them proudly; and
I do not know an epitaph that breathes a loftier conscious-
ness of family worth and honorable lineage, than one which
affirms, of a noble house, that " all the brothers were brave,
and all the sisters virtuous."

In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a monu-
ment which is among the most renowned achievements of
modem art ; but which to me appears horrible rather than

172 The SketchrBook.

sablime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Ronbillac.
The bottom of the monument is represented as throwing
open its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting
forth. The shroud is falling from his fleshless frame as
he launches his dart at his victim. She is sinking into her
affrighted husband's arms, who strives, with vain and
frantic effort, to avert the blow. The whole is executed
with ten-ible truth and spirit; we almost fancy we hear
the gibbering yell of triumph bursting from the distended
jaws of the spectre. — But why should we thus seek to
clothe death with unnecessary terrors, and to spread horrors
round the tomb of those we love ? The grave should be
surrounded by everything that might inspire tenderness
and veneration for the dead ; or that might win the living
to virtue. It is the place, not of disgust and dismay, but
of sorrow and meditation.

While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent
aisles, studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy
existence from without occasionally reaches the ear; — the
rumbling of the passing equipage; the murmur of the
multitude; or perhaps the light laugh of pleasure. The
contrast is striking with the deathlike repose around : and
it has a strange effect upon the feelings, thus to hear the
surges of active life hurrying along, and beating against
the very walls of the sepulchre.

I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and
from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing
away ; the distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew
less and less frequent ; the sweet-tongued bell was sum-
moning to evening prayers ; and I saw at a distance the
choristers, in their white surplices, crossing the aisle and
entering the choir. I stood before the entrance to Henry
the Seventh's chapel. A flight of steps led up to it, through
a deep and gloomy, but magnificent arch. -Great gates
of brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon
their hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of
common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepulchres.

On entering the eye is astonished by the pomp of archi-
tecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The

Westminster Abbey. 178

very walls are wrought into universal ornament, incrusted
with tracery, and scooped into niches, crowded with the
statues of saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning
labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and
density, suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted
roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy
security of a cobweb.

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the
Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though with the
grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pinna-
cles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of the
knights, with their scarfs and swords ; and above them are
suspended their banners, emblazoned with armorial bearings,
and contrasting the splendor of gold and purple and crim-
son, with the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In the midst
of this grand mausoleum stands the sepulchre of its founder,
— his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a sump-
tuous tomb, and the whole surrounded by a superbly-
wrought brazen railing.

There is a sad dreanness in this magnificence; this
strange mixture of tombs and trophies ; these emblems of
living and aspiring ambition, close beside mementos which
show the dust and oblivion in which all must sooner or
later terminate. Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper
feeling of loneliness, than to tread the silent and deserted
scene of former throng and pageant. On looking round on
the vacant stalls of the knights and their esquires, and on
the rows of dusty but gorgeous banners that were once borne
before them, my imagination conjured up the scene when
this hall was bright with the valor and beauty of the land;
glittering with the splendor of jewelled rank and military
array ; alive with the tread of many feet and the hum of
an admiring multitude. All had passed away ; the silence
of death had settled again upon the place, interrupted only
by the. casual chirping of birds, which had found their
way into the chapel, and built their nests among its friezes
and pendants — sure signs of solitariness and desertion.

When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they
were those of men scattered far and wide about the world ;

174 7'he Sketch-Book.

some tossing upon distant seas ; some under arms in distant
lands ; some mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and
cabinets ; all seeking to deserve one more distinction in
this mansion of shadowy honors : the melancholy reward
of a monument.

Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a
touching instance of the equality of the brave ; which brings
down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and min-
gles the dust of the bitterest enemies together. In one is
the sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth ; in the other is that
of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary, Not an
hour in the day but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over
the fate of the latter, mingled with indignation at her op-
pressor. The walls of Elizabeth's sepulchre continually
echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her
rival.

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary
lies buried. The light struggles dimly through windows
darkened by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep
shadow, and the walls are stained and tinted by time and
weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the
tomb, round which is an iron railing, much corroded, bear-
ing her national emblem — the thistle. I was weary with
wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the monument,
revolving in my mind the checkered and disastrous story
of poor Mary.

The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey.
I could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the
priest repeating the evening service, and the faint responses
of the choir ; these paused for a time, and all was hushed.
The stillness, the desertion and obscurity that were grad-
ually prevailing around, gave a deeper and more solemn
interest to the place :

For in the silent grave no conversation,
No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers,
No careful fatlier^s counsel — nothing*8 heard,
For nothing is, but all oblivion,
Dust, and an endless darkness.

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon

Westminster Abbey. 176

the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and
rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do
their volume and grandeur accord with thb mighty build-
ing! With what pomp do they swell through its vast
vaults, and breathe their awful harmony through these
caves of death, and make the silent sepulchre vocal ! — And
now they rise in triumph and acclamation, heaving higher
and higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on sound.
— And now they pause, and the soft voices of the choir
break out into sweet gushes of melody ; they soar aloft, and
warble along the roof, and seem to play about these lofty
vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing
organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compressing air into
music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn
cadences! What solemn sweeping concords! It grows
more and more dense and powerful — it fills the vast pile,
and seems to jar the very walls — the ear is stunned — the
senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in full
jubilee — it is rising from the earth to heaven — the very
soul seems rapt away and floated upwards on this swelling
tide of harmony !

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a
strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire : the shadows
of evening were gradually thickening round me ; the
monuments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom ; and
the distant clock again gave token of the slowly waning
day.

I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended
the flight of steps which lead into the body of the building,
my eye ^as caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor,
and I ascended the small staircase that conducts to it, to
take from thence a general survey of this wilderness of
tombs*. « The shrine is elevated upon a kind of platform,
and close around it are the sepulchres of various kings and
queers. From this eminence the eye looks down between
pillars and funeral trophies to the chapels and chambers
below, crowded with tombs; where warriors, prelates,
courtiers and statesmen, lie mouldering in their ^' beds of
darkness.'' Close by me stood the great chair of corona-

176 The Sketch- Book.

tion, rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous taste of a re-
mote and Gothic age. The scene seemed almost as if con-
trived, with theatrical artifice, to produce an effect upon the
beholder. Here was a type of the beginning and the end
of human pomp and power; here it was literally but a step
from the throne to the sepulchre. Would not one think
that these incongruous mementos had been gathered to-
gether as a lesson to living greatness? — to show it, even
in the moment of its proudest exaltation, the neglect and
dishonor to which it must soon arrive; how soon that
crown which encircles its brow must pass away, and it
must lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and
be trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the multi-
tude. For, strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer
a sanctuary. There is a shocking levity in some natures,
which leads them to sport with awful and hallowed things ;
and there are base minds, which delight to revenge on the
illustrious dead the abject homage and grovelling servility
which they pay to the living. The coffin of Edward the
Confessor has been broken open, and his remains despoiled
of their funereal ornaments ; the sceptre has been stolen
from the hand of the imperious Elizabeth, and the effigy of
Henry the Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument but
bears some proof how false and fugitive is the homage of
mankind. Some are plundered; some mutilated; some cov-
ered with ribaldry and insult — all more or less outraged
and dishonored I

The last beams of day were now faintly streaming
through the painted windows in the high vaults above me ;
the lower parts of the abbey were already wrapped in the
obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles grew darker
and darker. The effigies of the kings faded into shadows ;
the marble figures of the monuments assumed strange
shapes in the uncertain light; the evening breeze crept
through the aisles like the cold breath of the grave ; and
even the distant footfall of a verger, traversing the Poet's
Corner, had something strange and dreary in its sound.
I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out
at the portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with a

Westminster Abbey. 177

jarring noise behind me, filled the whole building' with
echoes.

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of
the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were
already fallen into indistinctness and confusion. Names,
inscriptions, trophies, hiid all become confounded in my
recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot from oft
the threshold. What, thought 1, is this vast assemblage of
sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation ; a huge pile of re-
iterated homilies on the emptiness of renown, and the cer-
tainty of oblivion ! It is, indeed, the empire of death ; his
great shadowy palace, where he sits in state, mocking at
the relics of human glory, and spreading dust and forget-
fulness on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast,
after all, is the immortality of a name ! Time is ever
silently turning over his pages ; we are too much engrossed
by the story of the present, to think of the characters and
anecdotes that gave interest to the past ; and each age is a
volume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol
of to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollec-
tion : and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor of
to-morrow. "Our fathers," says Sir Tliomas Brown,
" find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us
how we may be buried in our survivors." History fades
into fable; fact becomes clouded with doubt and contro-
versy; the inscription moulders from the tablet; the
statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids,
what are they but heaps of sand ; and their epitaphs, but
characters written in the dust? What is the security of
a tomb, or the ]>erpetuity of an embalmment ? The re-
mains of Alexander the Great have been scattered to the
wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity
of a museum. " The Egyptian mummies, which Cam-
byses or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth ; Miz-
raim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams."*

What then is to insure this pile which now towers above
me from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums ? The
time must come when its gilded vaults, which now spring

1 Sir T. Brown.

178

The Sketch-Book.

0^ loftily, shall lie in rnbbish beneath the feet; when, in-
stead of the sound of melody and praise, the wind shall
whistle through the broken arches, and the owl hoot from
the shattered tower — when the gairish sunbeam ishall
break into these gloomy mansions of death, and the ivy
twine round the fallen column ; and the fox-glove hang its
blossoms above the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the
dead. Thus man passes away ; his name perishes from
record and recollection ; his history is as a tale that is told,
and bis very monument becomes a ruin.*

1 For notes on Westminster Abbey, see Appendix.

CHRISTMAS.

But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing hut the
hair of his good, gray, old head and beard left ? Well, I will have
that, seeing I cannot have more of him.

Hue and Cry afteb Chbistmas.

A man might then behold

At Christmas, in each hall
Good fires to curb the cold,

And meat for great and small.
The neighbors were friendly bidden,

And all had welcome true,
The poor from the gates were not chidden

When this old cap was new.

Old Sono.

NoTHTNG in England exercises a more delightful spell
over my imagination, than the lingerings of the holiday
customs and rural games of former times. They recall the
pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning of life,
when as yet I only knew the world through books, and be-
lieved it to be all that poets had painted it ; and they bring
with them the flavor of those honest days of yore, in
which, perhaps, with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the
world was more homebred, social and joyous than at pres-
ent. I regret to say that they are daily growing more and
more faint, being gradually worn away by time, but still
more obliterated by modem fashion. They resemble those
picturesque morsels of Gothic architecture, which we see
crumbling in various parts of the country, partly dilapidated
by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the additions and
alterations of later days. Poetry, however, clings with cher-
ishing fondness about the rural game and holiday revel,
from which it has derived so many of its themes — as the
ivy winds its rich foliage about the Gothic arch and mould-
ering tower, gratefully repaying their support, by clasping

179

180 The Sketch-JBook.

together their tottering remains, and, as it were, embahn-
ing them in verdure.

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awak-
ens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is
a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our
conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and
elevated enjoyment. The services of the church about this
season are extremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on
the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pasto-
ral scenes that accompanied its announcement. They grad-
ually increase in fervor and pathos during the season of
Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morn-
ing that brought peace and good-will to men. I do not
know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings, than
to hear the full choir and the pealing organ performing a
Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of
the vast pile with triumphant harmony.

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of
yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announce-
ment of the religion of peace and love, has been made the
season for gathering together of family connections, and
drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which
the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are con-
tinually operating to cast loose ; of calling back the chil-
dren of a family, who have launched forth in life, and
wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the
paternal hearth, that rall3dng place of the affections, there
to grow young and loving again among the endearing me-
mentos of childhood.

There is something in the very season of the year that
gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At oUier times
we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere
beauties of nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate
themselves over the sunny landscape, and we " live abroad
and everywhere." The song of the bird, the murmur of the
stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptu-
ousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn ; earth with
its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven witli its deep
delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence, all fill us witii

Christmas, 181

mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of
mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when nature
lies despoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud
of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral
sources. The dreariness and desolation of the landscape,
the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while they cir-
cumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from
rambling abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for
the pleasure of the social circle. Our thoughts are more
concentrated ; our friendly Sympathies more aroused. We
feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and
are brought more closely together by dependence on each
other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart; and we
draw our pleasures from the deep wells of loving-kindness,
which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms; and which,
when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element of domes-
tic felicity.

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on
entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the
evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer
and sunshine through the room, and lights up each counte-
nance in a kindlier welcome. Where does the honest face
of hospitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile
— where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent —
than by the winter fireside ? and as the hollow blast of win-
try wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door,
whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the chim-
ney, what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober
and sheltered security, with which we look round upon the
comfortable chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity?

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit
throughout every class of society, have always been fond of
those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the
stillness of country life ; and they were, in former days,
particularly observant of the religious and social rites of
Christmas. It is inspiring to read even the dry details
which some antiquaries have given of the quaint humors,
the burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth
and good-fellowship, with which this festival was cele-

182 The SketchrBook.

brated. It seemed to throw open every door, and unlock
every heart. It brought the peasant and the peer together,
and blended all ranks in one warm generous flow of joy
and kindness. The old halls of castles and manor-houses
resounded with the harp and the Christmas carol, and their
ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality.
Even the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with
green decorations of bay and holly — the cheerful fire
glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting the passengers
to raise the latch, and join the gossip knot huddled round
the hearth, beguiling the long evening with legendary
jokes and oft-told Christmas tales.

One of the least pleasing effects of modem refinement is
the havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday cus-
toms. It has completely taken off the sharp touchings and
spirited reliefs of these embellishments of life, and has worn
down society into a more smooth and polished, but certainly
a less characteristic surface. Many of the games and cere-
monials of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and, like
the sherris sack of old Falstaff, are become matters of spec-
ulation and dispute among commentators. They flourished
in times full of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life
roughly, but heartily and vigorously ; times wild and pic-
turesque, which have furnished poetry with its richest mate-
rials, and the drama with its most attractive variety of
characters and manners. The world has become more
worldly. There is more of dissipation, and less of enjoy-
ment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shal-
lower stream ; and has forsaken many of those deep and
quiet channels where it flowed sweetly through the calm
boscim of domestic life. Society has acquired a more en-
lightened and elegant tone; but it has lost many of its
strong local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its honest
fireside delights. The traditionary customs of golden-
hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly was-
sailings, have passed away with the baronial castles and
stately manor-houses in which they were celebrated. They
comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery,
and the tapestried parlor, but are unfitted to the light showy
saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa.

Christmas. 183

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors,
Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in Eng-
land. It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely
aroused which holds so powerful a place in every English
bosom. The preparations making on every side for the
social board that is again to unite friends and kindred ; the
presents of good cheer passing and repassing, those tokens
of regard, and quickeners of kind feelings; the evergreens
distributed about houses and churches, emblems of peace
and gladness ; all these have the most pleasing effect in pro-
ducing fond associations, and kindling benevolent sympa-
thies. Even the sound of the Waits, rude as may be their
minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid-watches of a winter night
with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been awak-
ened by them in that still and solemn hour, " when deep
sleep falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed
delight, and, connecting them with the sacred and joyous
occasion, have almost fancied them into another celestial
choir, announcing peace and good- will to mankind.

How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon
by these moral influences, turns everything to melody and
beauty ! The very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes
in the profound repose of the country, " telling the night
watches to his feathery dames," was thought by the common
people to announce the approach of this sacred festival.

Some say that ever Against that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
This bird of dawning singeth all night long*,
And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallowM and so gracious is the time.

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spir-
its, and stir of the affections, which prevail at this period,
what bosom can remain insensible ? It is, indeed, the sea-
son of regenerated feeling — the season for kindling, not
merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial
flame of charity in the heart.

The scene of early love again rises green to memory

184

Tht Sketch-Book.

beyond the sterile waste of years ; and the idea of home
fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reani-
mates the drooping spirit ; as the Arabian breeze will some-
times waft the freshness of the distant fields to the weary
pilgrim of the desert.

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land — though for
me no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open
its doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at
the threshold — yet I feel the influence of the season beam-
ing into my soul from the happy looks of those around me.
Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven ; and
every countenance, bright with smiles, and glowing with
innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the
rays of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence. He who
can turn churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of
his fellow-beings, and can sit down darkling and repining
in his loneliness when all around is joyful, may have his
moments of strong excitement and selfish gratification, but
he wants the genial and social sympathies which constitute
the charm of a merry Christmas.

THE STAGE COACH.

Omne bend

Sine poona
TempiiB est ludendi

Venit hora

Absque morft
Libros deponendi.

Old Holiday School Song.

In the preceding paper I have made some general ob-
servations on the Christmas festivities of England, and am
tempted to illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christ-
mas passed in the country; in perusing which I would
most courteously invite my reader to lay aside the auster-
ity of wisdom, and to put on that genuine holiday
spirit w^hich is tolerant of folly, and anxious only for
amusement.

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode
for a long distance in one of the public coaches, on the
day preceding Christmas. The coach was crowded, both
inside and out, with passengers, who, by their talk,
seemed principally bound to the mansions of relations or
friends, to eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded also
with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of delica-
cies ; and hares hung dangling their long ears about the
coachman's box, presents from distant friends for the
impending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked boys for
my fellow-passengers inside, full of the buxom health and
manly spirit which I have observed in the children of
this country. They were returning home for the holidays
in high glee, and promising themselves a world of enjoy-
ment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of the
little rogues, and the impracticable feats they were to
perform during their six weeks' emancipation from the

185

186 The Sketch-Booh.

abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They
were full of anticipations of the meeting with the family
and household, down to the very cat and dog ; and of the
joy they were to give their little sisters by the presents
with which their pockets were crammed ; but the meeting
to which they seemed to look forward with the greatest im-
patience was with Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and,
according to their talk, possessed of more virtues than any
steed since the days of Bucephalus. How he could trot !
how he could run ! and then such leaps as he would take —
there was not a hedge in the whole country that he could
not clear.

They were under the particular guardianship of the
coachman, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented,
they addressed a host of questions, and pronounced him
one of the best fellows in the world. Indeed, I could not
but notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and impor-
tance of the coachman, who wore his hat a little on one
side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens stuck in
the buttonhole of his coat. He is always a personage full
of mighty care and business, but he is particularly so dur-
ing this season, having so many commissions to execute in
consequence of the great interchange of presents. And
here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my untrav-
elled readers, to have a sketch that may serve as a general
representation of this very numerous and important class of
functionaries, who have a dress, a manner, a language, an
air, peculiar to themselves, and prevalent throughout the
fraternity ; so that, wherever an English stage coachman
may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one of any other
craft or mystery.

He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled
with red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding
into every vessel of the skin ; he is swelled into jolly dimen-
sions by frequent potations of malt liquors, and his bulk
is still further increased by a multiplicity of coats, in which
he is buried like a cauliflower, the upper one reaching to
his heels. He wears a broad- brimmed, low-crowned hat ;
a huge roll of colored handkerchief about his neck, know-

The Stage Coach. 187

ingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom ; and has in
summer-time a large bouquet of flowers in his button-hole ;
the present, most probably, of some enamored country
lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright color,
striped, and his small clothes extend far below the knees,
to meet a pair of jockey boots which reach about half way
up his legs.

All this costume is maintained with much precision ; he
has a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials;
and, notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his appear-
ance, there is still discernible that neatness and propriety
of person, which is almost inherent in an Englishman. He
enjoys great (jonsequence and consideration along the
road; has frequent conferences with the village house-
wives, who look upon him as a man of great trust and de-
pendence ; and he seems to have a good understanding
with every bright-eyed country lass. The moment he ar-
rives where the horses are to be changed, he throws down
the reins with something of an air, and abandons the cattle
to the care of the hostler ; his duty being merely to drive
from one stage to another. When off the box, his hands
.are thrust into the pockets of his great coat, and he rolls
about the inn yard with an air of the most absolute lordli-
ness. Here he is generally surrounded by an admiring
throng of hostlers, stable-boys, shoeblacks, and those name-
less hangers-on, that infest inns and taverns, and run er-
rands, and do all kind of odd jobs, for the privilege of bat-
tening on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage of
the tap-room. These all look up to him as to an oracle ;
treasure up his cant phrases ; echo his opinions about
horses and other topics of jockey lore ; and, above all,
endeavor to imitate his air and carriage. Every ragamuf-
fin that has a coat to his back, thrusts his hands in the
pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo
Coachey.

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that
reigned in my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness
in every countenance throughout the journey. A stage
coach, however, carries animation always with it, and puts

188 The Sketch-Book.

the world in rootion as it whirls along. The horn, 6onn«1ed
at the entrance of a Tillage, prodnces a general bostle. Some
hasten forth to meet friends ; some with bundles and band-
boxes to secure places, and in the horry of the moment can
hardly take leave of the gronp that accompanies them.
In the mean time, the coachman has a world of small com-
missions to execute. Sometimes he delivers a hare or
f>heasant ; sometimes jerks a small parcel or newspaper to
the door of a public house; and sometimes, with knowing
leer and words of sly import, hands to some half-blushing,
half-laughing housemaid an odd-shaped bilht-drntx from
some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles through the vil-
lage, every one runs to the window, and you have glances on
every side of fresh country faces and blooming giggling girls.
At the comers are assembled juntos of village idlers and
wise men, who take their stations there for the important
purpose of seeing company pass; but the sagest knot is
generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the
coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. The smith,
with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls
by; the cyclops round the anvil suspend their ringing ham-
mers, and suffer the iron to grow cool; and the sooty spectre,
in brown paper cap, laboring at the bellows, leans on the
handle for a moment, and permits the asthmatic engine to
heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares through the murky
smoke and sulphureous gleams of the smithy.

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more
than usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as
if everybody was in good looks and good spirits. Game,
]>oullry, and other luxuries of the table, were in brisk circu-
lation in the villages ; the grocers', butchers' and fruiterers'
shops were thronged with customers. The housewives were
stirring briskly about, putting their dwellings in order; and
the glossy branches of holly, with their bright-red berries,
began to appear at the windows. Th^ scene brought to
mind an old writer's account of Christmas preparations:
— " Now capons and hens, beside turkeys, geese, and ducks,
with beef and mutton — must all die — for in twelve days
a multitude of people will not be fed with a little. Now

The Stage Coach, 189

plums and spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies and
broth. Now or never must musio be in tune, for the youth
must dance and sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit
by the fire. The country maid leaves half her market, and
must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards on Christ-
mas eve. Great is the contention of holly and ivy, whether
master or dame wears the breeches. Dice and cards benefit
the butler ; and if the cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly
lick his fingers."

I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation, by
a shout from my little travelling companions. They had
been looking out of the coach windows for the last few
miles, recognizing every tree and cottage as they approached
home, and now there was a general burst of joy — "There's
John ! and there's old Carlo ! and there's Bantam ! " cried
the happy little rogues, clapping their hands.

At the end of the lane there was an old sober-looking ser-
vant in livery, waiting for them ; he was accompanied by
a superannuated pointer, and by the redoubtable Bantam, a
little old rat of a pony, with a shaggy mane and long rusty
tail, who stood dozing quietly by the road-side, little dream-
ing of the bustling times that awaited him.

I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little
fellows leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged
the pointer; who wriggled his whole body for joy. But
Bantam was the great object of interest; all wanted to
mount at once, and it was with some difficulty that John
arranged that they should ride by turns, and the eldest
should ride first.

Off they set at last ; one on the pony, with the dog bound-
ing and barking before him, and the others holding John's
hands ; both talking at once, and overpowering him with
questions about home, and with school anecdotes. I looked
after them with a feeling in which I do not know whether
pleasure or melancholy predominated ; for I was reminded
of those days when, like them, I had neither known care
nor sorrow, and a holiday was the summit of earthly feli-
city. We stopped a few moments afterwards to water the
horses, and on resuming our route, a turn of the road

190 The Sketch'JRook. \

brought ns in sight of a neat country seat. I could just {
distinguish the forms of a lady and two young girls in
the portico, and I saw my little comrades, with Bantam,
Carlo, and old John, trooping along the carriage road. 1 |
leaned out of the coach window, in hopes of witnessing the '
happy meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my sight, a
In the evening we reached a village where I had deter- ]
mined to pass the night. As we drove into the great gate-
way of the inn, I saw on one side the light of a rousing
kitchen fire beaming through a window. 1 entered, and ad-
mired, for the hundredth time, that picture of convenience,
neatness, and broad honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an
English inn. It was of spacious dimensions, hung round
with copper and tin vessels highly polished, and decorated
here and there with a Christmas green. Hams, tongues,
and flitches of bacon, were suspended from the ceiling; a
smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking beside the fireplace,
and a clock ticked in one corner. A well-scoured deal table
extended along one side of the kitchen, with a cold round
of beef, and other hearty viands upon it, over which two
foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting guard. Travel-
lers of inferior order were preparing to attack this stout j
repast, while others sat smoking and gossiping over their '
ale on two high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. Trim
housemaids were hurrying backwards and forwards under
the directions of a fresh, bustling landlady; but still seizing
an occasional moment to exchange a flippant word, and have
a rallying laugh, with the group round the fire. The scene
completely realized Poor Robin's humble idea of the com-
forts of mid- winter : —

Now trees their leafy hats do bare
To reverence Winter's silver hair;
A handsome hostess, a merry host,
A pot of ale now and a toast,
Tobacco and a good coal fire,
Are things this season doth require. *

I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise drove
up to the door. A young gentleman stept out, and by t

1 Poor RMiVb Almanac, 1684.

The Stage Coach.

191

light of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a conntenance
which I thought I knew. I moved forward to get a nearer
view, when his eye caught mine. I was not mistaken ; it
was Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly good-humored young
fellow, with whom I had once travelled on the continent.
Our meeting was extremely cordial, for the countenance of
an old fellow-traveller always brings up the recollection of
a thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent
jokes. To discuss all these in a transient interview at an
inn was impossible ; and finding that I was not pressed for
time, and was merely making 3 tour of observation, he in-
sisted that I should give him a day or two at his father^s
country seat, to which he was going to pass the holidays,
and which lay at a few miles' distance. " It is better than
eating a solitary Christmas dinner at an inn,'' said he, *'and
I can assure you of a hearty welcome in something of the
old-fashioned style.'* His reasoning was cogent, and I must
confess the preparation I had seen for universal festivity
and social enjoyment had made me feel a little impatient of
my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at once, with his invita-
tion ; the chaise drove up to the door, and in a few moments
I was on my way to the family mansion of the Bracebridges.

CHRISTMAS EVE.

Saint Francis and Saifit Benedight
Blesse this house from wicked wight;
From the night-mare and the gohlin,
That is hight good fellow Robin;
Keep it from all evtl spirits,
Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets:

From curfew time

To the next prime.

Cabtwbight.

It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold ;
our chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen ground ; the post-
boy smacked his whip incessantly, and a part of the time his
horses were on a gallop. " He knows where he is going,"
said my companion, laughing, " and is eager to arrive in time
for some of the merriment and good cheer of the servants'
hall. My father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee of
the old school, and prides himself upon keeping up some-
thing of old English hospitality. He is a tolerable speci-
men of what you will rarely meet with nowadays in its
purity, the old English country gentleman ; for our men of
fortifne spend so much of their time in town, and fashion
is carried so much into the country, that the strong rich
peculiarities of ancient rural life are almost polished away.
My father, however, from early years took honest Peacham ^
for his text-book, instead of Chesterfield; he determined in
his own mind, that there was no condition more truly hon-
orable and enviable than that of a country gentleman on his
paternal lands, and therefore passes the whole of his time
on his estate. He is a strenuous advocate for the revival of
the old rural games and holiday observances, and is deeply
read in the writers, ancient and modern, who have treated on
the subject. Indeed, his favorite range of reading is among

1 Feacham's Complete Oentieman^ 1622.

192

Christmas Eve, 193

the authors who flourished at least two centuries since ;
who, he insists, wrote and thought more like true English-
men than any of their successors. lie even regrets some-
times that he had not been born a few centuries earlier,
when England was itself, and had its peculiar manners and
customs. As he lives at some distance from the main
road, in rather a lonely part of the country, without any
rival gentry near him, he has that most enviable of all
blessings to an Englishman, an opportunity of indulging
the bent of his own humor without molestation. Being
representative of the oldest family in the neighborhood,
and a great part of the peasantry being his tenants, he is
much looked up to, and, in general, is known simply by the
appellation of ' The Squire ; ' a title which has been ac-
corded to the head of the family since time immemorial.
I think it best to give you these hints about my worthy old
father, to prepare you for any eccentricities that might
otherwise appear absurd."

We had passed for some time along the wall of a park,
and at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a
heavy magnificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought
at top into flourishes and flowers. The huge square col-
umns that supported the gate were surmounted by the
family crest. Close adjoining was the porter's lodge, shel-
tered under dark fir-trees, and almost buried in shrubbery.

The postboy rang a large portei*'s bell, which resounded
through the still frosty air, and wJis answered by the dis-
tant barking of dogs, with which the mansion-house seemed
garrisoned. An old woman immediately appeared at the
gate. As the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a full
view of a little primitive dame dressed very much in the
antique taste, with a neat kerchief and stomacher, and her
silver hair peeping from under a cap of snowy whiteness.
She came courtesying forth, with many expressions of
simple joy at seeing her young master. Her husband, it
seemed, was up at the house keeping Christmas eve in the
servants' hall ; they could not do without him, as he was
the best hand at a song and story in the household.

My friend proposed that we should alight and walk

194 The Sketch-Book.

through the park to the hall, which was at do great dis-
tance, while the chaise should follow od. Our road wound
through a noble avenue of trees, among the naked branches
of which the moon glittered, as she roUed through the deep
vault of a cloudless sky. The lawn beyond was sheeted with
a slight covering of snow, which here and there sparkled as
the moonbeams caught a frosty crystal; and at a distance
might be seen a thin transparent vapor, stealing up from
the low grounds and threatening gradually to shroud the
landscape.

My companion looked around him with transport: —
^ How o(|;en," said he, *' have I scampered up this avenue,
on returning home on school vacation^ ! How often have I
played under these trees when a boy ! I feel a degree of
filial reverence for them, as we look up to those who have
cherished us in childhood. My father was always scrupu-
lous in exacting our holidays, and having us around him on
family festivals. He used to direct and superintend our
games with the strictness that some parent^ do the studies
of their children. He was very particular that we should
play the old English games according to their original form ;
and consulted old books for precedent and authority for
every ' merrie disport ; ' yet I assure you there never was
pedantry so delightful. At was the policy of the good old
gentleman to make his children feel that home was the
happiest place in the world ; and I value this delicious
home-feeling as one of the choicest gifts a parent could
bestow."

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs of
all sorts and sizes, "mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, and
curs of low degree," that, disturbed by the ring of the
porter's bell and the rattling of the chaise, came bounding,
open-mouthed, across the lawn.

*' The little dogs and all,
Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me! '*

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, the
bark was changed into a yelp of delights, and in a moment
he was surrounded and almost overpowered by the caresses
of the faithful animals.

Christnxas Eve. 196

We had now come in full vifew of the old family man-
sion, partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by
the cold moonshine. It was an irregular building, of some
magnitude, and seemed to be of the architecture of differ-
ent periods. One wing was evidently very ancient, with
heavy stone-shafted bow windows jutting out and overrun
with ivy, from among the foliage of which the small dia-
mond-shaped panes of glass glittered with the moonbeams.
The rest of the house was in the French taste of Charles
the Second's time, having been repaired and altered, as
my friend told me, by one of his ancestors, who returned
with that monarch at the Restoration. The grounds
about the house were laid out in the old formal manner of
artificial flower-beds, clipped shrubberies, raised terraces,
and heavy stone balustrades, ornamented with urns, a leaden
statue or two, and a jet of water. The old gentleman, I
was told, was extremely careful to preserve this obsolete
finery in all its original state. He admired this fashion in
gardening ; it had an air of magnificence, was courtly and
noble, and befitting good old family style. The boasted
imitation of nature in modern gardening had sprung up
with modem republican notions, but did not suit a mon-
archical government; it smacked of the levelling system —
I could not help smiling at this introduction of politics into
gardening, though I expressed some apprehension that I
should find the old gentleman intolerant in his creed. —
Frank assured me, however, that it was almost the only
instance in which he had ever heard his father meddle
with politics ; and he believed that he had got this notion
from a member of parliament who once passed a few
weeks with him. The squire was glad of any argument to
defend his clipped yew trees and formal terraces, which
had been occasionally attacked by modom landscape gar-
deners.

As we approached the house, we heard the sound of
music, and now and then a burst of laughter, from one end
of the building. This, Bracebridge said, must proceed from
the servants' hall, where a great deal of revelry was per-
mitted, and even encouraged by the squire, throughout the

196 The Sketch- Book.

twelve days of Christmas, provided everything was done
conformably to ancient usage. Here were kept up the old
games of hoodman blind, shoe the wild mare, hot cockles,
steal the white loaf, bob apple, and snap dragon : the Yule
clog and Christmas candle were regularly burnt, and the
mistletoe, with its white berries, hung up, to the imminent
peril of all the pretty housemaids.*

So intent were the servants upon their sports that we
had to ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves
heard. On our arrival being announced, the squire came
out to receive us, accompanied by his two other sons;
one a young officer in the army, home on leave of ab-
sence ; the other an Oxonian, just from the university.
The squire was a fine healthy-looking old gentleman,
with silver hair curling lightly round an open florid
countenance ; in which the physiognomist, with the
advantage, like myself, of a previous hint or two, might
discover a singular mixture of whim and benevolence.

The family meeting was warm and affectionate : as the
evening was far advanced, the squire would not permit us
to change our travelling dresses, but ushered us at once to
the company, which was assembled in a large old-fashioned
hall. It was composed of different branches of a numerous
family connection, where there was the usual proportion
of old uncles and aunts, comfortable married dames, super-
annuated spinsters, blooming country cousins, half-fledged
striplings, and bright-eyed boarding-school hoydens. They
were variously occupied ; some at a round game of cards ;
others conversing around the fireplace ; at one end of the
hall was a group of young folks, some nearly grown up,
others of a more tender and budding age, fully engrossed
by a merry game ; and a profusion of wooden horses, penny
trumpets, and tattered dolls, about the floor, showed traces
of a troop of little fairy beings, who, having frolicked
through a happy day, had been carried off to slumber
through a peaceful night.

1 The mistletoe is stiU hung up in farmhouses and kitchens at Christmas;
and the youni; men have the pri?Uejge of kissing the girls under it, plucking
each time'a berry from the bush. Wnen the berries are all plucked, the priv-
ilege ceases.

Christmas Eve. 197

While the mutual greetings were going on between young
Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan the apart-
ment. I have called it a hall, for so it had certainly been
in old times, and the squire had evidently endeavored to
restore it to something of its primitive state. Over the
heavy projecting fireplace was suspended a picture of a
warrior in armor, standing by a white horse, and on the
opposite wall hung a helmet, buckler, and lance. At one
end an enormous pair of antlers were inserted in the wall,
the branches serving as hooks on which to suspend hats,
whips, and spurs; and in the corners of the apartment
were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and other sporting imple-
ments. The furniture was of the cumbrous workmanship
of former days, though some articles of modern convenience
had been added, and the oaken floor had been carpeted ; so
that the whole presented an odd mixture of parlor and
hall.

The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelm-
ing fireplace, to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst
of which was an enormous log glowing and blazing, and
sending forth a vast volume of light and heat : this I under-
stood was the Yule clog, which the squire was particular in
having brought in and illumined on a Christmas eve, accord-
ing to ancient custom.^

1 The Y%de clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree,
brought into the house with great ceremony, on Christmas eye, laid in
the fireplace, and lighted witn a brand of last year's clog. While it
lasted, there was great drinking, singing, and telling of talee. Some-
times it was accompanied by Christmas candles ; but in the cottages the
only light was from the ructdy blaze of the great wood fire. The Tale
cloe was to bum aU night; if it went out it was considered a sign of m

lUCK.

Herrick mentions it in one of his songs : —

Come, bring with a noise,

My merrie, merrie boyes.
The Christmas log to the firing;

While my good dame, she

Bids ye alibe free,
And drink to your hearts* desiring.

The Tnle clog is still burnt in many farmhouses and kitchens in Eng-
land, particularly in the north, and there are several superstitions connectml
with it among the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the house whUe
it is burning, or a person barefooted, ft is considered an ill omen. The brand
remaining ^om the Yule clog is carefully put away to light the next year's
Christmas fire.

198 The Sketch-Book.

It was really delightful to see the old sqaire seated in
his hereditary elbow chair, by the hospitable fireside of his
ancestors, and looking around him like the sun of a system,
beaming warmth and gladness to every heart. Even the
very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily shifted
his position and yawned, would look fondly up in his mas-
ter's face, wag his tail against the floor, and stretch himself
again to sleep, confident of kindness and protection. There
is an emanation from the heart in genuine hospitality which
cannot be described, but is immediately felt, and puts the
stranger at once at his ease. I had not been seated many
minutes by the comfortable hearth of the worthy old cav-
alier, before I found myself as much at home as if I had
been one of the family.

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was
served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which
shone with wax, and around which were several family
portraits decorated with holly and ivy. Besides the ac-
customed lights, two great wax tapers, called Christmas
candles, wreathed with greens, were placed on a highly-
polished beaufet among the family plate. The table was
abundantly spread wi^ substantial fare; but the squire
made his supper of frumentv, a dish made of wheat cakes
boiled in milk, with rich spices, being a standing dish in
old times for Christmas eve.

I was happy to find my old friend, minced pie, in
the retinue oi the feast; and finding him to be per-
fectly orthodox, and that I need not be ashamed of
my predilection, I greeted him with all the warmth
wherewith we usually greet an old and very genteel
acquaintance.

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the
humors of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge
alwaj-s addressed with the quaint appellation of Master
Simon. He was a tight brisk little man, with the air of
an arrant old l>aeholor. His nose was shaped like the bill
of a parrot; his face slightly pitted with the BnoAll-pox,
with a dry perpetual bloom on it, like a frostbitten leaf in
autumn. * lie had an eye of great quickness and vivacity.

Christmas Eve. 199

with a drollery and lurldng waggery of expression that was
irresistible. He was evidently the wit of the family, deal-
ing very much in sly jokes and innuendoes with the ladies,
and making infinite merriment by harping upon old
themes ; which, unfortunately, my ignorance of the family
chronicles did not permit me to enjoy. It seemed to be his
great delight during supper to keep a young girl next him
in a continual agony of stifled laughter, in spite of her awe
of the reproving looks of her mother, who sat opposite.
Indeed, he was the idol of the younger part of the company,
who laughed at everything he said or did, and at every
turn of his countenance. I could not wonder at it; for he
must have been a miracle of accomplishments in their eyes.
He could imitate Punch and Judy ; make an old woman
of his hand, with the assistance of a burnt cork and pocket-
handkerchief ; and cut an orange into such a ludicrous
caricature, that the young folks were ready to die with
laughing.

I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge.
He was an old bachelor, of a small independent income,
which, by careful management, was sufficient for all his
wants. He revolved through the family system like a
vagrant comet in its orbit ; sometimes visiting one branch,
and sometimes another quite remote ; as is often the case
with gentlemen of extensive connections and small fortunes
in England. He had a chirping buoyant disposition, always
enjoying the present moment ; and his frequent change of
scene and company prevented his acquiring those rusty
unacconmiodating habits, with which old bachelors are so
uncharitably charged. He was a complete family chroni-
cle, being versed m the genealogy, history, and intermar-
riages of the whole house of Bracebridge, which made him
a great favorite with the old folks ; he was a beau of all
the elder ladies and superannuated spinsters, among whom
he was habitually considered rather a young fellow, and he
was master of the revels among the children ; so that there
was not a more popular being in the sphere in which he
moved than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. Of late years, he
had resided almost entirely with the- squire, to whom he

200 The Sketch-Book.

had become a factotum, and whom he particularly delighted
by jumping with his humor in respect to old times, and by
having a scrap of an old song to suit every occasion. We
had presently a specimen of his last-mentioned talent, for
no sooner was supper removed, and spiced wines and
other beverages peculiar to the season introduced, than
Master Simon was called on for a good old Christmas
song. He bethought himself for a moment, and then, with
a sparkle of the eye, and a voice that was by no means
bad, excepting that it ran occasionally into a lalsetto, like
the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a quaint old
ditty.

Now Christmas is come,

Let U8 beat up the drum,
And callAll our neighbors together,

And when they appear,

Let us make them such cheer,
As will keep out the wind and the weather, etc.

The supper nSad disposed every one to gayety, and an old
harper was summojied from the servants' hall, where he
had been strumming all the evening, and to all appearance
comforting himself with some of the squire's home-brewed.
He was a kind of hanger-on, 1 was told, of the establish-
ment, and, though ostensibly a resident of the village, was
oftener to be found in the squire's kitchen than his own
home, the old gentleman being fond of the sound of ^^ harp
in hall."

The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry
one ; some of the older folks joined in it, and the squire
himself figured down several couple with a partner, with
whom he affirmed he had danced at every Christmas for
nearly half a century. Master Simon, who seemed to be a
kind of connecting link between the old times and the new,
and to be withal a little antiquated in the taste of his
accomplishments, evidently piqued himself on his dancing,
and was endeavoring to gain credit by the heel and toe,
rigadoon, and other graces of the ancient school ; but he
had unluckily assorted himself with a little romping girl
from boarding-school, who, by her wild vivacity, kept him

Christmas Eve. 201

continually ori the stretch, and defeated all his sober
attempts at elegance : — such are the ill-assorted matches
to which antique gentleman are unfortunately prone !

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of
his maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand
little knaveries with impunity : he was full of practical
jokes, and his delight was to tease his aunts and cousins ;
yet, like all madcap youngsters, he was a universal favorite
among the women. The most interesting couple in the
dance was the young officer and a ward of the squire's,
a beautiful blushing girl of seventeen. From several shy
glances which I had noticed in the course of the evening, I
suspected there was a little kindness growing up between
them ; and, indeed, the young soldier was just the hero to
captivate a romantic girl. He was tall, slender, and hand-
some, and, like most young British officers of late years,
had picked up various small accomplishments on the conti-
nent — he could talk French and Italian — draw landscapes,
sing very tolerably — dance divinely ; but, above all, he
had been wounded at Waterloo : — what girl of seventeen,
well read in poetry and romance, could resist such a mirror
of chivalry and perfection I

The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar,
and, lolling against the old marble fireplace, in an attitude
which I am half inclined to suspect was studied, began the
Ititle French air of the Troubadour. The squire, however,
exclaimed against having anything on Christmas eve but
good old English ; upon which the young minstrel, casting
up his eye for a moment, as if in an effort of memory, struck
into another strain, and, with a charming air of gallantry,
gave Herrick's " Night-Piece to Julia."

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee,

And the elves also,

Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No Will o' the Wisp mislight thee;
Nor snake nor slow-womi bite thee;

But on, on thy way,

Not making a stay,
Since ghost there is none to affright thee.

202 The Sketch-Book.

Then let not the dark thee cumber;
What though the moon does slumber ?

The stars of the night

Will lend thee their light,
Like tapers clear without number.

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, j

Thus, thus come unto me,

And when I shall meet

Thy silvery feet.
My soul V\\ pour into thee.

The song might or might not have been intended in com-
pliment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was
called ; she, however, was certainly unconscious of any such
application, for she never looked at the singer, but kept her
eyes cast upon the floor. Her face was suffused, it is true,
with a beautiful blush, and there was a gentle heaving of
the bosom, but all that was doubtless caused by the exercise
of the dance; indeed, so great was her indifference, that
she amused herself with plucking to pieces a choice bou-
quet of hot-house flowers, and by the time the song was
concluded the nosegay lay in ruins on the floor.

The party now broke up for the night with the kind-
hearted old custom of shaking hands. As I passed through
the hall, on my way to my chamber, the dying embers of
the Yule clog still sent forth a dusky glow, and had it not
been the season when " no spirit dares stir abroad," I should
have been half tempted to steal from my room at midnight,
and peep whether the fairies might not be at their revels
about the hearth.

My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the
ponderous furniture of which might have been fabricated
in the days of the giants. The room was panelled with
cornices of heavy carved work, in which flowers and gro-
tesque faces were strangely intermingled ; and a row of
black-looking portraits stared mournfully at me from the
walls. The bed was of rich, though faded damask, with
a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite a bow window.
I had scarcely got into bed when a strain of music seemed
to break forth in the air just below the window. I listened,

Christmas Eoe.

203

and found it proceeded from a band, which I concluded to
be the Waits from some neighboring village. They went
round the house, playing under the windows. I drew
aside the curtains to hear them more distinctly. The
moonbeams fell through the upper part of the casement,
partially lighting up the antiquated apartment. The sounds,
as they receded, became more soft and aerial, and seemed
to accord with the quiet and moonlight. I listened and
listened — they became more and niore tender and remote,
and, as they gradually died away, my head sunk upon the
pillow, and I fell asleep.

CHRISTMAS DAY.

Dark and dull night, flie hence away,
And give the honor to this day
That sees December turn'd to May.

Why does the chilling winter's mome

Smile like a field beset with com?

Or smell like to a meade new-shorn.

Thus on the sudden? — Come and see ']

The cause why things thus fragrant be.

Hebbick.

When I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all the
events of the preceding evening had been a dream, and
nothing but the identity of the ancient chamber convinced
me of their reality. While I lay musing on my pillow, I
heard the sound of little feet pattering outside of the door,
and a whispering consultation. Presently a choir of small
voices chanted forth an old Christmas carol, the burden of
which was —

Rejoice, our Saviour he was bom
On Christmas day in the morning.

I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door sud-
denly, and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy
groups that a painter could imagine. It consisted of a boy
and two girls, the eldest not more than six, and lovely as
seraphs. They were going the rounds of the house, and
singing at every chamber door ; but my sudden appearance
frightened them into mute bashfulness. They remained
for a moment playing on their lips with their fingers, and
now and then stealing a shy glance from under their eye-
brows, until, as if by impulse, they scampered away,
and as they turned an angle of the gallery, I heard them
laughing in triumph at their escape.

• 904

Christmas Day. 205

Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feelings
in this stronghold of old-fashioned hospitality. The window
of my chamber looked out upon what in summer would
have been a beautiful landscape. There was a sloping
lawn, a fine stream winding at the foot of it, and a tract of
park beyond, with noble clumps of trees, and herds of deer.
At a distance was a neat hamlet, with the smoke from the
cottage chimneys hanging over it; and a church with its
dark spire in strong relie5f against the clear, cold sky. The
house was surrounded with evergreens, according to the
English custom, which would have given almost an appear-
ance of summer ; but the morning was extremely frosty ;
the light vapor of the preceding evening had been precipi-
tated by the cold, and covered all the trees and every blade
of grass with its fine crystallizations. The rays of a bright
morning sun had a dazzling effect among the glittering
foliage. A robin, perched upon the top of a mountain ash
that hung its clusters of red berries just before my window,
was basking himself in the sunshine, and piping a few
querulous notes; and a peacock was displaying all the
glories of his train, and strutting with the pride and gravity
of a Spanish grandee, on the terrace walk below.

I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant appeared
to invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way to
a small chapel in the old wing of the house, where I found
the principal part of the family already assembled in a kind
of gallery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, and large
prayer-books; the servants were seated on benches below.
The old gentleman read prayers from a desk in front of the
gallery, and Master Simon acted as clerk, and made the
responses ; and I must do him the justice to say that he
acquitted himself with great gravity and decorum.

The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which
Mr. Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of
his favorite author, Herrick ; and it had been adapted to an
old church melody by Master Simon. As there were sev-
eral good voices among the household, the effect was ex-
tremely pleasing ; but T was particularly gratified by the
exultation of heart, and sudden sally of grateful feeling.

206 The Sketch-Book.

with which the worthy squire delivered one stanza; his
eye glistening, and his voice rambling out of all the bounds
of time and tune :

*Ti8 thou that crown'st ray glittering hearth

With guiltlesse mirth,
And givest me Wassaile bowles to drink

Spiced to the brink :
Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand

That soiles my land :
And giv'st me for my bushell sowne,

Twice ten for one.

I afterwards understood that early morning service was
read on every Sunday and saint's day throughout the year,
either by Mr. Bracebridge or by some member of the fam-
ily. It was once almost universally the case at the seats of
the nobility and gentry of England, and it is much to be
regretted that the custom is falling into neglect ; for the
dullest observer must be sensible of the order and serenity
prevalent in those households, where the occasional exer-
cise of a beautiful form of worship in the morning gives, as
it were, the keynote to every temper for the day, and attunes
every spirit to harmony.

Our breakfast consisted of what the squire denomi-
nated true old English fare. He indulged in some bitter
lamentations over modem breakfasts of tea and toast,
which he censured as among the causes of modem effem-
inacy and weak nerves, and the decline of old English
heartiness ; and though he admitted them to his table to
suit the palates of his guests, yet there was a brave display
of cold meats, wine, and ale, on the sideboard.

After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank
Bracebridge and Master Simon, or, Mr. Simon, as he was
called by everybody but the squire. We were escorted by
a number of gentlemanlike dogs, that seemed loungers
about the establishment ; from the frisking spaniel to the
steady old stag-hound — the last of which was of a race that
had been in the family time out of mind — they were all
obedient to a dog- whistle which hung to Master Simon's
button-hole, and in the midst of their gambols would glance

Chriatmas Day, 207

an eye occasionally upon a small switch he carried in his
hand.

The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the
yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight ; and I could not
but feel the force of the squire's idea, that the formal ter-
races, heavily moulded balustrades, and clipped yew-trees,
carried with them an air of proud aristocracy. There ap-
peared to be an unusual number of peacocks about the
place, and I was making some remarks upon what I termed
a flock of them, that were basking under a sunny wall,
when I was gently corrected in my phraseology by Master
Simon, who told me that, according to the most ancient
and approved treatise on hunting, I must sav a muster of
peacocks. «' In the same way," added he, with a slight air
of pedantry, " we say a flight of doves or swallows, a bevy
of quails, a herd of deer, of wrens, or cranes, a skulk of
foxes, or a building of rooks." He went on to inform me
that, according to Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought to
ascribe to this bird "both understanding and glory; for,
being praised, he will presently set up his tail, chiefly
against the sun, to the intent you may the better behold
the beauty thereof. But at the fall of the leaf, when his
tail falleth, he will mouiTi and hide himself in comers, till
bis tail come again as it was."

I could not help smiling at this display of small erudi-
tion on so whimsical a subject ; but I found that the pea-
cocks were birds of some consequence at the hall ; for
Frank Bracebridge informed me that they were great favor-
ites with his father, who was extremely careful to keep up
the breed ; partly because they belonged to chivalry, and
were in great request at the stately banquets of the olden
time; and partly because they had a pomp and magnificence
about them, highly becoming to an old family mansion.
Nothing, he was accustomed to say, had an air of greater
state and dignity than a peacock perched upon an antique
stone balustrade.

Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appoint-
ment at the parish church with the village choristers, who
were to perform some music of his selection. There was

208 The Sketch-Book.

something extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of ani-
mal spirits of the little man ; and I confess I had been
somewhat surprised at his apt quotations from authors
who certainly were not in the range of everyday reading.
I mentioned this last circumstance to Frank Bracebridge,
who told me with a smile that Master Simon's whole
stock of erudition was confined to some half a dozen old
authors, which the squire had put into his hands, and
which he read over and over, whenever he had a studious
fit ; as he sometimes had on a rainy day, or a long winter
evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's £ook of Husbandry;
Markham's Country Contentments; the Tretyse of Hunt-
ing^ by Sir Thomas Cockayne, Knight; Izaac Walton's
Angler and two or three more such ancient worthies of
the pen, were his standard authorities ; and, like all men
who know but a few books, he looked up to them with a
kind of idolatry, and quoted them on all occasions. As to
his songs, they were chiefly picked out of old books in the
squire's library, and adapted to tunes that were popular
among the choice spirits of the last century. His practi-
cal application of scraps of literature, however, had caused
him to be looked upon as a prodigy of book knowledge by
all the grooms, huntsmen, and small sportsmen of the
neighborhood.

While we were talking, we heard the distant tolling of
the village bell, and I was told that the squire was a little
particular in having his household at church on a Christ-
mas morning; considering it a day of pouring out of thanks
and rejoicing ; for, as old Tusser observed.

At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal.

And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the small.

" If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank
Bracebridge, "I can promise you a specimen of my
cousin Simon's musical achievements. As the church is
destitute of an organ, be has formed a band from the
village amateurs, and established a musical club for their
improvement ; he has also sorted a choir, as he sorted my
father's pack of hounds, according >to the directions of

Chriatmaa Day. 209

Jervaise Markham, in his ' Country Contentments^ ; for
the bass he has sought out all the ^ deep, solemn mouths,'
and for the tenor the * loud-ringing mouths,' among the
country bumpkins ; and for ' sweet mouths," he has culled
with curious taste among the prettiest lasses in the
neighborhood ; though these last, he affirms, are the most
difficult to keep in tune; your pretty female singer being .
exceedingly wayward and capricious, and very liable to
accident."

As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and
clear, the most of the family walked to the church, which
was a very old building of gray stone, and stood near a vil-
lage, about half a mile from the park gate. Adjoining it
was a low snug parsonage, which seemed coeval with the
church. The front of it was perfectly matted with a yew-
tree, that had been trained against its walls, through the
dense foliage of which, apertures had been formed to
admit light into the small antique lattices. As we passed
this sheltered nest, the parson issued forth and preceded us.

I had expected to see a sleek well-conditioned pastor,
such as is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a
rich patron's table, but I was disappointed. The parson
was a little, meagre, black-looking man, with a grizzled wig
that was too wide, and stood off from each ear; so that his
head seemed to have shrunk away within it, like a dried
filbert in its shell. He wore a rusty coat, with great skirts,
and pockets that would have held the church Bible and
prayer-book : and his small legs seemed still smaller, from
being planted in large shoes, decorated with enormous
buckles.

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge, that the parson
had been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had received
this living shortly after the latter had come to his estate.
He was a complete black-letter hunter, and would scarcely
read a work printed in the Roman character. The edi-
tions of Caxton and Wynkin de Worde were his delight;
and he was indefatigable in his researches after such old
English writers as have fallen into oblivion from their
worthlessness. In deference, perhaps, to the notions of

210 The Sketch' Book.

Mr. Bracebridge, he had made diligent investigations into
the festive rites and holiday customs of former times;
and had been as zealous in the inquiry as if he had been
a boon companion ; but it was merely with that plodding
spirit with which men of adust temperament follow up
any track of study, merely because it is denominated
learning ; indifferent to its intrinsic nature, whether it be
the illustration of the wisdom, or of the ribaldry and ob-
scenity of antiquity. lie had pored over these old vol-
umes so intensely, that they seemed to have been reflected
in his countenance ; which, if the face be indeed an index
of the mind, might be compared to a title-page of black-
letter.

On reaching the church porch, we found the parson
rebuking the gray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe
among the greens with which the church was decorated.
It was, he observed, an unholy plant, profaned by having
been used by the Druids in their mystic ceremonies ; and
though it might be innocently employed in the festive
ornamenting of halls and kitchens, yet it had been deemed
by the Fathers of the Church as unhallowed, and totally
unfit for sacred purposes. So tenacious was he on this
point, that the poor sexton was obliged to strip down
a great part of the humble trophies of his taste, before
the parson would consent to enter upon the service of the
day.

The interior of the church was venerable but simple , on
the walls were several mural monuments of the Bracebridges,
and just beside the altar was a tomb of ancient workman-
ship, on which lay the effigy of a warrior in armor, with his
legs crossed, a sign of his having been a crusader. I was
told it was one of the family who had signalized him-
self in the Holy Land, and the same whose picture hung
over the fireplace in the hall.

During service. Master Simon stood up in the pew, and
repeated the responses very audibly ; evincing that kind of
ceremonious devotion punctually observed by a gentleman
of the old school, and a man of old family connections. I
observed too that he turned over the leaves of a folio

Christmas Day, 211

prayer-book with something of a flourish ; possibly to show
off an enormous seal-ring which enriched one of his fingers,
and which had the look of a family relic. But he was
evidently most solicitous about the musical part of the
service, keeping his eye fixed int^tly on the choir, and
beating time with much gesticulation and emphasis.

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a
most whimsical grouping of heads, piled one above the
other, among which 1 particularly noticed that of the vil-
lage tailor, a pale fellow with a retreating forehead and
chin, who played on the clarionet, and seemed to have blown
his face to a point; and there was another, a short pursy
man, stooping and laboring at a bass-viol, so as to show
nothing but the top of a round bald head, like the egg of
an ostrich. There were two or three pretty faces among
the female singers, to which the keen air of a frosty morn-
ing had given a bright rosy tint : but the gentlemen chor-
isters had evidently been chosen, like old Cremona fiddles,
more for tone than looks ; and as several had to sing from
the same book, there were clusterings of odd physiognomies,
not unlike those groups of cherubs we sometimes see on
country tombstones.

The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably
well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the
instrumental, and some loitering fiddler now and then
making up for lost time by travelling over a passage with
prodigious celerity, and clearing more bars than the keenest
fox- hunter to be in at the death. But the great trial was
an anthem that had been prepared and arranged by Master
Simon, and on which he had founded great expectation.
Unluckily there was a blunder at the very outset; the
musicians became flurried ; Master Simon was in a fever;
everything went on lamely and irregularly until they came
to a chorus beginning " Now let us sing with one accord,"
which seemed to be a signal for parting company : all be-
came discord and confusion ; each shifted for himself, and
got to the end as well, or, rather, as soon as he could, ex-
cepting one old chorister in a pair of horn spectacles,
bestriding and pinching a long sonorous nose ; who hap-

212 Th^ Sketch-Book.

pened to stand a little apart, and, being wrapped up in his
own melody, kept oji a quavering course, wriggling his head,
ogling his book, and winding all up by a nasal solo of at
least three bars' duration.

The parson gave us^a most erudite sermon on the rites
and ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of ob-
serving it not merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of
rejoicing; supporting the correctness of his opinions by
the earliest usages of the church, and enforcing them by
the authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea^ St. Cyprian, St
Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and a cloud more of saints and
fathers, from whom he made copious quotations. I was a
little at a loss to perceive the necessity of such a mighty
array of forces to maintain a point which no one present
seemed inclined to dispute ; .but I tioon found that the good
man had-a legion of ideal adversaries to contend with; hav-
ing, in the course of his researches on the subject of Christ-
mas, got completely embroiled in the sectarian controver-
sies of the Revolution, when the Puritans made such a
fierce assault upon the ceremonies of the church, and poor
old Christmas was driven out of the land by proclamation
of Parliament.* The worthy parson lived but with times
past, and knew but little of the present.

Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of
his antiquated little study, the pages of old times were to
him as the gazettes of the day ; while the era of the Revo-
lution was mere modern history. He forgot that nearly
two centuries had elapsed since the fiery persecution of
poor mince-pie throughout the land ; when plum porridge
was denounced "mere popery," and roast-beef as anti-
christian ; and that Christmas had been brought in again

1 From the Flying Eagle, a small Gazette, published December 24tb, 1662—
" The House spent much time this dav about the business of the Navy, for
settling the anairs at sea, and before they rose, were presented with a terrible
remonstrance against Christmas day, grounded ui)on divine Scriptures, 2 Cor.
V. 16 ; 1 Cor. XV. 14, 17 ; and in honor of the Lord's Day, grounded \x\wn these
Scriptures John xx. 1 ; Rev. i. 10: Psalm cxviii. 24; Lev. xxiii. 7. 11 ; Mark xv.
8: rsalm Ixxxiv. 10, in which Christmas is calle<l Anti-christ^s masse* and
those Massemongers and l*apists who observe it, etc. In consequence of
which Parliament spent some time in consultation about the aboUtion of
Christmas day, passed orders to that effect, and resolved to sit oa the follow-
ing day, which was commonly caUed Christmas day."

Christmas Day, 213

triumphantly with the merry court of King Charles at the
Restoration. He kindled into warmth with the ardor of
his contest, and the host of imaginary foes with whom he
had to combat ; he had a stubborn conflict with old Prynne
and two or three other forgotten champions of the Round
Heads, on the subject of Christmas festivity; and con-
cluded by urging his hearers, in the most solemn and affect-
ing manner, to stand to the traditional customs of their
fathers, and feast and make merry on this joyful anniver-
sary of the Church.

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with
more immediate effects ; for on leaving the church the con-
gregation seenied one and all possessed with the gayety
of spirit so earnestly enjoined by their pastor. The elder
folks gathered in knots in the churchyard, greeting and
shaking hands; and the children ran about crying Ule !
Ule ! and repeating some uncouth rhymes,* which the par-
son, who had joined us, informed me had been handed
down from days of yore. The villagers doffed their hats to
the squire as he passed, giving him the good wishes of the
season with every appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and
were invited by him to the hall, to take something to keep
out the cold of the weather; and I heard blessings uttered
by several of the poor, which convinced me that, in the
midst of his enjoyments, the worthy old cavalier had not
forgotten the true Christmas virtue of charity.

On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowed with
generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a rising
ground which commanded something of a prospect, the
sounds of rustic memment now and then reached our ears;
the squire paused for a few moments, and looked around
with an air of inexpressible benignity. The beauty of the
day was of itself sufl[icient to inspire philanthropy. Not-
withstanding the f rostiness of the morning, the sun in his
cloudless journey had acquired sufficient power to melt away
♦he '.hin covering of snow from every southern declivity, and

1 "Ule! Ule!

Three puddings in a pole ;
Crack nuts and cry ule ! "

214 The Sketch-Book. \

I
jto bring out the living green which adorns an English land-
scape even in mid winter. Large tracts of smiling verdure
contrasted with the dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes
and hollows. Every sheltered bank, on which the broad
rays rested, yielded its silver rill of cold and limpid water,
glittering through the dripping grass ; and sent up slight
exhalations to contribute to the thin haze that hung just
above the surface of the earth. There was something truly
cheering in this triumph of warmth and verdure over the
frosty thraldom of winter ; it was, as the squire observed,
an emblem of Christmas hospitality, breaking through the
chills of ceremony and selfishness, and thawing every heart
into a flow. He pointed with pleasure to the indications of
good cheer reeking from the chimneys of the comfortable
farmhouses, and low thatched cottages. " I love," said he,
" to see this day well kept by rich and poor ; it is a great
thing to have one day in the year, at least, when you are
sure of being welcome wherever you go, and of having, as it
were, the world all thrown open to you ; and I am almost
disposed to join with Poor Robin, in his malediction on
every churlish enemy to this honest festival :

Those who at Christmas do repine

And would fain hence dispatch him,
May they with old Duke Humphry dine,

Or else may Squire Ketch catch *em."

The squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of the
games and amusements which were once prevalent at this
season among the lower orders, and countenanced by the
higher ; when the old halls of the castles and manor-houses
were thrown open at daylight ; when the tables were covered
with brawn, and beef, and humming ale ; when the harp and
the carol resounded all day long, and when rich and poor
were alike welcome to enter and make merry.* " Our old

> " An EngUsh eentleman, at the opening of the great dav. 1. e., on
Christmas day in the morning, had all his tenants and neighbors enter
his hall by daybreak. The strong beer was broached, and the black-jacks
went plentifully about with toast, sugar and nutmeg, and good Cheshire
cheese. The Hackin (the great sausage) must be boiled by daybreak, or else
two young men must take the maiden (i. e. the cook) by the arms, and run her
round the market-place tlU she is shamed of her laziness." — Bound AbotU our
8ea-Co<U Fire.

Chriatmaa Day. 216

games and local customs," said he, ^^h'ad a great effect in
making the peasant fond of his home, and the promotion of
them by the gentry made him fond of his lord. They made
the times merrier, and kinder, and better, and I can truly
say, with one of our old poets :

I like them well — the curious preciseness
And all-pretended gravity of those *
That seek to banish hence these harmless sports,
Have thrust away much ancient honesty.

" The nation," continued he, " is altered ; we have almost
lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. They have broken
asunder from the higher classes, and seem to think their
interests are separate. They have become too knowing,
and begin to read newspapers, listen to ale-house politicians,
and talk of reform. I think one mode to keep them in good
humor in these hard times would be for the nobility and
gentry to pass more time on their estates, mingle more
among the country people, and set the merry old English
games going again."

Such was the good squire's project for mitigating public
discontent: and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his
doctrine in practice, and a few years before had kept open
house during the holidays in the old style. The country
people, however, did not understand how to play their parts
in the scene of hospitality ; many uncouth circumstances
occurred ; the manor was overrun by all the vagrantsA>f the
country, and more beggars drawn into the neighborhood in
one week than the parish officers could get rid of in a year.
Since then, he had contented himself with inviting the
decent part of the neighboring peasantry to call at the hall
on Christmas day, and with distributing beef, and bread,
and ale, among the poor, that they might make merry in
their own dwellings.

We had not been long home when the sound of music was
heard from a distance. A band of country lads, without
coats, their shirt sleeves fancifully tied with ribbons, theii-
hats decorated with greens, and clubs in their hands, was
seen advancing up the avenue, followed by a large number

216 The Sketch-Book.

of villagers and peasantry. They stopped before the h^l
door, where the music struck up a peculiar air, and the lads
performed a curious and intricate dance, advancing, retreat-
ing, and striking their clubs together, keeping exact time
to the music, while one, whimsically crowned with a fox's
skin, the tail of which flaunted down his back, kept caper-
ing round the skirts of the dance, and rattling a Christmas
box witli many antic gesticulations.

The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great inter-
est and delight, and gave me a full account of its origin,
which he traced to the times when the Romans held posses-
sion ^f the island ; plainly proving that this was a lineal
descendant of the sword dance of the ancients. " It was
now," he said, " nearly extinct, but he had accidentally met
with traces of it in the neighborhood, and had encouraged
its revival ; though, to tell the truth, it was too apt to be
followed up by the rough cudgel play, and broken heads in
the evening."

After the dance was concluded, the whole party was
entertained with brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed.
The squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was
received with awkward demonstrations of deference and
regard. It is true I perceived two or three of the younger
peasants, as they were raising their tankards to their mouths,
when the squire's back was turned, making something of a
grimace, and giving each other the wink ; but the moment
they caught my eye they pulled grave faces, and were ex-
ceedingly demure. With Master Simon, however, they all
seemed more at their ease. His varied occupations and
amusements had made him well known throughout the
neighborhood. He was a visitor at every farmhouse and
cottage ; gossiped with the farmers and their wives; romped
with their daughters; and, like that type of a vagrant
bachelor, the bumblebee, tolled the sweets from all the rosy
lips of the country round.

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before
good cheer and affability. There is something genuine
and affectionate in the gayety of the lower orders, when it
is excited by the bounty and familiarity of those above

Christmas Day,

217

them; the warm glow of gratitude enters into their
mirth, and a kind word or a small pleasantry frankly
uttered by a patron, gladdens the heart of the dependent
more than oil and wine. When the squire had retired, the
merriment increased, and there was much joking and
laughter, particularly between Master Simon and a hale,
ruddy-faced, white-headed farmer, who appeared to be the
wit of the village ; for I observed all his companions
to wait with open mouths for his retorts, and burst
into a gratuitous laugh before they could well understand
them.

The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merri-
ment: as I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I
heard the sound of music in a small court, and looking
through a window that commanded it, I perceived a band
of wandering musicians, with pandean pipes and tam-
bourine ; a pretty coquettish housemaid was dancing a
jig with a smart country lad, while several of the other
servants were looking on. In the midst of her sport
the girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window,
and, coloring up, ran off with an air of roguish affected
confusion.

THE CHRISTMAS DINNER,

Lo, now is come our joyfurst feast!

Let every man be jolly,
Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest,

And every post with holly.
Now all our neighbours* chimneys smoke,

And Christmas blocks are burning;
Their ovens they with bak't meats choke
And all their spits are turning.

Without the door let sorrow lie.
And if, for cold, it hap to die,
WeeUe bury't in a Christmas pye,
And evermore be merry.

Withers' Juvenilia.

I HAD finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank
Bracebridge in the library, when we heard a distinct thwack-
ing sound, which he informed me was a signal for the serv-
ing up of the dinner. The squire kept up old customs in
kitchen as well as hall ; and the rolling-pin, struck upon
the dresser by the cook, summoned the servants to carry in
the meats.

Just in this nick the cook knocked thrice,
And all the waiters in a trice

His summons did obey;
Each serving man, with dish in hand,
Marched boldly up, like our train band,

Presented and away.^

The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the
squire always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing
crackling fire of logs had been heaped on to warm the
spacious apartment, and the fiame went sparkling and
wreathing up the wide-mouthed chimney. The great
picture of the crusader and his white horse had been pro-

1 Sir John Suckling.
218

The Christmas Dinner. 219

fusely decorated with greens for the occasion ; and holly
and ivy had likewise been wreathed round the helmet and
weapons on the opposite wall, which I understood were
the arms of the same warrior. I must own, by the by, I
had strong doubts about the authenticity of the painting
and armor as having belonged to the crusader, they cer-
tainly having the stamp of more recent days ; but I was
told that the painting had been so considered time out of
mind ; and that, as to the armor, it had been found in a
lumber-room, and elevated to its present situation by the
squire, who at once determined it to be the armor of the
family hero ; and as he was absolute authority on all such
subjects in his own household, the matter had passed into
current acceptation. A sideboard was set out just under
this chivalric trophy, on which was a display of plate that
might have vied (at least in variety) with Belshazzar's
parade of the vessels of the temple : " flagons, cans, cups,
beakers, goblets, basins, and ew:er8 " ; the gorgeous utensils
of good companionship that had gradually accumulated
through many generations of jovial housekeepers. Before
these stood the two Yule candles, beaming like two stars
of the first magnitude ; other lights were distributed in
branches, and the whole array glittered like a firmament of
silver.

We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the
sound of minstrelsy, the old harper being seated on a stool
beside the fireplace, and twanging his instrument with a
vast deal more power than melody. Never did Christmas
board display a more goodly and gracious assemblage of
countenances; those who were not handsome were, at
least, happy; and happiness is a rare improver of your
hard-favored visage. I always consider an old English
family as well worth studying as a collection of Holbein's
portraits or Albert Durer's prints. There is much anti-
quarian lore to be acquired ; much knowledge of the physi-
ognomies of former times. Perhaps it may be from having
continually before their eyes those rows of old family por-
traits, with which the mansions of this country are stocked ;
certain it is, that the quaint features of antiquity are often

220 The Sketch-Book.

most faithfully perpetuated in these ancient lines ; and I
have traced an old family nose through a whole picture
gallery, legitimately handed down from generation to gen-
eration, almost from the time of the Conquest. Something
of the kind was to be observed in the worthy company
around me. Many of their faces had evidently originated
in a Gothic age, and been merely copied by succeeding gen-
erations; and there was one little girl in particular, of
staid demeanor, with a high Roman nose, and an antique
vinegar aspect, who was a great favorite of the squire's,
being, as he said, a Bracebridge all over, and the very
counterpart of one of his ancestors who figured in the court
of Henry VIII.

The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar
one, such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these
unceremonious days ; but a long, courtly, well-worded one
of the ancient school. There was now a pause, as if some-
thing was expected ; when suddenly the butler entered the
hall with some degree of bustle : he was attended by a ser-
vant on each side with a large wax-light, and bore a silver
dish, on which was an enormous pig's head, decorated with
rosemary, with a lemon in its mouth, which was placed with
great formality at the head of the table. The moment this
pageant made its appearance, the harper struck up a flour-
ish ; at the conclusion of which the young Oxonian, on re-
ceiving a hint from the squire, gave, with an air of the
most comic gravity, an old carol, the first verse of which
was as follows : —

Caput apri defero,

Reddens laudes Domino.
The boards head in hand bring I,
With garlands gay and rosemary.
I pray you all synge merrily

Qui estis in convivio.

Though prepared to witness many of these little eccen-
tricities, from being apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine
host ; yet, I confess, the parade with which so odd a dish
was introduced somewhat perplexed me, until I gathered
from the conversation of the squire and the parson, that it

The Christmas Dinfier. 221

was meant to represent the bringing in of the boar's head ;
a dish formerly served up with much ceremony and the
sound pf minstrelsy and song, at great tables, on Christmas
day. " I like the old custom," said the squire, " not merely
because it is stately and pleasing in itself, but because it
was observed at the college at Oxford at which I was edu-
cated. When I hear the old song chanted, it brings to
mind the time when I was young and gamesome — and the
noble old college hall — and my fellow-students loitering
about in their black gowns ; many of whom, poor lads, are
now in their graves ! "

The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by
such associations, and who was always more taken up with
the text than the sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's ver-
sion of the carol ; which he affirmed was different from that
sung at college. He went on, with the dry perseverance of
a commentator, to give the college reading, accompanied by
sundry annotations ; addressing himself at first to the com-
pany at large ; but finding their attention gradually diverted
to other talk and other objects, he lowered his tone as his
number of auditors diminished, until he concluded his re-
marks in an undervoice, to a fat-headed old gentleman next
him, who was silently engaged in the discussion of a huge
plateful of turkey.*

1 The old ceremony of servinfj^ up tbe boar's heacl on Christmas day is stiU
observed in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. I was favored by the parson
with a copy of the carol a.s now sung, and as it may be acceptable to such of
my readers as are curious in these grave and learned matters, I give it entire.

The boar's head in hand bear I,
Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary ;
And I pray you, my masters, be merry
Quot estis in convivio

Caput apri dcfero.

Reddens laudes Domino.

The boar's head, as I understand.
Is the rarest dish in all this land,
Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland

I^et us servire cantico.

Caput apri defero, etc.

Our steward hath provided this
In honor of the King of Bliss,
Which on this day to be served is
In Reginensi A trio.
Caput apri defero,

etc., etc., etc.

222

The Sketch-Book,

The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and p
sented an epitome of country abundance, in this season of;
overflowing larders. A distinguished post was allotted
^ ancient sirloin," as mine host termed it ; being, as he
added, 'Hhe standard of old English hospitality, and a
joint of goodly presence, and full of expectation." There
were several dishes quaintly decorated, and which had evi-,
dently something traditional in^eir embellishments; bal
about which, as I did not like to appear over-curious, I"
asked no questions.

I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently deco-
rated With peacock's feathers, in imitation of the tail of thai
bird, which overshadowed a considerable tract of the table. ^\
This, the squire confessed, with some little hesitation, was a
pheasant pie, though a peacock pie was certainly the most
authentical ; but there had been such a mortality among the
peacocks this season, that he could not prevail upon himself
to have one killed.*

It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who *
may not have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete
things to which I am a little given, were I to mention the
other make-shifts of this worthy old humorist, by which he
was endeavoring to follow up, though at humble distance,
the quaint customs of antiquity. I was pleased, however,
to see the respect shown to his whims by his children and
relatives ; who, indeed, entered readily into the full spirit
of them, and seemed all well versed in their parts : having
doubtless been present at many a rehearsal. I was amused,
too, at the air of profound gravity with which the butler

1 The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately entertainments-
Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end of which the head appeared
alvovc the crust in all its plumage, with the beak richlv gilt ; at the otner end
the tail was disi>layed. Such pies were served up at the solemn banquets of
chivalry, when knights^rrant pledged themselves to undertake any perilous
enterprise, whence came the ancient oath, used by Justice Shallow, *' oy cock
and pie."

The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast ; and Mas-
singer, in his Citu Madam, gives some idea of the extravagance with which
this, as wcU as other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous revels of the olden
times: —

Men may talk of Country Christmasses,

Their thirty pound butter'd eggs, their pies of carp's tongues;

Their pheasants drench*d with ambergris; the carcases of three fat xcethen
firuised for gravy to make tawnejor a single peacock.

The ChristmoB Dinner. 228

and other servants executed the duties assigned them, how-
•ver eccentric. They had an old-fashioned look; having,
or the most part, been brought up in the household, and
grown into keeping with the antiquated mansion, and the
humors of its lord ; and most probably looked upon all his
whimsical regulations as the established laws of honorable
housekeeping.

i When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a

huge silver vessel of rare and curious workmanship, which

ll he placed before the squire. Its appearance was hailed

r with acclamation ; being the Wassail Bowl, so renowned in

; Christmas festivity. The contents had been prepared by

the squire himself; for it was a beverage in the skilful

mixture of which he particularly prided himself : alleging

k that it was too abstruse and complex for the comprehension

of an ordinary servant. It was a potation, indeed, that

might well make the heart of a toper leap within him ;

k being composed of the richest and raciest wines, highly

^ spiced and sweetened, with roasted apples bobbing about

the surface.*
^ The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a
serene look of indwelling delight, as he stirred this mighty
bowl. Having raised it to his lips, with a hearty wish of a
merry Christmas to all present, he sent it brimming round
the board, for every one to follow his example, according to
the primitive style ; pronouncing it "the ancient fountain
of good feoJing, where all hearts met together." *

There was much laughing and rallying as the honest

1 The Wassail Bowl waa sometimes composed of ale instead of wine;
with nutmeg, sugar, toast, gineer, and roasted crabs; in this war the nut-
brown beverage is still prenareu in some old families, and round the ncNarths of
substantial farmers at Christmas. It is also called Lamb*8 Wool, and to cele-
brated by Herrick in his Twelfth XigfU:^

Next crowne the bowle full

With gentle Lamb's Wool; ,
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger

With store of ale too :

And thus ye must doe
To make the Wassaile a swinger.

> The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to each baying bis
cup. When the steward came to the doore with the Wassel. he was to cry
^'^^e times. WasSci, Wassei, Wasstil, and then the cbappeU (cnaplein) was to
wer with a 90ikg** — Archceologla,

224

The Sketch-Book.

emblem of Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed
rather coyly by the ladies. When it reached Master Simon,
he raised it in both hands, and with the air of a boon com-
panion struck up an old Wassail chanson.

The brown bowle,

The merry brown bowle,

As it goes round about-a,

Fill

Still,
Let the world say what it will,
And drink your fill all out-a.

The deep canne,

The merry deep canne.

As thou dost freely quaff-a,

Sing

Fling,
Be as merry as a king,
And sound a lusty laugh-a. ^

Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon
family topics, to which I was a stranger. There was, how-
ever, a great deal of rallying of Master Simon about some
gay widow, with whom he was accused of having a flirta-
tion. This attack was commenced by the ladies ; but it was
continued throughout the dinner by the fat-headed old gen-
tleman next the parson, with the persevering assiduity of a
slow hound ; being one of those long-winded jokers, who,
though rather dull at starting game, are unrivalled for their
talents in hunting it down. At every pause in the general
conversation, he renewed his bantering in pretty much the
same terms ; winking hard at me with both eyes, whenever
he j;ave Master Simon what he considered a home thrust.
The latter, indeed, seemed fond of being teased on the sub-
ject, as old bachelors are apt to be ; and he took occasion to
inform me, in an undertone, that the lady in question was
a prodigiously fine woman, and drove her own curricle.

The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent
hilarity, and, though the old hall may have resounded in its
time with many a scene of broader rout and revel, yet I

*"i

From Poor Robin* 8 Almanae,

f^Jn ('jii'',stn,ii.<> I>ii,n<r. 22

ZZ')

<ioubt whether it ever witnessed more honest and genuine

-^enjoyment. How easy it is for one benevolent being to

v^ifEuse pleasure around him ; and how truly is a kind heart

wLwk fountain of gladness, making everything in its vicinity to

K£resben into smiles I The joyous disposition of the worthy

^squire was perfectly contagious; he was happy himself, and

dsposed to make all the world happy ; and the little eccen-

t ^ricitics of his humor did but season, in a manner, the

^ sweetness of his philanthropy.

I When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual,
\ became still more animated ; many good things were
broached which had been thought of during dinner, but
4i which would not exactly do for a lady's ear; and though
I cannot positively affirm that there was much wit uttered,
A yet I have certainly heard many contests of rare wit pro-
duce much less laughter. Wit, after all, is a mighty tart,
f. pungent ingredient, and much too acjjid for some stomachs ;
but honest good humor is the oil and wine of a merry
meeting, and there is no jovial companionship equal to
4 that where the jokes are rather small, and the laughter
\ abundant.

1 The squire told several long stories of early college
J pranks and adventures, in some of which the parson had
I been a sharer ; though in looking at the latter, it required
some eiTort of imagination to figure such a little dark anat-
omy of a man into the perpetrator of a madcap gambol.
Indeed, the two college chums presented pictures of what
men may be made by their different lots in life. The
squire had left the university to live lustily on his paternal
domains, in the vigorous enjoyment of prosperity and sun-
shine, and had flourished on to a hearty and florid old age;
whilst the poor parson, on the contrary, had dried and with-
ered away, among dusty tomes, in the silence and shadows
of his study. Still, there seemed to be a spark of almost
extinguished fire, feebly glimmering in the bottom of his
1^ soul ; and as the squire hinted at a sly story of the parson
^^nd a pretty milkmaid, whom they once met on the banks
k \t the Isis, the old gentleman made an " alphabet of faces,"
\hich, as far as I could discipher his physiognomy, I verily

226 The Sketch-Booh.

believe was indicative of laughter ; — indeed, I have rarely
met with an old gentleman that took absolute offence at
the imputed gallantries of his youth.

I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the
dry land of sober judgment. The company grew merrier
and louder as their jokes grew duller. Master Simon was \
in as chirping a humor as a grasshopper filled with dew ;
his old songs grew of a warmer complexion, and he began
to talk maudlin about the widow. He even gave a long
song about the wooing of a widow, which he informed me
he had gathered from an excellent black-letter work, en-
titled Cupid* 8 Solicitor for Love^ containing store of good
advice for bachelors, and which he promised to lend me :
the first verse was to this effect :

He that will woo a widow must not dally,
He must make hay while the sun doth shine;

He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I,
But boldly say Widow, thou must be mine.

This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who
made several attempts to tell a rather broad story out of
Joe Miller, that was pat to the purpose ; but he always
stuck in the middle, everybody recollecting the latter part
excepting himself. The parson, too, began to show the
effects of good cheer, having gradually settled down into
a doze, and his wig sitting most suspiciously on one side.
Just at this juncture we were summoned to the drawing-
room, and, I suspect, at the private instigation of mine
host, whose joviality seemed always tempered with a proper
love of decorum.

After the dinner table was removed, the hall was given
up to the younger members of the family, who, prompted
to all kind of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master
Simon, made its old walls ring with their merriment, as
they played at romping games. I delight in witnessing
the gambols of children, and particularly at this happy
holiday season, and could not help stealing out of the
drawing-room on hearing one of their peals of laughter.
1 found them at the game of blind-man's-buff. Master

The Christmas Dirm&r. 227

Simon, who was the leader of their revels, and seemed on
all occasions to fulfil the office of that ancient potentate,
the Lord of Misrule,^ was blinded in the midst of the hall.
The little beings wer" as busy about him as the mock
fairies about FalstafF; \ nching him, plucking at the skirts
of his coat, and tickling "^m with straws. One fine blue-
eyed girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen hair all in beau-
tiful confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her frock half
torn off her shoulders, a complete picture of a romp, was
the chief tormentor; and from the slyness with which Mas-
ter Simon avoided the smaller game, and hemmed this wild
little nymph in corners, and obliged her to jump shrieking
over chairs, I suspected the rogue of being not a whit more
blinded than was convenient.

When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the com-
pany seated round the fire, listening to the parson, who
was deeply ensconced in a high-backed oaken chair, the
work of some cunning artificer of yore, which had been
brought from the library for his particular accommodation.
From this venerable piece of furniture, with which his
shadowy figure and dark weazen face so admirably ac-
corded, he was dealing out strange accounts of the popu-
lar superstitions and legends of the surrounding country,
with which he had become acquainted in the course of his
antiquarian researches. I am half inclined to think that
the old gentleman was himself somewhat tinctured with
superstition, as men are very apt to be who live a recluse
and studious life in a sequestered part of the country, and
pore over black-letter tracts, so often filled with the mar-
vellous and supernatural. He gave us several anecdotes of
the fancies of the neighboring peasantry, concerning the
eflfigy of the crusader, which lay on the tomb by the church
altar. As it was the only monument of the kind in that
part of the country, it had always been regarded with feel-
ings of superstition by the good wives of the village. It
was said to get up from the tomb and walk the rounds of

1 At Christroasse there waR in the Kinp:e'8 house, wheresoeyer hee was
lodged, a lorde of iniAnile, or mavster of ineric disportes, and the like had ye
in tne hon»e of every nobleman of honor, orgoodwor«tLi^V^>^^Tft\i^^^\^^:Qaki^
or temporall.— Btowe.

228 The Sketch-Book.

the churchyard in stormy nights, particularly when it
thundered ; and one old woman, whose cottage bordered on
the churchyard, had seen it through the windows of the
church, when the moon shone, slowly pacing up and down
the aisles. It was the belief that some wrong had been
left unredressed by the deceased, or some treasure hidden,
which kept the spirit in a state of trouble and restlessness.
Some talked of gold and jewels buried in the tomb, over
which the spectre kept watch; and there was a story
current of a sexton in old times, who endeavored to
break his way to the coffin at night, but, just as he
reached it, received a violent blow from the marble hand
of the effigy, which stretched him senseless on the pave-
ment. These tales were often laughed at by some of the
sturdier among the rustics, yet, when night came on,
there were many of the stoutest unbelievers that' were
shy of venturing alone in the footpath that led across the
churchyard.

From these and other anecdotes that followed, the cru-
sader appeared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories
throughout the vicinity. His picture, which hung up in
the hall, was thought by the servants to have something
supernatural about it ; for they remarked that, in whatever
part of the hall you went, the eyes of the warrior were still
fixed on you. The old porter's wife, too, at the lodge, who
had been bom and brought up in the family, and was a
great gossip among the maid servants, affirmed, that in her
young days she had often heard say, that on Midsummer
evo, when it was well known all kinds of ghosts, goblins,
and fairies become visible and walk abroad, the crusader
used to mount his horse, come down from his picture, ride
about the house, down the avenue, and so to the church to
visit the tomb; on which occasion the church door most civ-
illy swung open of itself; not that he needed it; for he rode
through closed gates and even stone walls, and had been
seen by one of the dairymaids to pass between two bars of
the great park gate, making himself as thin as a sheet of
paper.

All these superstitions I found had been very much

TJiC Christmas Dinner, 229

countenanced by the squire, who, though not supersti-
tious himself, was very fond of seeing others so. He lis-
tened to every goblin tale of the neighboring gossips
with infinite gravity, and held the porter's wife in high
favor on account of her talent for the marvellous. He was
himself a great reader of old legends and romances, and
often lamented that he could not believe in them ; for a
superstitious person, he thought, must live in a kind of fairy
land.

Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, our
ears were suddenly assailed by a burst of heterogeneous
sounds from the hall, in which were mingled something
like the clang of rude minstrelsy, with the uproar of many
small voices and girlish laughter. The door suddenly flew
open, and a train came trooping into the room, that might
almost have been mistaken for the breaking up of the court
of Faii'y. That indefatigable spirit. Master Simon, in the
faithful discharge of his duties as lord of misrule, had con-
ceived the idea of a Christmas mummery or masking ; and
having called in to his assistance the Oxonian and the
young oflicer, who were equally ripe for anything that
should occasion romping and merriment, they had carried
it into instant effect. The old housekeeper had been con-
sulted; the antique clothes-presses and wardrobes rum-
maged, and made to yield up the relics of finery that had
not seen the light for several generations; the younger
part of the company had been privately convened from the
parlor and hall, and the whole had been bedizened out, into
a burlesque imitation of an antique mask.^

Master Simon led the van, as Ancient C%m<77ia«, quaintly
apparelled in a ruff, a short cloak, which had very much
the aspect of one of the old housekeeper's petticoats,
and a hat that might have served for a village steeple, and
must indubitably have figured in the days of the Covenant-
ers. From under this his nose curved boldly forth, flushed

1 Maskines or mummeries were favorite sports at Christmas in old times ;
and the wardrobes at halls and manor-houses were often laid under contribu-
tion to furnish dr::sse8 and fantastic disfiruisings. I stronglv suspect
Master Simon to have taken the idea of his from Ben Jonson's Masque ctf
Christmas.

.^■•1

230 TJie SketchrBook.

with a frost-bitten bloom, that seemed the very trophy of a
December blast. He was accompanied by the blue-eyed
romp, dished up as Dame Mince JPie^ in the venerable
magnificence of a faded brocade, long stomacher, peaked
hat and high-heeled shoes. The young officer appeared as
liobin Jloodj in a sporting dress of Kendal green, and a
foraging cap with a gold tassel.

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep
research, and there was an evident eye to the picturesque,
natural to a young gallant in the presence of his mistress.
The fair Julia hung on his arm in a pretty rustic dress, as
Maid Mariati. The rest of the train had been metamor-
phosed in various ways ; the girls trussed up in the finery
of the ancient belles of the Bracebridge line, and the strip-
lings bewhiskered with burnt cork, and gravely clad in broad
skirts, hanging sleeves, and full-bottomed wigs, to represent
the character of Moast Beefy Plum Pudding^ and other
worthies celebrated in ancient maskings. The whole was
under the control of the Oxonian, in the appropriate char-
acter of Misrule; and I observed that he exercised rather
a mischievous sway with his wand over the smaller person-
ages of the pageant.

The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum,
according to ancient custom, was the consummation of up-
roar and merriment. Master Simon covered himself with
glory by the stateliness with which, as Ancient Christmas^
he walked a minuet with the peerless, though giggling.
Dame Mince Pie. It was followed by a dance of all the
characters, which, from its medley of costumes, seemed as
though the old family portraits had skipped down from
their frames to join in the sport. Different centuries were
figuring at cross hands and right and left; the dark ages
were cutting pirouettes and rigadoons; and the days of
Queen Bess jigging merrily down the middle, through a
line of succeeding generations.

The worthy squire contemplated these fantastic sports,
and this resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple
relish of childish delight. He stood chuckling and rubbinj
his hands, and scarcely hearing a word the parson said, not

The Christmas Dinner. 231

withstanding that the latter was discoursing most authen-
tically on the ancient and stately dance of the Pavon, or
peacock, from which he conceived the minuet to be derived.*
For my part, I was in a continual excitement from the
varied scenes of whim and innocent gayety passing before
me. It was inspiring to see wild-eyed frolic and warm-
hearted hospitality breaking out from among the chills and
glooms of winter, and old age throwing off his apathy, and
catching once more the freshness of youthful enjoyment.
I felt also an interest in the scene, from the consideration
that these fleeting customs were posting fast into oblivion,
and that this was, perhaps, the only family in England in
which the whole of them was still punctiliously observed.
There was a quaintness, too, mingled with all this revelry,
that gave it a peculiar zest : it was suited to the time and
place ; and as the old manor-house almost reeled with mirth
and wassail, it seemed echoing back the joviality of long
departed years.^

But enough of Christmas and its gambols ; it is time for
me to pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the questions
asked by my graver readers, " To what purpose is all this —
how is the world to be made wiser by this talk?" Alas!
is there not wisdom enough extant for the instruction of the
world ? And if not, are there not thousands of abler pens
laboring for its improvement ? — It is so much pleasanter
to please than ik> instruct — to play the companion rather
than the preceptor.

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw
into the mass of knowledge ; or how am I sure that my
sagest deductions may be safe guides for the opinions of

1 Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon, from pavo^ a
peacock, says, " It is a f^rave and majestic dance; the method of dancing it
anciently was bv gentlemen dressed with caps and swords, by those of the
long robe in their gowns, by the peers in their mantles, and by the ladies in
gowns and long trains, the motion whereof, in dancing, resemoled that of a
peacock." — History of Music.

* At the time of the first publication of this paper, the picture of an old-
fashioned Christmas in the country was pronounced by some as out of date.
The author had afterwards an opportunity of witnessing almost all the cus-
toms above described, existing in unexpected vigor in the skirts of Derbyshire
and Yorkshire, where he passed the Christmas holidays. The reader will find
some notice of them in the author's account of his sojourn at Newstead Abbey.

232

The Sketch-Book.

others ? But in writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil
is in my own disappointment. If, however, I can by any
lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle
from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart of one
moment of sorrow ; if I can now and then penetrate through
the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent
view of human nature, and make my reader more in good
humor with his fellow beings and himself, surely, surely, I
shall not then have written entirely in vain.

LONDON ANTIQUES.

I do walk
Methinks like Guido Vaux, with my dark lanthom,
Stealing to set the town o'lire; i' th* country
I should be taken for William o' the Wisp,
Or Robin Goodfellow.

Fletcheb.

I AM somewhat of an antiquity hunter, and am fond
of exploring London in quest of the relics of old times.
These are principally to be found in the depths of the city,
swallowed up and almost lost in a wilderness of brick
and mortar ; but deriving poetical and romantic interest
from the commonplace prosaic world around them. I was
struck with an instance of the kind in the course of a
recent summer ramble into the city ; for the city is only
to be explored to advantage in summer-time, when free
from the smoke and fog, and rain and mud of winter. I
had been buffeting for some time against the current of
population setting through Fleet-street. The warm weather
had unstrung my nerves, and made me sensitive to every
jar and jostle and discordant sound. The flesh was weary,
the spirit faint, and I was getting out of humor with the
bustling busy throng through which I had to struggle, when
in a fit of desperation I tore my way through the crowd,
plunged into a by-lane, and after passing through several
obscure nooks and angles, emerged into a quaint and quiet
court with a grassplot in the centre, overhung by elms, and
kept perpetually fresh and green by a fountain with its
sparkling jet of water. A student with book in hand was
seated on a stone bench, partly reading, partly meditating
on the movements of two or three trim nursery maids with
their infant charges.

I was like an Arab, who had suddenly <*.^\sy^ xi^^<3^ ^ac*^

7a&

234 The Sketch-Book.

oasis amid the paDting sterility of the desert. By degrees
the quiet and coolness of the place soothed my nerves and
refreshed my spirit. I pursued my walk, and came, hard
by, to a very ancient chapel, with a low-browed Saxon
portal of massive and rich architecture. The interior was
circular and lofty, and lighted from above. Around were
monumental tombs of ancient date, on which were extended
the marble effigies of warriors in armor. Some had the
hands devoutly crossed upon the breast; others grasped
the pommel of the sword, menacing hostility even in the
tomb ! — while the crossed legs of several indicated soldiers
of the Faith who had been on crusades to the Holy Land.

I was, in fact, in the chapel of the Knights Templars,
strangely situated in the very centre of sordid traffic; and
I do not know a more impressive lesson for the man of the
world than thus suddenly to turn aside from the highway
of busy money-seeking life, and sit down among "these
shadowy sepulchres, where all is twilight, dust, and for-
getfulncss.

In a subsequent tour of observation, I encountered another
of these relics of a " foregone world " locked up in the heart
of the city. I had been wandering for some time through
dull monotonous streets, destitute of anything to strike the *
eye or excite the imagination, when I beheld before me a I
Gothic gateway of mouldering antiquity. It opened into
a spacious quadrangle forming the courtyard of a stately
Gothic pile, the portal of which stood invitingly open.

It was apparently a public edifice, and as I was antiquity
hunting, I ventured in, though with dubious steps. Meeting
no one either to oppose or rebuke my intrusion, I continued
on until I found myself in a great hall, with a lofty arched
roof and oaken gallery, all of Gothic architecture. At one
end of the hall was an enormous fireplace, with wooden
settles on each side ; at the other end was a raised platform,
or dais, the seat of state, above which was the portrait of
a man in antique garb, with a long robe, a ruff, and a
venerable gray beard.

The whole establishment had an air of monastic quiet
Mnd irecluaioDy and what gave it a mysterious charm, was,

London Antiques. 235

that I had not met with a human being since I had passed
the threshold.

Encouraged by this loneliness, I seated myself in a recess
of a large bow window, which admitted a broad flood of
yellow sunshine, checkered here and there by tints from
panes of colored glass ; while an open casement let in the
soft summer air. Here, leaning my head on my hand, and
my arm on an old oaken table, I indulged in a sort of
reverie about what might have been the ancient uses of this
edifice. It had evidently been of monastic origin ; perhaps
one of those collegiate establishments built of yore for
the promotion of learning, where the patient monk, in the
ample solitude of the cloister, added page to page and
volume to volume, emulating in the productions of his brain
the magnitude of the pile he inhabited.

As I was seated in this musing mood, a small panelled
door in an arch at the upper end of the hall was opened,
and a number of gray-headed old men, clad in long black
cloaks, came forth one by one; proceeding in that manner
through the hall, without uttering a word, each turning a
pale face on me as he passed, and disappearing through
a door at the lower end.

I was singularly struck with their appearance ; their black
' cloaks and antiquated air comported with the style of this
most venerable and mysterious pile. It was as if the ghosts
of the departed years, about which I had been musing, were
passing in review before me. Pleasing myself with such
fancies, I set out, in the spirit of romance, to explore what
I pictured to myself a realm of shadows, existing in the
very centre of substantial realities.

My ramble led me through a labyrinth of interior courts,
and corridors, and dilapidated cloisters, for the main edifice
had many additions and dependencies, built at various times
and in various styles ; in one open space a number of boys,
who evidently belonged to the establishment, were at their
sports; but everywhere I observed those mysterious old
gray men in black mantels, sometimes sauntering alone,
sometimes conversing in groups : they appeared to be the
pervading genii of the place. I now called to mind what I

236 Ths Sketch-Book.

had read of certain colleges in old times, where jadicial
astrology, geomancy, necromancy, and other forbidden and
magical sciences were taught. Was this an establishment
of the kind, and were these black-cloaked old men really
professors of the black art?

These surmises were passing through my mind as my eye
glanced into a chamber, hung round with all kinds of
strange and uncouth objects ; implements of savage war-
fare ; strange idols and stuffed alligators ; bottled serpents
and monsters decorated the mantel-piece ; while on the high
tester of an old-fashioned bedstead grinned a human skull,
flanked on each side by a dried cat.

I approached to regard more narrowly this mystic cham-
ber, which seemed a fitting laboratory for a necromancer,
when I was startled at beholding a human countenance
staring at me from a dusky corner. It was that of a small,
shrivelled old man, with thin cheeks, bright eyes, and gray,
wiry projecting eyebrows. I at first doubted whether it
were not a mummy curiously preserved, but it moved, and
I saw that it was alive. It was another of these black-
cloaked old men, and, as I regarded his quaint physiognomy,
his obsolete garb, and the hideous and sinister objects by
which he was surrounded, I began to persuade myself that
I had come upon the arch mago, who ruled over this mag-
ical fraternity.

Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose and invited
me to enter. I obeyed, with singular hardihood, for how
did I know whether a wave of his wand might not meta-
morphose me into some strange monster, or conjure me into
one of the bottles on his mantel-piece? He proved, however,
to be anything but a conjurer, and his simple garrulity soon
dispelled all the magic and mystery with which I had en-
veloped this antiquated pile and its no less antiquated
inhabitants.

It appeared that I had made my way into the centre
of an ancient asylum for superannuated tradesmen and de-
cayed householders, with which was connected a school for
a limited number of boys. It was founded upwards of two
centuries since on an old monastic establishment, and re-

London Antiq^ies. 237

tained somewhat of the conventual air and character. The
shadowy line of old men in black mantles who had passed
before me in the hall, and whom I had elevated into magi,
tarned out to be the pensioners returning from morning
service in the chapel.

John Hallum, the little collector of curiosities, whom
I had made the arch magician, had been for six years a
resident of the place, and had decorated this final nestling-
place of his old age with relics and rarities picked up in the
course of his life. According to his own account he had
been somewhat of a traveller ; having been once in France,
and very near making a visit to Holland. He regretted not
having visited the latter country, " as then he might have
said he had been there." — He was evidently a traveller of
the simplest kind.

He was aristocratical too in his notions ; keeping aloof,
as I found, from the ordinary run of pensioners. His chief
associates were a blind man who spoke Latin and Greek,
of both which languages Hallum was profoundly ignorant ;
and a broken-down gentleman who had run through a for-
tune of forty thousand pounds left him by his father, and
ten thousand pounds, the marriage portion of his wife.
Little Hallum seemed to consider it an indubitable sign of
gentle blood as well as of lofty spirit to be able to squander
such enormous sums.

P. S. The picturesque remnant of old times into which
I have thus beguiled the reader is what is called the Charter
House, originally the Chartreuse. It was founded in 1611,
on the remains of an ancient convent, by Sir Thomas Sutton,
being one of those noble charities set on foot by individual
munificence, and kept up with the quaintness and sanctity
of ancient times amidst the modern changes and innovations
of London. Here eighty broken-down men, who have seen
better days, are provided, in their old age, with food, cloth-
ing, fuel, and a yearly allowance for private expenses.
They dine together as did the monks of old, in the hall
which had been the refectory of the original convent. At-
tached to the establishment is a school for to^t^-lQ>ox\i<5{^,

288 T?ie SketchrBook.

Stowe, whose work I have consulted on the subject, speak-
ing of the obligations of the gray-headed pensioners, says,
" They are not to intermeddle with any business touching
the affairs of the hospital, but to attend only to the service
of God, and take thankfully what is provided for them,
without muttering, murmuring, or grudging. None to wear
weapon, long hair, colored boots, spurs or colored shoes,
feathers in their hats, or any ruffian-like or unseemly
apparel, but such as becomes hospital men to wear.** « And
in truth," adds Stowe, "happy are they that are so taken
from the cares and sorrows of the world, and fixed in so
good a place as these old men are ; having nothing to care
for, but the good of their souls, to serve God and to live in
brotherly love."

For the amusement of such as have been interested by
the preceding sketch, taken down from my own observation,
and who may wish to know a little more about the mysteries
of London, I subjoin a modicum of local history, put into
my hands by an odd-looking old gentleman in a small brown
wig and snuff-colored coat, with whom I became ac-
quainted shortly after my visit to the Charter House. I
confess I was a little dubious at first, whether it was not
one of those apocryphal tales often passed off upon inquir-
ing travellers like myself ; and which have brought our
general character for veracity into such unmerited reproach.
On making proper inquiries, however, I have received the
most satisfactory assurances of the author's probity; and,
indeed, have been told that he is actually engaged in a full
and particular account of the very interesting region in
which he resides ; of which the following may be con-
sidered merely as a foretaste.

LITTLE BRITAIN,

Wbat I write is most true ... I have a whole booke of cases
lying by me which if I should sette foorth, some grave auntients
(within the hearing of Bow bell) would be out of charity wiUi
me.

Nashs.

In the centre of the great city of London lies a small
neighborhood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and
courts, of very venerable and debilitated houses, which goes
by the name of Little Britain. Christ Church School
and St. Bartholomew's Hospital bound it on the west ;
Smithfield and Long Lane on the north; Aldersgate-street,
like an arm of the sea, divides it from the eastern part of
the city; whilst the yawning gulf of BuU-and-Mouth Street
separates it from Butcher Lane, and the tegions of New-
gate. Over this little territory, thus bounded and desig-
nated, the great dome of St. Paul's, swelling above the
intervening houses of Paternoster Row, Amen Corner, and
Ave Maria Lane, looks down with an air of motherly pro-
tection.

This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in
ancient times the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As
London increased, however, rank and fashion rolled off to
the west, and trade creeping on at their heels, took posses-
sion of their deserted abodes. For some time Little Britain
becanae the great mart of learning, and was peopled by the
busy and prolific race of booksellers ; these also gradually
deserted it, and, emigrating beyond the great strait of New-
gate-street, settled down in Paternoster Row and St. Paul's
Churchyard, where they continue to increase and multiply
even at the present day.

But though thus fallen into decline. Little Britain still
bears traces of its former spleudot. TYi^x^ ^\^ ^^-s^^^'ais.

240 The Sketch- Book.

houses ready to tumble down, the fronts of which are
magnificently enriched with old oaken carvings of hideous
faces, unknown birds, beasts, and fishes: and fruits and
flowers which it would perplex a naturalist to classify.
There are also, in Aldersgate-street, certain remains of
what were once spacious and lordly family mansions, but
which have in latter days been subdivided into several
tenements. Here may often be found the family of a petty
tradesman, with its trumpery furniture, burrowing among
the relics of antiquated finery, in great rambling time-
stained apartments, with fretted ceilings, gilded cornices,
and enormous marble fireplaces. The lanes and courts also
contain many smaller houses, not on so grand a scale, but,
like your small ancient gentry, sturdily maintaining their
claims to equal antiquity. These have their gable ends to
the street; great bow windows, with diamond panes set in
lead, grotesque carvings, and low arched doorways.*

In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I
passed several quiet years of existence, comfortably lodged
in the second floor of one of the smallest but oldest edifices.
My sitting-room is an old wainscoted chamber, with small
panels, and set off with a miscellaneous array of furniture.
I have a particular respect for three or four high-backed
claw- footed chairs, covered with tarnished brocade, which
bear the marks of having seen better days, and have doubt-
less figured in some of the old palaces of Little Britain.
They seem to me to keep together, and to look down with
sovereign contempt upon their leathern -bottomed neighbors;
as I have seen decayed gentry carry a high head among the
plebeian society with which they were reduced to associate.
The whole front of my sitling-room is taken up with a bow
window; on the panes of which are recorded the names
of previous occupants for many generations, mingled with
scraps of very indifferent gentlemanlike poetry, written in
characters which I can scarcely decipher, and which extol
the charms of many a beauty of Little Britain, who has

^ It is evident that the author of this interesting: oomnumication has in-
doded, in his general title of Little Hritain, many of those little lanes and
CbA^ tolODg immediately to CloiVi iTaix.

Xfittle Britain, 241

long, loDg since bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I am
an idle personage, with no apparent occupation, and pay my
bill regularly every week, I am looked upon as the only in-
dependent gentleman of the neighborhood ; and, being curi-
ous to learn the internal state of a community so apparently
shut up within itself, I have managed to work my way into
all the concerns and secrets of the place.

Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of
the city; the stronghold of true John Bullism. It is a
fragment of London as it was in its better days, with its
antiquated folks and fashions. Here flourish in great pres-
ervation many of the holiday games and customs of yore.
The inhabitants most religiously eat pancakes on Shrove
Tuesday, hot-cross-buns on Good Friday, and roast goose
at Michaelmas; they send love-letters on Valentine's Day,
burn the pope on the fifth of November, and kiss all the
girls under the mistletoe at Christmas. Roast beef and
plum pudding are also held in superstitious veneration, and
port and sherry maintain their grounds as the only true
English wines ; all others being considered vile outlandish
beverages.

Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders,
which its inhabitants consider the wonders of the world ;
such as the great bell of St. Paul's, which sours all the
beer when it tolls ; the figures that strike the hours at St.
Dunstan's clock ; the Monument ; the lions in the Tower ;
and the wooden giants in Guildhall. They still believe in
dreams and fortune-telling, and an old woman that lives in
Bull-and-Mouth Street makes a tolerable subsistence by de-
tecting stolen goods, and promising the girls good husbands.
They are apt to be rendered uncomfortable by comets and
eclipses ; and if a dog howls dolefully at night, it is looked
upon as a sure sign of a death in the place. There are
even many ghost stories current, particularly concerning
the old mansion-houses; in several of which it is said
strange sights are sometimes seen. Lords and ladies, the
former in full-bottomed wigs, hanging sleeves, and swords,
the latter in lappets, stays, hoops, and brocade, have been
seen walking up and down the great waste chambers, on

242 The Sketch-Book.

moonlight nights; and are supposed to be the shades of
the ancient proprietors in their court-dresses.

Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. One
of the most important of the former is a tall, dry old gen-
tleman, of the name of Skryme, who keeps a small apothe-
cary's shop. He has a cadaverous countenance, full of
cavities and projections; with a brown circle round each
eye, like a pair of horn spectacles. He is much thought of
by the old women, who consider him as a kind of conjurer,
because he has two or three stuffed alligators hanging up
in his sliop, and several snakes in bottles. He is a great
reader of almanacs and newspapers, and is much given to
pore over alarming accounts of plots, conspiracies, fires,
earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions; which last phenomena
he considers as signs of the times. He has always some dis-
mal tale of the kind to deal out to his customers, with their
doses ; and thus at the same time puts both soul and body
into an uproar. He is a great believer in omens and pre-
dictions; and has the prophecies of Robert Nixon and
Mother Shipton by heart. No man can make so much out
of an eclipse, or even an unusually dark day ; and he shook
the tiiil of the last comet over the heads of his customers
and disciples until they were nearly frightened out of their
wits. He has lately got hold of a popular legend or proph-
ecy, on which he has been unusually eloquent. There has
been a saying current among the ancient sibyls, who treas-
ure up these things, that when the grasshopper on the top
of the Exchange shook hands with the dragon on the top
of Bow Church steeple, fearful events would take place.
This strange conjunction, it seems, has as strangely come to
pass. The same architect has been engaged lately on the
rei)air8 of the cupola of the Exchange, and the steeple of
Bow Church ; and fearful to relate, the dragon and the
grasshopper actually lie, cheek by jole, in the yard of his
workshop.

" Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, " may go
star-sazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but
here is a conjunction on the earth, near at home, and under
omowa eyes, which surpasses all the signs and calculations

Little Britain, 243

of astrologers." Since these portentous weatber-cocks have
thus laid their heads together, wonderful events had already
occurred. The good old king, notwithstanding that he had
lived eighty-two years, had all at once given up the ghost ;
another king had mounted the throne ; a royal duke had
died suddenly — another, in France, had been murdered;
there had been radical meetings in all parts of the king-
dom; the bloody scenes at Manchester; the great plot
in Cato Street ; — and, above all, the queen had returned to
England ! All these sinister events are recorded by Mr.
Skryme, with a mysterious look, and a dismal shake of the
head ; and being taken with his drugs, and associated in
the minds of his auditors with stuffed sea-monsters, bottled
serpents, and his own visage, which is a title-page of tribu-
lation, they have spread great gloom through the minds
of the people of Little Britain. They shake their heads
whenever they go by Bow Church, and observe, that they
never expected any good to come of taking down that
steeple, which in old times told nothing but glad tidings,
as the history of Whittington and his Cat bears witness.

The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheese-
monger, who lives in a fragment of one of the old family
mansions, and is as magnificently lodged as a round-bellied
mite in the midst of one of his own Cheshires. Indeed he
is a man of no little standing and importance ; and his
renown extends through Iluggm Lane, and Lad Lane, and
even unto Aldermanbury. His opinion is very much taken
in affairs of state, having read the Sunday papers for the
last half century, together with the Gentleman^s Magazi7}e^
Rapin's History of England^ and the Naval Chronicle,
His head is stored with invaluable maxims which have
borne the test of time and use for centuries. It is his firm
opinion that " it is a moral impossible," so long as England
is true to herself, that anything can shake her ; and he has
much to say on the subject of national debt; which,
somehow or other, he proves to be a great national bulwark
and blessing. lie passed the greater part of his life in the
purlieus of Little Britain, until of late years, when, having
become rich, and grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane,

244 The Sketch^Book.

he begins to take his pleasare and see the world. He has
therefore made several excursions to Hai ipstead, Highgate,
and other neighboring towns, where he has passed whole
afternoons in looking back upon the metropolis through
a telescope, and endeavoring to descry the steeple of St.
Bartholomew's. Not a stage-coachman of BuU-and-Mouth
Street but touches his hat as he passes ; and he is consid-
ered quite a patron at the coach-office of the Ooose and
Gridiron^ St. Paul's Churchyard. His family have been
very urgent for him to make an expedition to Margate, but
he has great doubts of those new gimcracks, the steamboats,
and indeed thinks himself too advanced in life to under-
take sea- voyages.

Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions,
and party spirit ran very high at one time in consequence
of two rival Burial Societies being set up in the place.
One held its meeting at the jStcan and Horse Shx>e^ and was
patronized by the cheesemonger ; the other at the Cock a?id
Croion^ under the auspices of the apothecary : it is needless
to say that the latter was the most flourishing. I have
passed an evening or two at each, and have acquired much
valuable information, as to the best mode of being buried,
the comparative merits of churchyards, together with divers
hints on the subject of patent-iron coffins. I have heard
the question discussed in all its bearings as to the legality
of prohibiting the latter on account of their durability.
The feuds occasioned by these societies have happily died
of late ; but they were for a long time prevailing themes of
controversy, the people of Little Britain being extremely
solicitous of funereal honors and of lying comfortably in
their graves.

Besides these two funeral societies there is a third of
quite a different caste, which tends to throw the sunshine
of good-humor over the whole neighborhood. It meets
once a week at a little old-fashioned house, kept by a jolly
publican of the name of Wagstaff, and bearing for insignia
a resplendent half -moon, with a most seductive bunch of
grapes. The old edifice is covered with inscriptions to
catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer ; such as ^' Truman,

Little Britain. 245

Hanbury, and Co.'s Entire," " Wine, Rum, and Brandy
Vaults," " Old T^m; Rum and Compounds, etc." This
indeed has been a temple of Bacchus and Momus from
time immemorial. It has always been in the family of the
Wagstaffs, so that its history is tolerably preserved by the
present landlord. It was much frequented by the gallants
and cavalieros of the reign of Elizabeth, and was looked
into now and then by the wits of Charles the Second's day.
But what Wagstaff principally prides himself upon is, that
Henry the Eighth, in one of his nocturnal rambles, broke
the head of one of his ancestors with his famous walking-
staff. This however is considered as rather a dubious and
vainglorious boast of the landlord.

The club which now holds its weekly sessions here goes
by the name of The Boariiig Lads of Little Britain,
They abound in old catches, glees, and choice stories, that
are traditional in the place, and not to be met with in any
other part of the metropolis. There is a mad-cap under-
taker who is inimitable at a merry song ; but the life of the
club, and indeed the prime wit of Little Britain, is bully
Wagstaff himself. His ancestors were all wags before
him, and he has inherited with the inn a large stock of
songs and jokes, which go with it from generation to gen-
eration as heir-looms. He is a dapper little fellow, with
bandy legs and pot belly, a red face, with a moist merry
eye, and a little shock of gray hair behind. At the open-
ing of every club night he is called in to sing his " Con-
fession of Faith," which is the famous old drinking trowl
from Gammer OurtorCa JSTeecUe, He sings it, to be sure, with
many variations, as he received it from his father's lips ;
for it has been a standing favorite at the Half-Moon and
Bunch of Grapes ever since it was written: nay, he affirms
that his predecessors have often had the honor of singing it
before the nobility and gentry at Christmas mummeries,
when Little Britain was in all its glory.*

1 Ab mine host of the Half-Mo(frCs ** Confession of Faith ** may not be
familiar to the majority of reauers, and as it is a siiecimen of the current
Bongs of Little Britain, I subjoin it in its original orthography. I would
observe, that the whole club always join in the chorus with a fearful thump-
ing on the table and clattering of pewter pots :

246

Th£ SketchrBook,

It would do one's heart good to hear, on a club night, the
shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, and now and
then the choral bursts of half a dozen discordant Yoices,
which issue from this jovial mansion. At such times the
street is lined with listeners, who enjoy a delight equal to
that of gazing into a confectioner's window, or snoMng up
the steams of a cook-shop.

There are two annual events which produce great stir and
sensation in Little Britain ; these are St. Bartholomew's
fair, and the Lord Mayor's day. During the time of the
fair, which is held in the adjoining regions of Smithfield, I
there is nothing going on but gossiping and gadding about. ^

Chorxis.

I cannot eate but lytle meate,

My stoinacke is not good,
But sure I thlnke, chat I can drinke

With him that weares a hood.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,

I nothing am a colde,
I stuff my skyn so full within,

Of joly good ale and olde.

Backe and syde go bare, go bare.
Booth footc and hand go colde.

But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe
Whether it be new or olde.

I have no rost, but a nut browne toste,

And a crab laid in the fyre ;
A little breade shall do me steade,

Much breade I not desyre.
No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe,

Can hurte mee, if I wolde,
I am so wra]>t and throwly lapt

Of joly good ale and olde.
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc.

And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe,

Loveth well good ale to seeke.
Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye mav see,

The teares run downe'her cheeke.
Then doth she trowle to me the bowle.

Even as a mault-worme sholde.
And sayth, sweeto harte, I took my parte

Of this ioly goo4l ale and olde.
Chorus. liacke and syde go bare, go bare, etc.

Now let them dr>'nke, tyll they nod and winke,

Even as goode fellowes sholde doe.
They shall not mysse to have the blissc.

Good ale doth bring men to ;
And all poore soules that have scowred bowles.

Or have them lustily trolde,
Ood save the ly ves of them and their wives,

Whether they be vonge or olde.
Chana. Backe and syde go baret go bare, etc.

Little BHtain. 247

The late quiet streets of Little Britain are overrun with an
irruption of strange figures and faces ; every tavern is a
scene of rout and revel. The liddle and the song are lieard
from the tap-room, morning, noon, and night; and at earli
window may be seen some group of boon companions, with
half -shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe in mouth, and tank-
ard in hand, fondling, and prosing, and singing maudlin
songs over their liquor. Even the sober decorum of pri-
vate families, which I must say is rigidly kept up at other
times among my neighbors, is no proof against this Satur-
nalia. There is no such thing as keepmg maid-servants
within doors. Their brains are absolutely set madding with
Punch and the Puppet Show; the Flying Horses; Signior
Polito; the Fire-Eater; the celebrated Mr. Paap; and the
Irish Giant. The children, too, lavish all their holiday
money in toys and gilt gingerbread, and fill the house with
the Lilliputian din of drums, trumpets, and penny whistles.
But the Lord Mayor's day is the great anniversary. The
Lord Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little
Britain as the greatest potentate upon earth ; his gilt coach
with six horses as the summit of human splendor ; and his
procession, with all the Sheriffs and Aldermen in his train,
as the grandest of earthly pageants. How they exult in the
idea, that the King himself dare not enter the city, without
first knocking at the gate of Temple Bar, and asking per-
mission of the Lord Mayor : for if he did, heaven and earth!
there is no knowing what might be the consequence. The
man in armor who rides before the Lord Mayor, and is
the city champion, has orders to cut down everybody that
offends against the dignity of the city; and then there is
the little man with a velvet porringer on his head, who sits
at tlie window of the state coach, and holds the city sword,
as long as a pike-staff — Od's blood! If he once draws
that sword. Majesty itself is not safe !

Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore,
the good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple
Bar is an effectual barrier against all interior foes ; and as
to foreign invasion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw him-
self into the Tower, call in the train bands, and put the

248 The Sketch-Book.

standing army of Beef-eaters under arms, and he may bid
defiance to the world !

Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, and
its own opinions, Little Britain has long flourished as a
sound heart to this great fungous metropolis. I have
pleased myself with considering it as a chosen spot, where
the principles of sturdy John BuUism were garnered up,
like seed corn, to renew the national character, when it had
run to waste and degeneracy. I have rejoiced also in the
general spirit of harmony that prevailed throughout it ; for
though there might now and then be a few clashes of opin-
ion between the adherents of the cheesemonger and the
apothecary, and an occasional feud between the burial soci-
eties, yet these were but transient clouds, and soon passed
away. The neighbors met with good- will, parted with a
shake of the hand, and never abused each other except
behind their backs.

I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties
at which I have been present; where we played at All-
Fours, Pope- Joan, Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice old
games; and where we sometimes had a good old English
country dance to the tune of Sir Roger de Coverley. Once a
yoar also the neighbors would gather together, and go on a
gy])sy party to Epping Forest. It would have done any
man's heart good to see the merriment that took place here
as we banqueted on the grass under the trees. How we
made the woods ring with bursts of laughter at the songs of
little Wagstaff and the merry undertaker ! After dinner,
too, the young folks would play at blind-man's-buff and
hide-and-seek; and it was amusing to see them tangled
among the briers, and to hear a fine romping girl now and
then squeak from among the bushes. The elder folks
would gather round the cheesemonger and the apothecary,
to hear them talk politics ; for they generally brought out a
newspaper in their pockets, to pass away time in the coun-
try. They would now and then, to be sure, get a little
warm in argument; but their disputes were always adjusted
by reference to a worthy old umbrella-maker in a double
min, who, never exactly comprehending the subject,

Zittk Britain. 249

managed somehow or other to decide in favor of both
parties.

All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian,
are doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and inno-
vation creep in ; factions arise ; and families now and then
spring np, whose ambition and intrigues throw the whole
system into confusion. Thus in latter days has the tran-
quility of Little Britain been grievously disturbed, and its
golden simplicity of manners threatened with total subver-
sion, by the aspiring family of a retired butcher.

The family of the Lambs had long been among the most
thriving and popular in the neighborhood : the Miss Lambs
were the belles of Little Britain, and everybody was pleased
when Old Lamb had made money enough to shut up shop,
and put his name on a brass plate on his door. In an evil
hour, however, one of the Miss Lambs had the honor of
being a lady in attendance on the Lady Mayoress, at her
grand annual ball, on which occasion she wore three tower-
ing ostrich feathers on her head. The family never got
over it ; they were immediately smitten with a passion for
high life ; set up a one-horse carriage, put a bit of gold lace
round the errand boy's hat, and have been the talk and
detestation of the whole neighborhood ever since. They
could no longer be induced to play at Pope- Joan or Blind-
man's-buff ; they could endure no dances but quadrilles,
which nobody had ever heard of in Little Britain; and
they took to reading novels, talking bad French, and play-
ing upon the piano. Their brother, too, who had been
articled to an attorney, set up for a dandy and a critic,
characters hitherto unknown in these parts : and he con-
founded the worthy folks exceedingly by talking about
Kean, the opera, and the Edinburgh Jieview.

What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to
which they neglected to invite any of their old neighbors ;
but they had a great deal of genteel company from Theo-
bald's Road, Red Lion Square, and other parts towards
the west. There were several beaux of their brother's
acquaintance from Gray's Inn Lane and Hatton Garden;
and not less than three Aldermen's ladies with their

250 The Sketch-Book.

daughters. This was not to be forgotten or forgiven.
All Little Britain was in an uproar with the smacking of
whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and the rattling and
the jingling of hackney coaches. The gossips of the
neighborhood might be seen popping their night-caps out
at every window, watching the crazy vehicles rumble by ;
and there was a knot of virulent old cronies, that kept a
look-out from a house just opposite the retired butcher's,
and scanned and criticised every one that knocked at the
door.

This dance was t^e cause of almost open war, and the
whole neighborhood declared they would have nothing
more to say to the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb,
when she had no engagements with her quality acquaint-
ance, would give little humdrum tea junketings to some of
her old cronies, " quite," as she would say, " in a friendly
way"; and it is equally true that her invitations were
always accepted, in spite of all previous vows to the con-
trary. Nay, the good ladies would sit and be delighted
with the music of the Miss Lambs, who would condescend
to strum an Irish melody for them on the piano; and they
would listen with wonderful interest to Mrs. Lamb's
anecdotes of Alderman Plunket's family, of Portsoken-
ward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses of
Crutched-Friars ; but then they relieved their consciences,
and averted the reproaches of their confederates, by can-
vassing at the next gossiping convocation everything that
had passed, and pulling the Lambs and their rout all to
pieces.

The only one of the family that could not be made fash-
ionable was the retired butcher himself. Honest Lamb, in
spite of the meekness of his name, was a rough, hearty old
fellow, with the voice of a lion, a bead of black hair like a
shoe brush, and a broad face mottled like his own beef. It
was in vain that the daughters always spoke of him as " the
-old gentleman," addressed him as "papa," in tones of infi-
nite softness, and endeavored to coax him' into a dressing-
sown and slippers, and other gentlemanly habits. Do what
itb^ m^bt) there was no keeping down the butcher. His

Ijittle Britain. 251

sturdy nature would break tlirough all their glozings. He
had a hearty vulgar good-humor that was irrepressible.
His very jokes made his sensitive daughters shudder; and
he persisted in wearing his blue cotton coat of a morning,
dining at two o'clock, and having a ^^bit of sausage with his
tea."

He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of
his family. He found his old comrades gradually growing
cold and civil to him ; no longer laughing at his jokes; and
now and then throwing out a fling at " some people," and a
hint about " quaUty binding." This both nettled and per-
plexed the honest butcher ; and his wife and daughters, with
the consummate policy of the shrewder sex, taking advan-
tage of the circumstance, at length prevailed upon him to
give up his afternoon's pipe and tankard at WagstafPs ; to
sit after dinner by himself, and take his pint of port — a
liquor he detested — and to nod in his chair in solitary and
dismal gentility.

The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along the
streets in French bonnets, with unknown beaux; and
talking and laughing so loud that it distressed the nerves
of every good lady within hearing. They even went so
far as to attempt patronage, and actually induced a
French dancing master to set up in the neighborhood;
but the worthy folks of Little Britain took lire at it, and
did so persecute the poor Gaul, that he was fain to pack
up fiddle and dancing-pumps, and decamp with such
precipitation, that he absolutely forgot to pay for his
lodgings.

I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this
fiery indignation on the part of the community was merely
the overflowing of -their zeal for good old English manners,
and their horror of innovation ; and I applauded the silent
contempt they were so vociferous in expressing, for up-
start pride, French fashions, and.the Miss Lambs. But I
grieve to say that I soon perceived the infection had taken
hold ; and that my neighbors, after condemning were be-
ginning to follow their example. I overheard my land-
lady importuning her husband to let their daughters have

252 The Sketch-Book.

one quarter at French and music, and that they might
take a few lessons in quadrille. I even saw, in the course
of a few Sundays, no less than live French bonnets, pre-
cisely like those of the Miss Lambs, parading about Little
Britain.

I still liad my hopes that all this folly would gradually
die away ; that the Lambs might move out of the neigh-
borhood; might die, or might run away with attorneys'
apprentices; and that quiet and simplicity might be again
restored to the community. But unluckily a rival power
arose. An opulent oilman died, and left a widow with a
large jointure and a family of buxom daughters. The
young ladies had long been repining in secret at the par-
simony of a prudent father, which kept down all their
elegant aspirings. Their ambition, being now no longer
restrained, broke out into a blaze, and they openly took
the field against the family of the butcher. It is true that
the Lambs, having had the first start, had naturally an
advantage of them in the fashionable career. They
could speak a little bad French, play the piano, dance
quadrilles, and had formed high acquaintances; but the
Trotters were not to be distanced. When the Lambs
appeared with two feathers in their hats, the Miss
Trotters mounted four, and of twice as fine colors. If the
Lambs gave a dance, the Trotters were sure not to be
behindhand; and though they might not boast of as good
company, yet they had double the number, and were twice
as merry.

The whole community has at length divided itself into
fashionable factions, under the banners of these two fam-
ilies. The old games of Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me
are entirely discarded; there is no such thing as getting up
an honest country dance; and on my attempting to kiss
a young lady under the mistletoe last Christmas, I was in-
dignantly repulsed ; the Miss Lambs having pronounced
it " shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry has also broken out
as to the most fashionable part of Little Britain ; the Lambs
standing up for the dignity of Cross-Keys Square, and the
Trotters for the vicinity of St. Bartholomew's.

Xfittle Britain. 253

Tbas is this little territory torn by factions and internal
lissensions, like the great empire whose name it bears ; and
¥bat will be the result would puzzle the apothecary him-
ielf, with all his talent at prognostics, to determine ; though
' apprehend that it will terminate in the total downfall of
genuine John Bullism.

The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant to me.
3eing a single man, and, as I observed before, rather an idle
rood-for-nothing personage, I have been considered the
)nly gentleman by profession in the place. I stand therefore
n high favor with both parties, and have to hear all their
cabinet councils and mutual backbitings. As I am too civil
lot to agree with the ladies on all occasions, I have com-
nitted myself most horribly with both parties, by abusing
,heir opponents. I might manage to reconcile this to my
conscience, which is a truly accommodating one, but I can-
lot to my apprehension — if the Lambs and Trotters ever
come to a reconciliation, and compare notes, I am ruined !

I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time,
md am actually looking out for some other nest in this great
jity, where old English manners are still kept up ; where
French is neither eaten, drunk, danced, nor spoken ; and
where there are no fashionable families of retired trades-
men. This found, I will, like a veteran rat, hasten away
before I have an old house about my ears ; bid a long,
though a sorrowful adieu to my present abode, and leave
the rival factions of the Lambs and the Trotters to divide
the distracted empire of Little Britain.

STRATFORD-ON-AVON.

Tliou soft-flowinf? Avon, by thy silver stream

Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would dream;

Tlie fairies by moonlight dance round liis green bed,

For hallow'd the turf is which pillowed his head.

Gabrick. %{

To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world
which ho can truly call his own, there is a momentary feel-
ing of something like independence and territorial conse-
qutMice, when, after a weary day's travel, he kicks off his
boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, and stretches himself
before an inn fire. Let the world without go as it may; let
kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to
pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the very monarch of
all he 'surveys. The arm-chair is his throne, the poker his
sceptre, and the little parlor, some twelve feet square, his
undisputed empire. It is a morsel of certainty, snatched
from the midst of the uncertainties of life; it is a sunny
moment gleaming out kindly on a cloudy day : and he who
has advanced some way on the pilgrimage of existence,
knows the importance of husbanding even morsels and mo-
ments of enjoyment. " Shall I not take mine ease in mine
inn? " thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my
elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look about the little
parlor of the Red Jlorse, at Stratford-on-Avon. •

The words of sweet Shakespeare were just passing through
my mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the
church in which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at
the door, and a pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling
face, inquired, wnth a hesitating air, whether I had rung. I
understood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire.
My dream of absolute dominion was at an end ; so abdicating
my throne, like a prudent potentate^ to avoid being deposed,

Stratford-on-Avan. 265

and putting the Stratford Ghuide-Book under my arm, as a
pillow companion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night of
Shakespeare, the Jubilee, and David Garrick.

The next morning was one of those quickening mornings
which we sometimes have in early spring ; for it was about
the middle of March. The chills of a long winter had sud-
denly given way ; the north wind had spent its last gasp ;
and a mild air came stealing from the west, breathing the
breath of life into nature, and wooing every bud and
flower to burst forth into fragrance and beauty.

1 had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My
first visit was to the house where Shakespeare was born, and
where, according to tradition, he was brought up to his
father's craft of wool-combing. It is a small, mean-looking
edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling-place of genius,
which seems to delight in hatching its offspring in by-corners.
The walls of its squalid chambers are covered with names
and inscriptions in every language, by pilgrims of all nations,
ranks, and conditions, from the prince to the peasant; and
present a simple, but striking instance of the spontaneous
and universal homage of mankind to the great poet of
nature.

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty
red face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and garnished
with artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an
exceedingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in
exhibiting the relics with which this, like all other cele-
brated shrines, abounds. There was the shattered stock of
the very matchlock with which Shakespeare shot the deer,
on his poaching exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box ;
which proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter
Raleigh : the sword also with which hf played Hamlet; and
the identical lantern with which Friar Laurence discovered
Romeo and Juliet at the tomb ! There was an ample sup-
ply also of Shakespeare's mulberry-tree, which seems to have
as extraordinary powers of self-mnltplication as the wood
of the true cross ; of which there is enough extant to build
a ship of the line.

The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shake-

256 The SketchrBook.

speare's chair. It stands in the chimney nook of a small
gloomy chamber, just behind what was his father's shop.
Here he may many a time have sat when a boy, watching
the slowly revolving spit with all the longing of an urchin;
or of an evening, listening to the cronies and gossips of
Stratford, dealing forth churchyard tales and legendary
anecdotes of the troublesome times of England. In this
chair it is the custom of every one that visits the house to
sit ; whether this be done with the hope of imbibing any of
the inspiration of the bard I am at a loss to say, I merely
mention the fact; and mine hostess privately assured me,
that, though built of solid oak, such was the fervent zeal of
devotees, that the chair had to be new bottomed at least
once in three years. It is worthy of notice also, in the his-
tory of this extraordinary chair, that it partakes something
of the volatile nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto, or
the flying chair of the Arabian enchanter; for though
sold some few years since to a northern princess, yet,
strange to tell, it has found its way back again to the old
chimney corner.

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever
willing to be deceived, w^here the deceit is pleasant and
costs nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics,
legends, and local anecdotes of goblins and great men;
and would advise all travellers who travel for their
gratification to be the same. What is it to us, whether
these stories be true or false, so long as we can per-
suade ourselves into the belief of them, and enjoy all
the charm of the reality ? There is nothing like resolute
good-humored credulity in these matters ; and on this
occasion I went even so far as willingly to believe the
claims of mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet,
when, unluckily, for my faith, cJie put into my hands a play
of her own composition, which set all belief in her consan-
guinity at defiance.

From the birthplace of Shakespeare a few paces brought
me to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the par-
ish church, a large and venerable pile, mouldering with
age, but richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of the

Stratford-on-Avon, 257

Avon, on an embowered point, and separated by adjoining
gardens from the suburbs of the town. Its situation is
quiet and retired : the river runs murmuring at the foot of
the churchyard, and the elms which grow upon its banks
droop their branches into its clear bosom. An avenue of
limes, the boughs of which are curiously interlaced, so as
to form in summer an arched way of foliage, leads up from
the gate of the yard to the church porch. The graves are
overgrown with grass ; the gray tombstones, some of them
nearly sunk into the earth, are half covered with moss,
which has likewise tinted the reverend old building.
Small birds have built their nests among the cornices and
fissures of the walls, and keep up a continual flutter and
chirping ; and rooks are sailing and cawing about its lofty
gray spire.

In the course of my rambles I met with the gray-headed
sexton, Edmonds, and accompanied him home to get the
key of the church. He had lived in Stratford, man and
boy, for eighty years, and seemed still to consider himself
a vigorous man, with the trivial exception that he had
nearly lost the use of his legs for a few years past. His
dwelling was a cottage, looking out upon the Avon and its
bordering meadows ; and was a picture of that neatness,
order, and comfort, which pervade the humblest dwellings
in this country. A low whitewashed room, with a stone
floor carefully scrubbed, served for parlor, kitchen, and
hall. Rows of pewter and earthen dishes glittered along
the dresser. On an old oaken table, well rubbed and pol-
ished, lay the family Bible and prayer-book, and the
drawer contained the family library, composed of about
half a score of well-thumbed volumes. An ancient clock,
that important article of cottage furniture, ticked on the
opposite side of the room: with a bright warming-pan
hanging on one side^of it, and the old man's horn-handled
Sunday cane on the other. The fireplace, as usual, was
wide and deep enough to admit a goijsip knot within its
jams. In one corner sat the old man's granddaughter sew-
ing, a pretty blue-eyed girl, — and in the opposite corner
was a superannuated crony, whom he addressed by the

258 The Sketch-Book,

name of John Ange, and who, I found, had been his com-
panion from cliildhood. Tliey had played together in
infancy; they had worked together in manhood; they were
now tottering about and gossiping away the evening of
life ; and in a short time they will probably be buried to-
gether in the neighboring churchyard. It is not often that
we see two streams of existence running thus evenly and
tranquilly side by side ; it is only in such quiet " bosom
scenes" of life that they are to be met with.

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the
bard from these ancient chronicles; but they had nothing
new to impart. The long interval during which Shake-
speare's writings lay in comparative neglect has spread its
shadow over his history ; and it is his good or evil lot that
scarcely anything remains to his biographers but a scanty
handful of conjectures.

The sexton and his companion had been employed as
carpenters on the preparation for the celebrated Stratford
jubilee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of
the fete, who superintended the arrangements, and who,
according to the sexton, was " a short punch man, very
lively and bustling." John Ange had assisted also in cut-
ting down Shakespeare's mulberry-tree, of which he had a
morsel in his pocket for sale ; no doubt a sovereign quick-
oner of literary conception.

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very
dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakespeare
house. John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her
valuable collection of relics, particularly her remains of the
mulberry-tree ; and the old sexton even expressed a doubt
as to Shakespeare having been born in her house. I soon
discovered that he looked upon her mansion with an evil
eye, as a rival to the poet's tomb ; the latter having com-
paratively but few visitors. Thus it is that historians differ
at the very outset, and mere pebbles make the stream of
truth diverge into different channels even at the fountain
head.

We approached the church through the avenue of limes,
and entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented, with

Strat/ord'On-Avon, 259

carved doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and
the architecture and emhellishments superior to those of
most country churches. There are several ancient monu-
ments of nobility and gentry, over some of which hang fune-
ral escutcheons, and banners dropping piecemeal from the
walls. ^ The tomb of Shakespeare is in the chancel. The
place is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave before the
pointed windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short dis-
tance from the walls, keeps up a low perpetual murmur.
A flat stone marks the spot where the bard is buried.
There are four lines inscribed on it, said to have been writ-
ten by himself, and which have in them something ex-
tremely awful. If they are indeed his own, they show that
solicitude about the quiet of the grave, which seems nat-
ural to fine sensibilities and thoughtful minds.
t

Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare

To dig the dust enclosed here.

Blessed he he that spares these stones,

And curst he he that moves my bones.

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of
Shakespeare, put up shortly after his death, and considered
as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with
a finely-arched forehead ; and I thought I could read in it
clear indications of that cheerful, social disposition, by
which he was as much characterized among his contempo-
raries as by the vastness of his genius. The inscription
mentions his age at the time of his decease — fifty-three
years ; an untimely death for the world : for what fruit
might not have been expected from the golden autumn of
such a mind, sheltered as it was from the stormy vicissi-
tudes of life, and flourishing in the sunshine of popular
and royal favor.

The inscription on the tombstone has not been without
its effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains
from the bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey,
which was at one time contemplated. A few years since
also, as some laborers were digging to make an adjoining
vault, the earth caved in, so as to leave a vacant space

260 The Sketch-Book.

almost like an arch, through which one might have reached
into his grave. No one, however, presumed to meddle with
his remains, so awfully guarded by a malediction ; and lest
any of the idle or the curious, or any collector of relics,
should be tempted to commit depredations, the old sexton
kept watch over the place for two days, until the vault
was finished and the aperture closed again. He told me
that he had made bold to look in at the hole, but
could see neither coffin nor bones ; nothing but dust
It was something, I thought, to have seen the dost of
Shakespeare.

SText to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite
^aughter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb
close by, also, is a full-length effigy of his old friend John
Combe of usurious memory ; on whom he is said to have
written a ludicrous epitaph. There are other monuments
around, but the mind refuses to dwell on anything that
is not connected with Shakespeare. His idea pervades the
place; the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. The
feelings, no longer checked and thwarted by doubt, here
indulge in perfect confidence : other traces of liira may be
false or dubious, but here is palpable evidence and absolute
certainty. As I trod the sounding pavement, there w%is
something intense and thrilling in the idea, that, in very
truth, the remains of Shakespeare were mouldering beneath
my feet. It was a long time before I could prevail upon
myself to leave the place; and as I passed through the
churchyard, I i)lucked a branch from one of the yew-trees,
the only relic that I have brought from Stratford*)

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devo-
tion, but I had a desire to see the old family seat of the
Lucy's, at Charlecot, and to ramble through the park where
Shakespeare, in company with some of the roystersof Strat-
for<l, committed his youthful ofPence of deer-stealing. In
this hare-brained exploit we are told that he was taken
prisoner, and carried to the keeper's lodge, where he re-
mained all night in doleful captivity. When brought into
the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy, 1 \ troatment must have
been galling and humiliating ; for v - * .vrtught upon his

Strcttford-on-Avon. 261

spirit as to produce a rough pasquinade, which was affixed
to the park gate at Charlecot.^

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the knight so
incensed him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to
put the severity of the laws in force against the rhyming
deer-stalker. Shakespeare did not wait to brave the united
puissance of a knight of the shire and a country attorney.
He forthwith abandoned the pleasant banks of the Avon
and his paternal trade ; wandered away to London ; became
a hanger-on to the theatres ; then an actor ; and, finally,
wrote for the stage ; and thus, through the persecution of
Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an indifferent wool-comber,
and the world gained an immortal poet. He retained, how-
ever, for a long time, a sense of the harsh treatment of
the Lord of Charlecot, and revenged himself in his writ-
ings ; but in the sportive way of a good-natured mind. Sir
Thomas is said to be the original Justice Shallow, and the
satire is slyly fixed upon him by the justice's armorial
bearings, which, like those of the knight, had white luces *
in the quarterings.

Various attempts have been made by his biographers to
soften and explain away this early transgression of the
poet; but I look upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits
natural to his situation and turn of mind. Shakespeare,
when young, had doubtless all the wildness and irregularity
of an ardent, undisciplined, and undirected genius. The
poetic temperament has naturally something in it of the
vagabond. When left to itself it runs loosely and wildly,
and delights in everything eccentric and licentious. It is
often a turn-up of a die, in the gambling freaks of fate,

1 Tbe foUowlng is the only stanza extant of this lampoon : —

A parliament member, a justice of ])eace.
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse,
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it,
Then Lucv is lowsie, whatever befall it.

He thinks himself great;

Yet an asse in his state,
We allow by his ears but with asses to mate,
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it.
Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it.

s The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon about Charlecot.

262 ITie SketchrBooh.

whether a uatural genius 8hall turn out a great rogue or
a great poet ; and had not Shakespeare's mind fortunately
taken a literary bias, he might have as daringly transcended
all civil, as he has all (b-amatic laws.

I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, like
an unbroken colt, about the neighborhood of Stratford, he
was found to be in the company of all kinds of odd anoma-
lous chara(*ters ; that he associated with all the madcaps of
the place, and was one of those unlucky urchins, at men-
tion of whom old men shake tiieir heads, and predict that
they will one day come to the gallows. To him the poach-
ing in SirThom;is Lucy's park was doubtless like a foray to
a Scottish knight, and struck his eager, and as yet untamed,
imagination, as something delightfully adventurous.*

The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park
still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are
peculiarly interesting, from being connected with this
whimsical but eventful circumstiuice in the scanty history
of tiie bard. As the house stood but little more than three
miles'* distance from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedes-
trian visit, that I might stroll leisurely through some of

1 A proof of S1iakftS]>care'8 random habits an<l associates in his youthful
davs may be found In a tracUtionary anecdote, pi('ke<l up at Stratforci by the
eluer Ireland, and montioneil in bis Picturrstjue I'ieitv vn thr Aron.

About seven miles from St nit ford lies the thirsty little market town
of Bedford, famous for its ale. Two M>oiolies of the \ illafre yeomanry used to
meet,- under Mic ap]>ellation of Thr Itolford Tt/j^r/v, and to challenge the
lovers of j^ood ale of the neighboring villajres to a contest of drinking.
Amonjr others, the i>cople of Stratford were called out to prove tho streniEth
of thtrir hofids; and in the number of the champi<ms was Shakespeare, mIio,
in spile ot the i)roverb that •• they who ilrink l)eer will think beer," was as
true to his ale as FalstafT to his sack. The chivalry of Stratford was staggered
at the first onset, and sounded a retreat while they had yet legs to carr>' them
oiT the field. They had scarcely marched a mile when, their legs failing them,
they were forced to lie down under a crab-tree, where they passed the night.
It is still suinding, and goes by the name of Shakes)>eare*8 tree.

In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and proposed return-
ing to Bedford, but ho declined, saying ho had had enough, naving drank
with

Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston,
Haunted Hilbn>'» Hungry Grafton,
Dudging Kxhan, Papist Wicksfonl,
Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford.

« The villages here alluded to,*' says Ireland, "still bear the epithets thns
given them : the ]ieople of Pebworth are still famed for their skill on the pi|>e
and tabor; Hilborough is now called Haunted Hllborough; and Grafton is
famouB Sot the iK>verty of its »oU."

Stratford-on-Avon. 268

lose scenes from which Shakespeare must have derived his
earliest ideas of rural imagery.
The country was yet naked and leafless ; but English
3enery is always verdant, and the sudden change in the
3mperature of the weather was surprising in its quickening
ffects upon the landscape. It was inspiring and animating
> witness this first awakening of spring ; to feel its warm
reath stealing over the senses ; to see the moist mellow
arth beginning to put forth the green sprout and the tender
lade : and trees and shrubs, in their reviving tints and
ursting buds, giving the promise of returning, foliage and
ower. The cold snow-drop, that little borderer on the
drts of winter, was to be seen with its chaste white
lossoms in the small gardens before the cottages. The
leating of the new-dropt lambs was faintly heard from the
elds. The sparrow twittered about the thatched eaves
ad budding hedges; the robin threw a livelier note into
is late querulous wintry strain ; and the lark, springing up
•ora the reeking bosom of the meadow, towered away into
le bright fleecy cloud, pouring forth torrents of melody.
lS I watched the little songster, mounting up higher and
igher, until his body was a mere speck on the white bosom
f the cloud, while the ear was still filled with his music, it
^lled to mind Shakespeare's exquisite little song in C7ym-
'Jine :

Hark ! haxk ! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

And Phoobus 'gins arise.
His steeds to water at those springs,

On chaliced flowers that lies.

And winking mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes ;
With everything that pretty bin,

My lady sweet arise I

Indeed the whole country about here is poetic ground :
jrerything is associated with the idea of Shakespeare,
very old cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort of
is boyhood, where he had acquired his intimate knowledge
I rustic life and manners, and heard those legendary tales
3d wild superstitions which he has woven like witchcraft

264 The Sketch-Book.

into his dramas. For iu his time, we are told, it was a pop-
ular amusement in winter evenings "to sit round the fire,
and tell merry tales of errant knights, queens, lovers, lords,
ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies,
goblins, and friars." *

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon,
which made a variety of the most fancy doublings and
windings through a wide and fertile valley; sometimes
glittering from among willows, which fringed its bor-
ders ; sometimes disappearing among groves, or beneath
green banks; and sometimes rambling out into full view,
and making an azure sweep round a slope of meadow
land. This beautiful bosom of country is called the Vale
of the Red Horse. A distant line of undulating blue hills
seems to be its boundary, whilst all the soft intervening
landscape lies in a manner enchained in the silver links of
the Avon.

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned
off into a footpath, which led a\png the borders of fields,
and under hedgerows, to a private gate at the park ; there
was a stile, however, for the benefit of the pedestrian ;
there being a public right of way through the grounds. I
delight in these hospitable estates, in which every one has
a kind of property — at least as far as the footpath is con-
cerned. It in some measure reconciles a poor man to his
lot, and, what is more, to the better lot of his neighbor,
thus to have parks and pleasure-grounds thrown open for
his recreation, lie breathes the pure air as freely, and lolls
as luxuriously under the shade, as the lord of the soil ;
and if he has not the privilege of calling all that he sees
his own, he has not, at the same time, the trouble of pay-
ing for it, and keei)ing it in order.

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and

» Scot, in hl8 Discoverie of Witchcraft ^ enam«*rate8 a host of these flroHide
fancies. " And they have so fraid us with bull-begp:ar8, spirits, witches,
urchins, elves, hags, fairie<), satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can
sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes. ciantes, imps, calcars, conjurers, nym])hes,
chanu:elin{;8, incubus, Robin sood-fel low, the spoorne, the mare, the man in
the oke, the hell-waine, the Her drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe. hobgoblins,
Tom Tumbleff bonelesSf and such other bugs, that we were afraid of our own

Stratford-on-Avon. 266

elms, whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The
wind sounded solemnly among their branches, and the rooks
cawed from their hereditary nests in the tree tops. The eye
ranged through a long lessening vista, with nothing to inter-
rupt the view but a distant statue, and a vagrant deer stalk-
ing like a shadow across the opening.

There is something about these stately old avenues that
has the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely from the
pretended similarity of form, but from their bearing the
evidence of long duration, and of having had their origin
in a period of time with which we associate ideas of romantic
grandeur. They betoken also the long-settled dignity, and
proudly-concentrated independence of an ancient family;
and I have heard a worthy but aristocratic old friend observe,
when speaking of the sumptuous palaces of modern gentry,
that "money could do much with stone and mortar, but,
thank Heaven, there was no such thing as suddenly building
up an avenue of oaks."

It was from wandering in early life among this rich
scenery, and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining
park of Fullbroke, which then formed a part of the Lucy
estate, that some of Shakespeare's commentators have sup-
posed he derived his noble forest meditations of Jaques, and
the enchanting woodland pictures in As You Like It, It is
in lonely wanderings through such scenes, that the mind
drinks deep but quiet draughts of inspiration, and becomes
intensely sensible of the beauty and majesty of nature. The
imagination kindles into revery and rapture; vague but
exquisite images and ideas keep breaking upon it; and
we revel in a mute and almost incommunicable luxury of
thought. It was in some such mood, and perhaps under one
of those very trees before me, which threw their broad
shades over the grassy banks and quivering waters of the
Avon, that the poet's fancy may have sallied forth into that
little song which breathes the very soul of a rural volup-
tuary ;

Under the green wood tree,

Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry throat

Unto the sweet bird^s note.

266 The SketchrBook.

Come hither, come hither, come hither
Here shall he see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather.

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large build-
ing of brick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic style of
Queen Elizabeth's day, having been built in the first year of
her reign. The exterior remains very nearly in its original
state, and may be considered a fair specimen of the residence
of a wealthy country gentleman of those days. A great
gateway opens from the park into a kind of courtyard in
front of the house, ornamented with a grass-plot, shrubs, and
flower-beds. The gateway is in imitation of the ancient
barbican; being a kind of outpost, and flanked by towers;
thoupfh evidently for mere ornament, instead of defence.
The front of the house is completely in the old style ; with
stone-shafted casements, a great bow- window of heavy stone-
work, and a portal with armorial bearings over it, carved in
stone. At each corner of the building is an octagon tower,
surmounted by a gilt ball and weather-cock.

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend
just at the foot of a gently-sloping bank, which sweeps
down from the rear of the house. Large herds of deer
were feeding or reposing upon its borders ; and swans were
sailing majestically upon its bosom. As I contemplated
the venerable old mansion, I called to mind FalstaiTs
encomium on Justice Shallow's abode, and the affected
indifference and real vanity of the latter :

Falstaff, You have a goodly dwelling and a rich.
Shallow, Barren, harren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir
John : marry, good air.

Whatever may have been the joviality of the old man-
sion in the days of Shakespeare, it had now an air of still-
ness and solitude. The great iron gateway that opened
into the courtyard was locked ; there was no show of ser-
vants bustling about the place ; the deer gazed quietly at
me as I passed, being no longer harried by the moss-troop-

Straff ord'On- Avon. 267

ers of Stratford. The only sign of domestic life that I
met with was a white cat, stealing with wary look and
stealthy pace towards the stables, as if on some nefarious
expedition. I must not omit to mention the carcass of a
scoundrel crow which I saw suspended against the barn
wall, as it shows that the Lucys still inherit that lordly ab-
horrence of poachers, and maintain that rigorous exercise
of territorial power which was so strenuously manifested
in the case of the bard.

After prowling about for some time, I at length found
my way to a lateral portal, which was the every-day en-
trance to the mansion. I was courteously received by a
worthy old housekeeper, who, with the civility and com-
municativeness of her order, showed me the interior of
the house. The greater part has undergone alterations,
and been adapted to modern tastes and modes of living;
there is a fine old oaken staircase ; and the great hall,
that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, still retains
much of the appearance it must have had in the days of
Shakespeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty ; and at one
end is a gallery in which stands an organ. The weapons
and trophies of the chase, which formerly adorned the hall
of a country gentleman, have made way for family por-
traits. There is a wide hospitable fireplace, calculated for
an ample old-fashioned wood fire, formerly the rallying-
place of winter festivity. On the opposite side of the hall
is the huge Gothic bow- window, with stone shafts, which
looks out upon the courtyard. Here are emblazoned in
stained glass the armorial bearings of the Lucy family for
many generations, some being dated in 1558. I was de-
lighted to observe in the quarterings the three white luceSy
by which the character of Sir Thomas was first identified
with that of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the
first scene of the Merry Wives of Windsory where the
Justice is in a rage with Falstaff for having "beaten
his men, killed his deer, and broken into his lodge."
The poet had no doubt the offenses of himself and
his comrades in mind at the time, and we may suppose the
family pride and vindictive threats of the puissant Shal-

268 The Sketch-Book.

low to be a caricature of the pompons indignation of Sir
Thomas.

Sfiallovo, Sir Hugh, persuade me not: I will make a Star-
Chamber matter of it; if lie were twenty John Falstaffs, he shall
not abuse Robert Shallow, Esq.

Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and
coram.

Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum.

Slender, Ay, and ratolorum too, and a gentleman bom, master
parson; who writes himself Armiyero in any bill, warrant, quit-
tance, or obligation, Artnigero.

Shallow. Ay, that 1 do; and have done anytime these three
hundred years.

Slender. All his successors gone before him have done't, and
all his ancestors that come after him may; they may give the dozen
white luces in tlieir coat.* ♦ ♦ * ♦

Shallow, The council shall hear it; it is a riot.

Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot; there is
no fe:ir of (Jot in a riot; the council, hear you, shall desire to
hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments
in that.

Shallow. Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword
should end it!

Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by
Sir Peter Lely, of one of the Lucy family, a great beantj
of the time of Charles the Second : the old housekeeper
shook her head as she pointed to the picture, and in-
formed me that this lady had been sadly addicted to
cards, and had gambled away a great portion of the fam-
ily estate, among which w^as that part of the park where
Shakespeare and his comrades had killed the deer. The
lands thus lost had not been entirely regained by the family
even at the present day. It is but justice to this recreant
dame to confess that she had a surpassingly fine hand and
arm.

The picture which most attracted my attention was a
great painting over the fireplace, containing likenesses of
Sir Thomas Lucy and his family, who inhabited the hall in
the latter part of Shakespeare's lifetime. I at first thought
that it was the vindictive knight himself, but the hooBe-
keeper assured me that it was his son ; the only likeness
extant of the former being an efiigy upon his tomb in the

Strat/ord-on-Avon, 269

1 of the neighboring hamlet of Charlecot.' The pic-
;ive8 a lively idea of the costume and manners of the
Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and doublet ; white shoes
oses in them ; and has a peaked yellow, or, as Master
er would say, " a Cain-colored beard." His lady is
I on the opposite side of the picture, in wide ruff and
?tomachcr, and the children have a most venerable
5SS and formality of dress. Hounds and spaniels are
ed in the family group ; a hawk is seated on his •
in the foreground, and one of the children holds a
— all intimating the knight's nkill in hunting, hawk-
nd archery — so indispensable to an accomplished
iman in those days.*

jgretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall
isappeared ; for I had hoped to meet with the stately
-chair of carved oak, in which the country squire of
r days was wont to sway the sceptre of empire over
ral domains; and in which it might be presumed the

is effigy is in white marble, and represents the Knight in complete

N«*4ir him lies the effigy of his wife, and on her tomb is the following
tion : which, if really comi)08e(l by her husband, places him quite above
illectiial level of Master Shallow :

> lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sr Thomas Lucy of Charlecot
;ounty of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir of Thomas Acton
»n in ve county of Worcester Esquire who departed out of this
3d world to her heavenly kingdom ye 10 day of February in ye yeare

Lord (lod 151)6 and of her age 60 and three. All the time of her
true and faythful servant of lier goo<l God, never detected of any
jrvice. In religion most soumle, in love to her husband most fayth-
l true. In friendship most constant; to what in trust was com-

unto her most s<»cret. In wisiloin excelling. In governing of her
bringing uji of youth in ye fear of God that did converse with her
rare and singular. A gn-at maintayner of hospitality. Greatly es-

of her betters; miHlike<l of none unless of the envyous. When all

en that can bo sjiido a woman so garnisheil with virtue as not to be

d and hanlly to be equalled by anv. As shee lived most virtuously

die<l most (iodly. Set downo by him* yt best did knowe what hath byn

I to be true.

Thomas Lucye.

?hop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, ob-
•♦ his housekeeping is seen much in the different families of dogs,
rviug-meu attendant on their kennels; and the deei ness of their
i is the depth of his discourse. A hawk he esteenjs the true burden
litv.aiid is exoeetlingly ambitious to seem deliirhted with the sport,
ve liistlst glovcjl with his jesses." And Gilpin, in his description of a
s'ings, remarks, ♦♦ be kept all sorts of hounds that run buck, fox, hare,
lid badger; and had hawks of all kinds both long and short winged.
at hall was commonlv strewed with marrow-bones, and full of hawk
9, hounds, spaniels, aiul terriers. On a broad hearth, paved with brick,
le of the choicest terriers, houuds, aud spaniels."

270 The Sketch-Book.

redoubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful state when
the recreant Shakespeare was brought before him. As
I like to deck out pictures for my own entertainment, I
pleased myself w^ith the idea that this very hall had been
the scene of the unhicky bard's examination on the morn-
ing after his captivity in the lodge. I fancied to myself
the rural potentate, surrounded by his body-guard of butler,
pages, and blue-coated serving-men, with their badges;
while the luckless culprit was brought in, forlorn and chop-
fallen, in the custody of gamekeepers, huntsmen, and whip-
pers-iu, and followed by a rabble rout of country clowns.
I fancied bright faces of curious housemaids peeping from
the half-opened doors ; while from the gallery the fair
daughters of the knight leaned gracefully forward, eying
the youthful prisoner with that pity "that dwells in
womanhood." — Who would thought that this poor varlet,
thus trembling before the brief authority of a country
squire, and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to become
the delight of ])rinces, the theme of all tongues and ages,
the dictator to the human mind ; and was to confer im-
mortality on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon !
I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden,
and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor where the
justice treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence " to a
last year's pippin of his own grafting, with a dish of cara-
ways;" but I had already spent so much of the day in my
ramblings that I was obliged to give up any further inves-
tigations. When about to take my leave I was gratified by
the civil entreaties of the housekeeper and butler, that 1
would take some refreshment : an instance of good old hos-
pitality which, I grieve to sjiy, we castle-hunters seldom
meet with in modern days. I make no doubt it is a virtue
which the present rej)resentative of the Lucys inherits
from his ancestors ; for Shakespeare, even in his carica-
ture, makes Justice Shallow importunate in this respect, as
witness his pressing instances to Falstaff.

By cock and pyo, sir, you shall not away to-niffht ... I will
not excuse you ; you Khali not 1>c excused; excuses shall not be
admitted; there is no excuse sliall serve; you shall not be ex-

Stratford-on-Avon. 271

cused . . . Some pigeons, Davy; a couple of short-legged hens; a
Joint of mutton ; and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell Wil-
liam 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. Everytiiing 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 heards 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 oper-
ates, 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 sur-
veyed 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 noth-
ings, 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 com-
panion adventuring through the woodlands; and, above all,
had been once more present in spirit with fat Jack FalstafE
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 illu-
sions ; who has spread exquisite and unbought pleasures
in my checkered path ; and beguiled my spirit in many a
lonely hour, with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of
social life I

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my retarv\^ 1

272 Tilt f'Skttch-Book.

paused to contemplate the distant church in which the
poet lies buried, and could not but exult in the maledic-
tion, which has kepfhis ashes undisturbed in its qui^ and
hallowed vaults. What honor could his name have ^
rived from being mingled in dusty companionship with the
epitaphs and escutcheons and venal eulogiums of a titled
multitude ? What would a crowded comer in Westminster
Abbey have been, comi)ared w^lh this reverend pile, which
seems to stand in beautiful loneliness as his sole mauso-
leum ! The solicitude about the grave may be but the off-
spring of an over- wrought sensibility; but human nature is
made up of foibles and prejudices ; and its best an^ tender-
est affections are mingled with these factitious feelings.
He who has sought renown about the world, and has reaped
a full harvest of worldly favor, will find, after all, that there
is no love, no admiration, no applause, so sweet to tlie soul
as that which springs up in his native place. It is there
that he seeks to be gathered in peace ana honor among his
kindred and his early friends. And when the weary heart
and failing head begin to warn him tKat the evening of life
is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to the
mother's arms, to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of
his childhood.

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful
bard when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful
world, he cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home,
could he have foreseen that, before many years, he should
return to it covered with renown ; that his name should be-
come the boast and glory of his native place ; that his
ashes should be religiously guarded as its most precious
treasure; and that its lessening sjnre, on which his
eyes wore fixed in tearful contemplation, should one
day become the beacon, towering amidst the gentle land-
scape, to guide the literary pilgrim of ever r nation to his
tomb ! :»•>

TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER.

I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin
hungry, and he gave him not to eat; if ever he came cold and
nak^, and he clothed him not.

Spssch of an Indian Chief.

There is somethiDg in the character and habits of the
North American savage, taken in connection with the
scenery over which he is accustomed to range, its vast
lakes, boundless forests, majestic rivers, and trackless
plains, that is, to. my mind, wonderfully striking and sub-
lime. He is formed for the wilderness, as the Arab is for
the desert. His nature is stern, simple and enduring;
fitted to grapple ^ith difficulties and support privations.
There seems but little soil in his heart for the support of
the kindly virtues; and yet, if we would but take the
trouble to penetrate th. ough that proud stoicism and ha-
bitual taciturnity, which lock up his character from casual
observation, we should find him linked to his fellow-man
of civilized life by more of those sympathies and aifections
than are usually ascribed to him.

It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of
America, in the early periods of colonization, to be doubly
wronged by the white men. They have been dispossessed
of their hereditary possessions by mercenary and frequently
wanton warfare ; and their characters have been traduced
by bigoted and interested writers. The colonist often
treated then like beasts of the forest; and the author
has endeavor 1 to justify him in his outrages. The for-
mer found it ?asier to exterminate than to civilize; the
latter to vilit/ than to discriminate. The appellations
of savage and pagan were deemed sufficient to sanction
the hostilities of both ; and thus the poor wanderers of

278

274 The SketchrBook.

the forest were persecated and defamed, not because Mj
were guilty, but because they were ignorant.

The rights of the savage have seldom been properly ap-
preciated or respected by the white man. In peace he has
too often been the dupe of artful traffic ; in war he has been
regarded as a ferocious animal, whose life or death was
a question of mere precaution and convenience. Man is
cruelly wasteful of life when his own safety is endangered,
and he is sheltered by impunity; and little mercy is to be
expected from him, when he feels the sting of the reptile
and is conscious of the power to destroy.

The same prejudices, which were indulged thus early,
exist in common circulation at the present day. Certain
learned societies have, it is true, with laudable diligence,
endeavored to investigate and record the real characters
and manners of the Indian tribes ; the American govern-
ment, too, has wisely and humanely exerted itself to incul-
cate a friendly and forbearing spirit towards them, and to
protect them from fraud and injustice.* The current opin-
ion of the Indian character, however, is too apt to be formed
from the miserable hordes which infest the frontiers, and
hang on the skirts of the settlements. These are too com-
monly composed of degenerate beings, corrupted and en-
feebled by the vices of society, without being benefited by
its civilization. That proud independence, which formed
the main pillar of savage virtue, has been shaken down,
and the whole moral fabric lies in ruins. Their spirits are
humiliated and debased by a sense of inferiority, and their
native courage cowed and daunted by the superior knowl-
edge and power of their enlightened neighbors. Society
has advanced upon them like one of those withering airs
that will sometimes breed desolation over a whole region of
fertility. It ha» enervated their strength, multiplied their
diseases, and superinduced upon their original barbarity the

1 The American p^overnment has been indefatigable in its exertions to
ameliorate the situation of the Indians, and to introduce amoni; them the
arts of civilization, and civil and religious knowledge. To protect them from
the frauds of the white traders, no purchase of land from them by individ-
uals is permitted : nor is any person allowed to receive lands from them as a
present, without the express sanction of govermuent. These precautions are
strictly enforced.

Traits of Indian Character. 275

low vices of artificial life. It has given them a thousand
superfluous wants, whilst it has diminished their means of
\ mere existence. It has driven before it the animals of the
chase, who fly from the sound of the axe and the smoke of
the settlement, and seek refuge in the depths of remoter
forests and yet untrodden wilds. Thus do we too often find
the Indians on our frontiers to be the mere wrecks and rem-
nants of once powerful tribes, who have lingered in the vi-
cinity of the settlements, and sunk into a precarious and vag-
abond existence. Poverty, repining and hopeless poverty,
a canker of the mind unknown in savage life, corrodes their
spirits, and blights every free and noble quality of their na-
tures. They become drunken, indolent, feeble, thievish, and
pusillanimous. They loiter like vagrants about the settle-
ments, among spacious dwellings replete with elaborate
comforts, which only render them sensible of the compara-
tive wretchedness of their own condition. Luxury spreads
its ample board before their eyes ; but they are excluded
from the banquet. Plenty revels over the fields ; but they
are starving in the midst of its abundance : the whole wil-
derness has blossomed into a garden ; but they feel as rep-
tiles that infest it.

How different was their state while yet the undisputed
lords of the soil I Their wa^its were few, and the means
of gratification within their reach. They saw every one
around them sharing the same lot, enduring the same hard-
ships, feeding on the same aliments, arrayed in the same
rude garments. No roof then rose, but was open to the
homeless stranger; no smoke curled among the trees, but
he was welcome to sit down by its fire, and join the hunter
in his repast. " For," says an old historian of New Eng-
land, " their life is so void of care, and they are so loving
also, that they make use of those things they enjoy as com-
mon goods, and are therein so compassionate, that rather
than one should starve through want, they would starve all;
thus they pass their time merrily, not regarding our pomp,
but are better content with their own, which some men
esteem so meanly of." Such were the Indians, whilst in
the pride and energy of their primitive natures: they

276 The SketchrBook.

resemble those wild plants, which thrive best in the
shades of the forest, but shrink from the hand of cultiva-
tion, and perish beneath the influence of the sun.

In discussing the savage character, writers have been too
prone to indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate exag-
geration, instead of the candid temper of true philosophy.
They have not sufficiently considered the peculiar circum-
stances in which the Indians have been placed, and the
peculiar principles under which they have been educated.
No being acts more rigidly from rule than the Indian. His
whole conduct is regulated according to some general max-
ims early implanted in his mind. The moral laws that
govern him are, to be sure, but few ; but then he conforms
to them all ; — the white man abounds in laws of religion,
morals, and manners, but how many does he violate !

A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians is
their disregard of treaties, and the treachery and wanton-
ness with which, in time of apparent peace, they will sud-
denly fly to hostilities. The intercourse of the white men
with the Indians, however, is too apt to be cold, distrustful,
oppressive, and insulting. They seldom treat them with
that confidence and frankness which are indispensable to
real friendship ; nor is sufficient caution observed not to
offend against those feelings of pride or superstition, which
often prompt the Indian to hostility quicker than mere con-
siderations of interest. The solitary savage feels silently,
but acutely. His sensibilities are not diffused over so wide
a surface as those of the white man ; but they run in
steadier and deeper channels. His pride, his affections, his
superstitions, are all directed towards fewer objects ; but
the wounds inflicted on them are proportionably severe, and
furnish motives of hostility which we cannot sufficiently
appreciate. Where a community is also limited in number,
and forms one great patriarchal family, as in an Indian
tribe, the injury of an individual is the injury of the whole ;
and the sentiment of vengeance is almost instantaneously
diffused. One council fire is sufficient for the discussion
and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here all the
tighting men and sages assemble. Eloquence and super-

Traits of Indian Chjara^cter. 277

Btition combine to inflame the minds of the warriors. The
orator awakens their martial ardor, and they are wrought
up to a kind of religious desperation, by the visions of the
prophet and the dreamer.

An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising
from a motive peculiar to the Indian character, is extant
in an old record of the early settlement of Massachusetts.
The planters of Plymouth had defaced the monuments of
the dead at Passonagessit, and had plundered the grave of
the Sachem's mother of some skins with which it had been
decorated. The Indians are remarkable for the reverence
which they entertain for the sepulchres of their kindred.
Tribes that have passed generations exiled from the abodes
of their ancestors, when by chance they have been travel-
ling in the vicinity, have been known to turn aside from
the highway, and, guided by wonderfully accurate tradition,
have crossed the country for miles to some tumulus, buried
perhaps in the woods, where the bones of their tribes were
anciently deposited; and there have passed hours in silent
meditation. Influenced by this sublime and holy feeling,
the Sachem, whose mother's tomb had been violated, gath-
ered his men together, and addressed them in the following
beautifully simple and pathetic harangue;, a curious speci-
men of Indian eloquence, and an affecting instance of filial
piety in a savage.

" When last the glorious light of all the sky was under-
neath this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, as
my custom is, to take repose. Before mine eyes were fast
closed, methought I saw a vision, at which my spirit was
much troubled ; and trembling at that doleful sight, a spirit
cried aloud, ' Behold, my son, whom I have cherished, see
the breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that lapped thee
warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou forget to take revenge
of those wild people who have defaced my monument in a
despiteful manner, disdaining our antiquities and honorable
customs ? See, now, the Sachem's grave lies like the com-
mon people, defaced by an ignoble race. Thy mother doth
complain, and implores thy aid against this thievish people,
who have newly intruded on our land. II \Ja\&Vi^ ^x^^oet'^^^

278 The Sketch-JBook.

I shall not rest quiet in my everlasting habitation.' This i
said, the spirit vanished, and I, all in a sweat, not able I
scarce to speak, began to get some strength, and recollect I
my spirits that were fled, and determined to demand your '
counsel and assistance."

I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends
to show how these sudden acts of hostility, which have,
been attributed to caprice and perfidy, may often arise'
from deep and generous motives, which our inattention
to Indian character and customs prevents our properly
'appreciating.

Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians
is their barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin
partly in policy and partly in superstition. The tribes,
though sometimes called nations, were never so formidable
in their numbers, but that the loss of several warriors was
sensibly felt ; this was particularly the case when they had
been frequently engaged in warfare ; and many an instance
occurs in Indian history, where a tribe, that had long been |
formidable to its neighbors, has been broken up and driven
away, by the capture and massacre of its principal fight-
ing men. There was a strong temptation, therefore, to the
victor to be merciless ; not so much to gratify any cruel
revenge, as to provide for future security. The Indians \
had also the superstitious belief, frequent among barbarous |
nations, and prevalent also among the ancients, that the I
manes of their friends who had fallen in battle were soothed I
by the blood of the captives. The prisoners, however, who
are not thus sacrificed, are adopted into their families in
the place of the slain, and are treated with the confidence
and affection of relatives and friends; nay, so hospitable^'
and tender is their entertainment, that when the alterna-
tive is offered them, they will often prefer to remain with
their adopted brethren, rather than return to the home and
the friends of their youth.

The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has
been heightened since the colonization of the whites. What
was formerly a compliance with policy and superstition, has
been exasperated into a gratification of vengeance. They

Traits of Indian Character. 279

cannot but be sensible that the white men are the usurpers
of their ancient dominion, the cause of their degradation,
and the gradual destroyers of their race. They go forth to
battle, smarting with injuries and indignities which they
have individually suffered, and they are driven to madness
and despair by the wide-spreading desolation, and the over-
whelming ruin of European warfare. The whites have too
frequently set them an example of violence, by burning their
villages, and laying waste their slender means of subsist-
ence : and yet they wonder that savages do not show mod-
eration and magnanimity towards those who have left them
nothing but mere existence and wretchedness.

We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and treach-
erous, because they use stratagem in warfare, in preference
to open force ; but in this they are fully justified by their
rude code of honor. They are taught early that stratagem
is praiseworthy ; the bravest warrior thinks it no disgrace
to lurk in silence, and take every advantage of his foe : he
triumphs in the superior craft and sagacity by which he has
been enabled to surprise and destroy an enemy. Indeed,
man is naturallv more prone to subtilty than open valor,
owing to his physical weakness in comparison with other
animals. They are endowed with natural weapons of de-
fence : with horns, with tusks, with hoofs, and talons ; but
man has to depend on his superior sagacity. In all his en-
counters with these, his proper enemies, he resorts to strat-
agem ; and when he perverselv turns his hostility against
his fellow-man, he at first contmues the same subtile mode
of warfare.

The natural principle of war is to do the most harm to
our enemy with the least harm to ourselves; and this of
course is to be effected by stratagem. That chivalrous cour-
age which induces us to despise the suggestions of pru-
dence, and to rush in the face of certain danger, is the off-
spring of society, and produced by education. It is hon-
orable, because it is in fact the triumph of lofty sentiment
over an instinctive repugnance to pain, and over those
yearnings after personal ease and security, which society
has condemned as ignoble. It is kept alive by pride and the

280 The Sketch-Book.

fear of shame ; and thus the dread of real evil is overcome
by the superior dread of an evil which exists but in the
imagination. It has been cherished and stimulated also
by various means. It has been the theme of spirit-stirring
song and chivalrous story. The poet and minstrel have
delighted to shed round it the splendors of fiction ; and
even the historian has forgotton the sober gravity of nar- i'
ration, and broken forth into enthusiasm and rhapsody in
its praise. Triumphs and gorgeous pageants have been
its reward: monuments, on which art has exhausted its
skill, and opulence its treasures, have been erected to per-
petuate a nation^s gratitude and admiration. Thus arti-
ficially excited, courage has risen to an extraordinary and
factitious degree of heroism : and arrayed in all the glori-
ous " pomp and circumstance of war," this turbulent qual-
ity has even been able to eclipse many of those quiet, but
invaluable virtues, which silently ennoble the human char-
acter, and swell the tide of human happiness.

But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of
danger and pain, the life of the Indian is a continual exhi-
bition of it. He lives in a state of perpetual hostility and
risk. Peril and adventure are congenial to his nature ; or
rather seem necessary to arouse his faculties and to give an
interest to liis existence. Surrounded by hostile tribes,^
whose mode of warfare is by ambush and surprisal, he is
always prepared for iight, and lives with his weapons in his
hands. As the ship careers in fearful singleness through
the solitudes of ocean ; — as the bird mingles among clouds
an<l storms, and wings its way, a mere speck, across the
j)at]iless fields of air; — so the Indian holds his course,
silent, solitary, but undaunted, through the boundless bosom
of the wilderness. Ills ex])editions may vie in distance and
danger with the pilgrimage of the devotee, or the crusade
of the knight-errant. He traverses vast forests, exposed to
the hazards of lonely sickness, of lurking enemies, and pin-
ing famine. Stormy lakes, those great inland seas, are no
obstacles to his wanderings : in his light canoe of bark he
sports, like a feather, on their waves, and darts, with the
swiftness of an arrow, down the roaring rapids of the rivers.

2Vatt8 of Indian Character. 281

His very subsisteDce is snatched from the midst of toil and
peril. He gains his food by the hardships and dangers of
the chase : he wraps himself in the spoils of the bear, the
panther, and the buffalo, and sleeps among the thunders of
the cataract.

No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the
Indian in his lofty contempt of death, and the fortitude
with which he sustains its cruellest infliction. Indeed we
here behold him rising superior to the white man, in con-
sequence of his peculiar education. The latter rushes to
glorious death at the cannon's mouth ; the former calmly
contemplates its approach, and triumphantly endures it,
amidst the varied torments of surrounding foes and the
protracted agonies of fire. He even takes a pride in tor-
menting his persecutors, and provoking their ingenuity of
torture : and as the ^^^^^^ing flames prey on his very
vitals, and the fiesh shrinks from the sinews, he raises his
last song of triumph, breathing the defiance of an uncon-
quered heart, and invoking the spirits of his fathers to
witness that he dies without a groan.

Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early histo-
rians have overshadowed the characters of the unfortunate
natives, some bright gleams occasionally break through,
which throw a degree of melancholy lustre on their memo-
ries. Facts are occasionally to be met with in the rude
annals of the eastern provinces, which, though recorded
with the coloring of prejudice and bigotry, yet speak for
themselves ; and will be dwelt on with applause and sym-
pathy, when prejudice shall have passed away.

In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in
New England, there is a touching account of the desolation
carried into the tribe of the Pequod Indians. Humanity
shrinks from the cold-blooded detail of indiscriminate
butchery. In one place we read of the surprisal of an
Indian fort in the night, when the wigwams were wrapped
in flames, and the miserable inhabitants shot down and
slain in attempting to escape, " all being despatched and
ended in the course of an hour." After a series of simi-
lar transactions, ^^ our soldiers," as the historian piously

282 The SketchrBook.

observes, '^ being resolved by God's assistance to make a
final destruction of them," the unhappy savages being
hunted from their homes and fortresses, and pursued with
fire and sword, a scanty, but gallant band, the sad remnant
of the Pequod warriors, with their wives and children, took
refuge in a swamp.

Burning with indignation, and rendered sullen by de-
spair ; with hearts bursting with grief at the destruction of
their tribe, and spirits galled and sore at the fancied igno-
miny of their defeat, they refused to ask their lives at
the hands of an insulting foe, and preferred death to
submission.

As the night drew on they were surrounded in their dis-
mal retreat, so as to render escape impracticable. Thus
situated, their enemy «^ plied them with shot all the time,
by which means many were killed and buried in the mire."
In the darkness and fog that preceded the dawn of day
some few broke through the besiegers and escaped into the
woods : " the rest were left to the conquerors, of which
many were killed in the swamp, like sullen dogs who would
rather, in their self- willedn ess and madness, sit still and be
shot through, or cut to pieces," than implore for mercy.
When the day broke upon this handful of forlorn but
dauntless spirits, the soldiers, we are told, entering the
swamp, " saw several heaps of them sitting close together,
upon whom they discharged their pieces, laden with ten
or twelve pistol bullets at a time, putting the muzzles of
the pieces under the boughs, within a few yards of them;
so as, besides those that were found dead, many more were
killed and sunk into the mire, and never were minded
more by friend or foe."

Can any one read this plain unvarnished tale, without
admiring the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the
loftiness of spirit, that seemed to nerve the hearts of these
self-taught heroes, and to raise them above the instinctive
feelings of human nature? When the Gauls laid waste
the city of Rome, they found the senators clothed in their
robesy afid seated with stern tranquillity in their curule
eburs} in this manner t\iey ^wffeved death without resist-

Traits of Indian Character. 283

ance or even sapplication. Such conduct was, in them,
applauded as noble and magnanimous; in the hapless
Indian it was reviled as obstinate and sullen ! How truly
are we the dupes of show and circumstance ! How dif-
ferent is virtue, clothed in purple and enthroned in state,
from virtue, naked and destitute, and perishing obscurely
in a wilderness !

But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The
eastern tribes have long since disappeared; the forests
that sheltered them have been laid low, and scarce any
traces remain of them in the thickly settled states of New
England, excepting here and there the Indian name of a
village or a stream. And such must, sooner or later, be
the fate of those other tribes which skirt the frontiers, and
have occasionally been inveigled from their forests to min-
gle in the wars of white men. In a little while, and they
will ffo the way that their brethren have gone before.
The few hordes which still linger about the shores of
Huron and Superior, and the tributary streams of the Mis-
sissippi, will share the fate of those tnbes that once spread
over Massachusetts and Connecticut, and lorded it along
the proud banks of the Hudson ; of that gigantic race said
to have existed on the borders of the Susquehanna; and of
those various nations that flourished about the Potomac
and the Rappahannock, and that peopled the forests of the
vast valley of Shenandoah. They will vanish like a vapor
from the face of the earth ; their very history will be lost
in forgetf ulness ; and " the places that now know them
will know them no more forever," Or if, perchance, some
dubious memorial of them should survive, it may be in the
romantic dreams of the poet, to people in imagination his
glades and groves, like the fauns and satyrs and sylvan
deities of antiquity. But should he venture upon the dark
story of their wrongs and wretchedness; should he tell
how they were invaded, corrupted, despoiled, driven from
their native abodes and the sepulchres of their fathers,
hunted like wild beasts about the earth, and sent down
with violence and butchery to the grave, posterity will
either turn with horror and incredulity from the tale, or

284

Tlie Sketch-Booh.

blush with indignation at the inhumanity of their fore-
fathers. — «* We are driven back," said an old warrior,
^< until we can retreat no farther — our hatchets are
broken, our bows are snapped, our fires are nearly extin-
guished : — a little longer, and the white man will cease to
persecute us — for we shall cease to exist! "

PHILIP OF POKANOKET.

AN INDIAN MEMOIB.

As monumental bronze unchanged his look ;
A soul that pity touchM, but never shook :
Trained from his tree-rockM cradle to his bier
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook
Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear —
A stoic of the woods -^ a man without a tear.

Campbell.

It is to be regretted that those early writers, who treated
of the discovery and settlement of America, have not
given us more particular and candid accounts of the re-
markable characters that flourished in savage life. The
scanty anecdotes which have reached us are full of pecul-
iarity and interest; they furnish us with nearer glimpses
of human nature, and show what man is in a comparatively
primitive state, and what he owes to civilization. There is
something of the charm of discovery in lighting upon these
wild and unexplored tracts of human nature ; in witness-
ing, as it were, the native growth of moral sentiment, and
Eerceiving those generous and romantic qualities which
ave been artificially cultivated by society, vegetating in
spontaneous hardihood and rude magnificence.

In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed almost
the existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of
his fellow-men, he is constantly acting a studied part. The
bold and peculiar traits of native character are refined
away, or softened down by the levelling influence of what
is termed good-breeding ; and he practises so many petty
deceptions, and affects so many generous sentiments, for
the purpose of popularity, that it is difl^cult to distinguish
his real from his artificial character. The Indian, on the
contrary, free from the restraints and refinements of pol-
ished life, and, in a great degrc^e, a solitary and independent

286

286 The Sketch^Book.

being, obeys the impulses of his inclination or the dictates
of his judgment ; and thus the attributes of his nature, be-
ing freely indulged, grow singly great and striking. Society
is like a lawn, where every roughness is smoothed^ every
bramble eradicated, and where the eye is delighted by the
smiling verdure of a velvet surface; he, however, who
would study nature in its wildness and variety, must plunge
into the forest, must explore the glen, must stem the tor-
rent, and dare the precipice.

These reflections arose on casually looking through a
volume of early colonial history, wherein are recorded,
with great bitterness, the outrages of the Indians, and their
wars with the settlers of New England. It is painful to
perceive even from these partial narratives, how the foot-
steps of civilization may be traced in the blood of the abo-
rigines; how easily the colonists were moved to hostility by
the lust of conquest : how merciless and exterminating was
their warfare. The imagination shrinks at the idea, how
many intellectual beings were hunted from the earth, how
many brave and noble hearts, of nature's sterling coinage,
were broken down and trampled in the dust.

Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an Indian
warrior, whose name was once a terror throughout Massa-
chusetts and Connecticut. He was the most distinguished
of a number of contemporary Sachems who reigned over
the Pequods, the Xarraganscts, the Wampanoags, and the
other eastern tribes, at the time of the first settlement of
Xew England ; a band of native untaught heroes, who made
the most generous struggle of which human nature is capa-
ble; fighting to the last gasp in the cause of their country,
without a hope of victory or a thought of renown. Worthy
of an age of poetry, and fit subjects for local story and
romantic fiction, they have left scarcely any authentic
traces on the page of history, but stalk, like gigantic shad-
ows, in the dim twilight of tradition.*

When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called

1 While correcting: the proof sheets of this article, the author is informed
that a celebrated Enplish poet has nearly Aiiished an heroic poem on the story
of Philip ot Pokanoket.

Philip of Pokanoket. 287

y their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the
few World, from the religious persecutions of the Old,
heir situation was to the last degree gloomy and disheart-
ning. Few in number, and that number rapidly perish-
]g away through sickness and hardships ; surrounded by

howling wilderness and savage tribes; exposed to the
[gors of an almost arctic winter, and the vicissitudes of an
ver-shifting climate ; their minds were filled with doleful
Drebodings, and nothing preserved them from sinking into
espondency but the strong excitement of religious enthu-
lasm. In this forlorn situation they were visited by Mas-
asoit, chief Sagamore of the Wampanoags, a powerful
hief, who reigned over a great extent of country. Instead
f taking advantage of the scanty number of the strangers,
nd expelling them from his territories, into which they
ad intruded, he seemed at once to conceive for them a
;enerous friendship, and extended towards them the rites
f primitive hospitality. He came early in the spring to
heir settlement of New Plymouth, attended by a mere
andful of followers, entered into a solemn league of peace
nd amity ; sold them a portion of the soil, and promised
J secure for them the good- will of his savage allies. What-
ver may be said of Indian perfidy, it is certain that the
itegrity and good faith of Massasoit have never been im-
cached. He continued a firm and magnanimous friend of
he white men ; suffering them to extend their possessions,
nd to strengthen themselves in the land ; and betraying no
ealousy of their increasing power and prosperity. Shortly
►efore his death, he came once more to New Plymouth, with
lis son Alexander, for the purpose of renewing the covenant
►f peace, and of securing it to his posterity.

At this conference he endeavored to protect the religion
►f his forefatHef 8 from the encroaching zeal of the mission-
,ries ; and stipulated that no further attempt should be
nade to draw off his people from their ancient faith ; but
inding the English obstinately opposed to any such condi-
ion, he mildly relinquished the demand. Almost the last
ict of his life was to brinir his two sons, Alexander and
Philip (as they had been named by the English), to the

288 The Sketch-Book,

residence of a principal settler, recommending mntaal kind-
ness and confidence ; and entreating that the same love and
amity which had existed between the white men and him-
self might be continued afterwards with his children. The
good old Sachem died in peace, and was happily gathered
to his fathers before sorrow came upon his tribe ; his chil-
dren remained behind to experience the ingratitude of white ^
men.

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of a
quick and im])etuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his
heredit;iry rights and dignity. The intrusive policy and
dictatorial conduct of the strangers excited his indignation ;
and ho beheld with uneasiness their exterminating wars
with the neighboring tribes. Ho was doomed soon to incnr
their hostility, being accused of plotting with the Xarragan-
sets to rise against the English and drive them from the
land. It is impossible to say whether this accusation was
warranted by facts or w^as grounded on mere suspicion. It
is evitlent, however, by the violent and overbearing meas-
ures of llie settlers, that they had by this time begun to
feel conscious of the rapid increase of their power, and to
grow harsh and inconsiderate in tlieir treatment of the
natives. They despatched an armed force to seize upon
Alexander, and to bring him before their courts. He was
tra(;ed to his woodland haunts, and surprised at a hunting
house, where he was reposing with a band of his followers,
unarmed, after the toils of the chase. The suddenness of
his arrest, and the outrage offered to his sovereign dignity,
so preyed upon the irascible feelings of this proud Havage,
as to throw him into a raging fever. He was permitted to
return home, on condition of sending his son as a pledge
for his reappearance : but the blow he had received was
fatal, and before he had reached his home he fell a victim
to the agonies of a wounded spirit.

The successor of Alexander was Metacomet, or King

Philip, as he was called by the settlers, on account of his

lofty spirit and ambitious temper. These, together with

his well-known energy and enterprise, had rendered him an

object of great jea\o\xa>f awd w^^\^W\\**u»u^ and he was

Philip of Pokanoket. 289

accused of having always cherished a secret and implaca-
ble hostility towards the whites. Such may very probably,
and very naturally, have been the case. He considered
them as originally but mere intruders into the country, who
had presumed upon indulgence, and were extending an in-
fluence baneful to savage life. He saw the whole race of
his countrymen melting before them from the face of the
earth; their territories slipping from their hands, and
their tribes becoming feeble, scattered and dependent. It
may be said that the soil was originally purchased by the
settlers; but who does not know the nature of Indian pur-
chases, in the early periods of colonization ? The Euro-
peans always made thrifty bargains through their superior
adroitness in traffic ; and they gained vast accessions of
territory by easily provoked hostilities. An uncultivated
savage is never a nice inquirer into the refinements of law,
by which an injury maybe gradually and legally inflicted.
Leading facts are all by which he judges ; and it was
enough for Philip to know that before the intrusion of the
Europeans his countrymen were lords of the soil, and that
now they were becoming vagabonds in the land of their
fathers.

But whatever may have been his feelings of general hos-
tility, and his particular indignation at the treatment of his
brother, he suppressed them for the present, renewed the
contract with the settlers, and resided peaceably for many

Sears at Pokanoket, or, as it was called by the EngUsh,
[ount Hope,^ the ancient seat of dominion of his tribe.
Suspicions, however, which were at first but vague and
indefinite, began to acquire form and substance; and he
was at length charged with attempting to instigate the vari-
ous eastern tribes to rise at once, and by a simultaneous
effort, to throw off the yoke of their oppressors. It is diffi-
cult at this distant period to assign the proper credit due to
these early accusations against the Indians. There ivas a
proneness to suspicion, and an aptness to acts of violence,
on the part of the whites, that gave weight and importance
to every idle tale. Informers abounded where talebearing

1 Now Bristol. Bliode UVan^

290 The Sketch-Book.

met with countenance and reward ; and the sword was
readily unsheathed when its success was certain, and it
carved out empire.

The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the
accusation of one Sausaman, a renegado Indian, whose nat-
ural cunning had been quickened by a partial education
which he had received among the settlers. He changed his
faith and his allegiance two or three times, with a facility
that evinced the looseness of his principles. He had acted
for some time as Philip's confidential secretary and coun-
sellor, and had enjoyed his bounty and protection. Find-
ing, however, that the clouds of adversity were gathering
round his patron, he abandoned his service and went over
to the whites ; and, in order to gain their favor, charged his
former benefactor with plotting against their safety. A
rigorous investigation took place. Philip and several of
his subjects submitted to be examined, but nothing was
proved against them. The settlers, however, had now gone
too far to retract ; they had previously determined that
Philip was a dangerous neighbor ; they had publicly evinced
their distrust; and had done enough to insure his hostility;
according, therefore, to the usual mode of reasoning in
these cases, his destruction had become necessary to their
security. Sausaman, the treacherous informer, was shortly
afterwards found dead, in a pond, ha\'ing fallen a victim to
the vengeance of his tribe. Three Indians, one of whom
was a friend and counsellor of Philip, were apprehended
and tried, and, on the testimony of one very questionable
witness, were condemned and executed as murderers.

This treatment of his subjects, and ignominious punish-
ment of his friend, outraged the pride and exasperated the \
passions of Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus at his
very feet awakened him to the gathering storm, and he
determined to trust himself no longer in the power of the
white men. The fate of his insulted and broken-hearted
brother still rankled in his mind ; and he had a further
warning in the tragical story of Miantonimo, a great Sachem
at the Narragansets, who, after manfully facing his accus-
ers before a tribunal oi titie coVoxiveX;^^ ^xQ,Ml^atin^ himself

I^hilip of Pokcmoket. 291

from a charge of conspiracy, and receiving assurances of
amity, had been perfidiously dispatched at their instigation.
Philip, therefore, gathered his fighting men about him;
persuaded all strangers that he could, to join his cause ;
sent the women and children to the Narragansets for
safety, and wherever he appeared, was continually sur-
rounded by armed warriors.

When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust and
irritation, the least spark was sufficient to set them in a
flame. The Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew
mischievous, and committed various petty depredations.
In one of their maraudings a warrior was fired on and killed
by a settler. This was the signal for open hostilities ; the
Indians pressed to revenge the death of their comrade,
and the alarm of war resounded through the Plymouth
colony.

In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy
times we meet with many indications of the diseased state
of the public mind. The gloom of religious abstraction,
and the wildness of their situation, among trackless for-
ests and savage tribes, had disposed the colonists to super-
stitious fancies, and had filled their imaginations with the
frightful chimeras of witchcraft and spectrology. They
were much given also to a belief in omens. The troubkMB
with Philip and his Indians were preceded, we are told, by
a variety of those awful warnings which forerun great and
public calamities. The perfect form of an Indian bow
appeared in the air at New Plymouth, which was looked
upon by the inhabitants as a " prodigious apparition." At
Iladley, Northampton, and other towns in their neighbor-
hood, " was heard the report of a great piece of ordnance,
with a shaking of the earth and a considerable echo."^
Others were alarmed on a still, sunshiny morning by the
discharge of guns and muskets; bullets seemed to whistle
past them, and the noise of drums resounded in the air,
seeming to pass away to the westward; others fancied that
they heard the galloping of horses over their heads ; and
certain monstrous births, which took place about the time,

^ The Bey. Increase Mathei'a VL\AVArj .

292 The Sketch-Book.

filled the superstitious in some towns with doleful forebod-
ings. Many of these portentous sights and sounds may be
ascribed to natural phenomena: to the northern lights
which occur vividly in those latitudes ; the meteors which
explode in the air ; the casual rushing of a blast through
the top branches of the forest ; the crash of fallen trees or
disrupted rocks ; and to those other uncouth sounds and ^
echoes which will sometimes strike the ear so strangely
amidst the profound stillness of woodland solitudes. These
may have startled some melancholy imaginations, may have
beei^ exaggerated by the love for the marvellous, and
listened to with that avidity with which we devour what-
ever is fearful and mysterious. The universal currency of
these superstitious fancies, and the grave record made of
them by one of the learned men of the day, are strongly
characteristic of the times.

The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too
often distinguishes the warfare between civilized men and
savages. On the part of the whites it was conducted with
superior skill and success ; but with a wastefulness of the
blood, and a disregard of the natural rights of their antag-
onists : on the part of the Indians it was waged with the
desperation of men fearless of death, and who had nothing
to expect from peace, but humiliation, dependence, and
decay.

The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy
clergyman of the time; who dwells with horror and indig-
nation on every hostile act of the Indians, however justifi-
able, whilst he mentions with applause the most sanguinary
atrocities of the whites. Philip is reviled as a murderer
and a traitor ; without considering that he was a true-bom
prince, gallantly fighting at the head of his subjects to
avenge the wrongs of his family ; to retrieve the tottering
power of his line ; and to deliver his native land from the
oppression of usurping strangers.

The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such
had really been formed, was worthy of a capacious n^ind,
andy had it not been prematurely discovered, might have
been overwhelming m \1^ (iOTis^Q^^\i^^%. TV^^ war that ac-

Philip of Pokanoket. 293

taally broke out was but a war of detaii, a mere succession
of casual exploits and unconnected enterprises. Still it sets
forth the military genius and daring prowess of Philip;
and wherever, in the prejudiced and passionate narrations
that have been given of it, we can arrive at simple facts, we
find him displaying a vigorous mind, a fertility of expe-
dients, a contempt of suffering and hardship, and an un-
conquerable resolution, that command our sympathy and
applause.

Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, be
threw himself into the depths of those vast and trackless
forests that skirted the settlements, and were almost imper-
vious to anything but a wild beast^ or an Indian. Here he
gathered together his forces, like the storm accumulating
its stores of mischief in the bosom of the thunder cloud, and
would suddenly emerge at a time and place least expected,
carrying havoc and dismay into the villages. There were
now and then indications of these impending ravages, that
filled the minds of the colonists with awe and apprehension.
The report of a distant gun would perhaps be heard from
the solitary woodland, where there was known to be no
white man ; the cattle which had been wandering in the
woods would sometimes return home wounded; or an Indian
or two would be seen lurking about the skirts of the for-
ests, and suddenly disappearing ; as the lightning will some-
times be seen playing silently about the edge of the cloud
that is brewing up the tempest.

Though sometime>i pursued and even surrounded by the
settlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost miraculously
from their toils, and, plunging into the wilderness, would
be lost to all search or inquiry, until he again emerged
at some far distant quarter, laying the country desolate.
Among his strongholds, were the great swamps or morasses,
which extend in some parts of New England ; composed of
loose bogs of deep black mud; perplexed with thickets,
brambles, rank weeds, the shattered and mouldering trunks
of fallen trees, overshadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The
uncertain footing and the tangled mazes of these shaggy
wilds, rendered them almost impracticable lo xVi^^Vicc^^^&as^^

294 The Sketch-BooJc.

though the Indian could thrid their labjTinths with th
agility of a deer. Into one of tliese, the great swamp c
Pocasset Neck, was Philip once driven with a band of hi
followers. The English did not dare to pursue him, feai
ingto venture into these dark and frightful recesses, wher
they might perish in fens and miry pits, or be shot dowi
by lurking foes. They therefore invested the entrance t<
the Neck, and began to build a fort, with the thought o
starving out the foe ; but Philip and his warriors wafte(
themselves on a raft over an arm of the sea, in the dead o;
the night, leaving the women and children behind; anc
escaped away to the westward, kindling the flames of wai
among the tribes of Massachusetts and the Nipmuck coun-
try, an<l threatening the colony of Connecticut.

In this way Philip became a theme of universal appre-
hension. The mystery in which he was enveloped exagger-
ated his real terrors. Tie was an evil that walked in
darkness ; whose coming none could foresee, and against
which none kneAV when to be on the alert. The whole coun-
try abounded with rumors and alarms. Philip seemed almost
l)Ossessed of ubiquity ; for, in w^hatever part of the widely
extended frontier an irruption from the forest took ])lace,
Philip was said to be its leader. IVFany superstitious no-
tions also were circulated concerning him. IIe^\is said
to deal in necromancv, and to be attended by an old Indian
w-itch or prophetess, whom he consulted, and |rho assisted
him by her charms and incantations. This indeed was fre-
quently the case with Indian chiefs; either through their
OAvn credulity, or to act upon that of their followei-s ; and
the influence of the prophet and the dreamer over Indian
superstition has been fully evidenced in recent instances oi
savage warfare.

At the time that Philip effected his escape from Pocasset,
his fortunes Avere in a desperate condition. His forces had
been thinned by repeated iiglits, and he had lost almost the
whole of his resources. In this time of adversity he found
a faithful friend in Canonchet, chief Sachem of all the Nar-
ragansets. He was the son and heir of Miantoninio, the
great Sachem, who, aa aXrea^^ tcl^wVvqvi^vI^ after an honor-

Philip of Pokanoket. 295

able acquittal of the charge of conspiracy, had been pri-
vately put to death at the perfidious instigations of the
settlers. " He was the heir," says the old chronicler, " of
all his father's pride and insolence, as well as of his malice
towards the English ; " j; — he certainly was the heir of his
insults and injuries, and the legitimate avenger of his mur-
der. Though he had forborne to take an active part in this
hopeless war, yet he received Philip and his broken forces-
with open arms ; and gave them the most generous counte-
nance and support. This at once drew upon him the hos-
tility of the English ; and it was determined to strike a
signal blow that should involve both the Sachems in one
common ruin. A great force was therefore gathered to-
gether from Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Connecticut, and
was sent into the Narraganset country in the depth of win-
ter, when the swamps, being frozen and leafless, could be
traversed with comparative facility^ and would no longer
afford dark and impenetrable fastnesses to the Indians.

Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the
greater part of his stores, together with the old, the infirm,
the women and children of his tribe, to a strong fortress ;
where he and Philip had likewise drawn up the flower of
their forces. This fortress, deemed by the Indians impreg-
nable, was situated upon a rising mound or kind of island,
of five or six acres, in the midst of a swamp ; it was con-
structed with a degree of judgment and skill vastly superior
to what is usually displayed in Indian fortification, and
indicative of the martial genius of these two chieftains.

Guided by a renegado Indian, the English penetrated,
through December snows, to this stronghold, and came upon
the garrison by surprise. The fight was fierce and tumul-
tuous. The assailants were repulsed in their first attack,
and several of their bravest officers were shot down in the
act of storming the fortress sword in hand. The assault
was renewed with greater success. A lodgment was effected.
The Indians were driven from one post to another. They
disputed their ground inch by inch, fighting with the fury
of despair. Most of their veterans were cut to pieces ; and
after a long and bloody battle, Philip aud. C^\iQli^^V^>^^

296 The Sketch-Book.

a handful of surviving warriors, retreated from the fort,
and took refuge in the thickets of the surrounding forest.

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort ; the
whole was soon in a blaze ; many of the old men, the
women, and the children perished in the flames. This last
outrage overcame even the stoicism of the savage. The
neighboring woods resounded with the yells of rage and
despair, uttered by the fugitive warriors, as they beheld
the destruction of their dwellings, and heard the agonizing
cries of their wives and offspring. " The burning of the
wigwams," says a contemporary writer, " the shrieks and
cries of the women and children, and the yelling of the war-
riors, exhibited a most horrible and affecting scene, so that
it greatly moved some of the soldiers." The same writer
cautiously adds, " they were in much doubt then, and after-
wards seriously inquired, whether burning their enemies
alive could be consistent with humanity, and the benevo-
lent principles of the Gospel." ^

The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy
of particular mention : the last scene of his life is one of
the noblest instances on record of Indian magnanimity.

Broken down in his power and resources by this signal
defeat, yet faithful to his ally, and to the hapless cause
which he had espoused, he rejected all overtures of peace,
offered on condition of betraying Philip and his followers,
and declared that ^'he would fight it out to the last man,
rather than become a servant to the English." His home
being destroyed, his country harassed and laid waste by
the incursions of the conquerors, he was obliged to wander
away to the banks of the Connecticut ; where he formed a
rallying point to the whole body of western Indians, and
laid waste several of the English settlements.

Early in the spring he departed on a hazardous expedi-
tion, with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Seaconck,
in the vicinity of Mount Hope, and to procure seed corn to
plant for the sustenance of his troops. This little band of
adventiu*ers had passed safely through the Pequod country,
and were in the centre of the Narraganset, resting at some

Philip of Pok<xnoket. 297

wigwams near Pawtucket River, when an alann was given
of an approaching enemy. Having but seven men by him
at the time, Canonchet despatched two of them to the top
of a neighboring hill, to bring intelligence of the foe.

Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of English and
Indians rapidlv advancing, they fled in breathless terror
past their chieftain, without stopping to inform him of the
danger. Canonchet sent another scout, who did the same.
He then sent two more, one of whom, hurrying back in
confusion and affright, told him that the whole British
army was at hand. Canonchet saw there was no choice
but immediate flight. He attempted to escape round the
hill, but was perceived and hotly pursued by the hostile
Indians and a few of the fleetest of the English. Finding
the swiftest pursuer close upon his heels, he threw off, flrst
his blanket, then his silver-laced coat and belt of peag, by
which his enemies knew him to be Canonchet, and
redoubled the eagerness of pursuit.

At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped
npon a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This
accident so struck him with despair, that, as he afterwards
confessed, ^' his heart and his bowels turned within him,
and he became like a rotten stick, void of strength."

To such a degree was he unnerved, that, being seized by
a Pequod Indian within a short distance of the river, he
made no resistance, though a man of great vigor of body
and boldness of heart. But on being made prisoner the
whole pride of his spirit arose within him ; and from that
moment, we find, in the anecdotes given by his enemies,
nothing but repeated flashes of elevated and prince-like
heroism. Being questioned by one of the English who first
came up with him, and who had attained his twenty-second
year, the proud-hearted warrior, looking with lofty con-
tempt upon his youthful countenance, replied, " You are a
child — you cannot understand matters of war — let your
brother or your chief come — him will I answer."

Though repeated offers were made to him of his life, on
condition of submitting with his nation to the English, yet
he rejected them with disdain, and refused to send any pro-

298 The Sketch-Book.

posals of the kind to the great body of his subjects ; saying,
that he knew none of them would comply. Being re-
proached with his breach of faith towards the whites ; his
boast that he would not deliver up a Wampanoag nor the
paring of a Wampanoag^s nail ; and his threat that he would
burn the English alive in their houses; he disdained to
justify himself, haughtily answering that others were as
forward for the war as himself, and ^< he desired to hear no
more thereof."

So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to his
cause and his friend, might have touched the feelings of
the generous and the brave ; but Canonchet was an Indian ;

. a benig towards whom war had no courtesy, humanity no
law, religion no compassion — he was condemned to die.
The last words of him that are recorded, are worthy the
greatness of his soul. When sentence of death was passed
upon him, he observed "that he liked it well, for he should
die before his heart was soft, or he had spoken anything
unworthy of himself." His enemies gave him the death
of a soldier, for he was shot at Stoningham, by three young
Sachems of his own rank.

The defeat at the Narraganset fortress, and the death of
Canonchet, Avere fatal blows to the fortunes of King Philip.
He made an ineffectual attempt to raise a head of war, by
stirring up the Mohawks to take arms ; but though pos-
sessed of the native talents of a statesman, his arts were
counteracted by the superior arts of his enlightened enemies,
and the terror of their warlike skill began to subdue the
resolution of the neighboring tribes. The unfortunate chief-
tain saw himself daily stri[)ped of power, and his ranks rap-
idly thinning around him. Some were suborned by the
whites ; others fell victims to hunger and fatigue, and to
the frequent attacks by which they were harassed. His
stores were all captured ; his chosen friends were swept
away from before his eyes ; his uncle was shot down by his
side ; his sister was carried into captivity ; and in one of
his narrow escapes he was compelled to leave his beloved
wile and only son to the mercy of the enemy. " His ruin,"

stajps the historian, ^^\>emg tW^ ^x^^>3a.VV^ Q.arried on, his

Philip of Pokanohet. 299

misery was not prevented, bat augmented thereby, being
himself made acquainted with the sense and experimental
feeling of the captivity of bis children, loss of friends,
slaughter of his subjects, bereavement of all family rela-
tions, and being stripped of all outward comforts, before
his own life should be taken away."

To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his own follow-
ers began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing him
they might purchase dishonorable safety. Through treach-
ery a number of his faithful adherents, the subjects of
Wetaraoe, an Indian princess of Pocasset, a near kinswoman
and confederate of Philip, were betrayed into the hands of
the enemy. Wetamoe was among them at the time, and at-
tempted to make her escape by crossing a neighboring river :
either exhausted by swimming, or starved by cold and hun-
ger, she was found dead and naked near the water side.
But persecution ceased not at the grave. Even death, the
refuge of the wretched, where the wicked commonly cease
from troubling, was no protection to this outcast female,
whose great crime was affectionate fidelity to her kinsman
and her friend. Her corpse was the object of unmanly and
dastardly vengeance ; the head was severed from the body
and set upon a pole, and was thus exposed at Taunton, to
the view of her captive subjects. They immediately rec-
ognized the features of their unfortunate queen, and were
so affected by this barbarous spectacle, that we are told they
broke forth into the '^ most hori-id and diabolical lamenta-
tions."

However Philip had borne up against the complicated
miseries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treach-
ery of his followers seemed to wring his heart and reduce
him to despondency. It is said that "he never rejoiced
afterwards, nor had success in any of his designs." The
spring of hope was broken — the ardor of enterprise was
extinguished — he looked around, and all was danger and
darkness ; there was no eye to pity, nor any arm that could
bring deliverance. With a scanty band of followers, who
still remained true to his desperate fortunes, the unhappy
Philip wandered back to the vicinity of Mount Hope, the

800 Ths Sketch-Book.

ancient dwelling of his fathers. Here he larked about, like
a spectre, among the scenes of former power and prosperity,
now bereft of home, of family and friend. There needs no
better picture of his destitute and piteous situation, than
that furnished by the homely pen of the chronicler, who is
unwarily enlisting the feelings of the reader in favor of the
hapless warrior whom he reviles. " Philip," he says, « like
a savage wild beast, having been hunted by the English
forces through the woods, above a hundred miles backward
and forward, at last was driven to his own den upon Mount
Hope, where he retired, with a few of his best friends, into
a swamp, which proved but a prison to keep him fast till
the messengers of death came by divine permission to exe-
cute vengeance upon him.*'

Even in this last refuge of desperation and despair, a sul-
len grandeur gathers around his memory. We picture him
to ourselves seated among his care-worn followers, brood-
ing in silence over his blasted fortunes, and acquiring a
savage sublimity from the wildness and dreariness of his
lurking-place. Defeated, but not dismayed — crushed to
the earth, but not humiliated — he seemed to grow more
haughty beneath disaster, and to experience a fierce satis-
faction in draining the last dregs of bitterness. Little
minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune; but great
minds rise above it. The very idea of submission awakened
the fury of Philip, and he smote to death one of his follow-
ers, who proposed an expedient of peace. The brother of
the victim made his escape, and in revenge betrayed the
retreat of his chieftain. A body of white men and Indians
were immediately despatched to the swamp where Philip
lay crouched, glaring with fury and despair. Before he
was aware of their approach, they had begun to surround
him. In a little while he saw five of his trustiest followers
laid dead at his feet ; all resistance w^as vain ; he rushed
forth from his covert, and made a headlong attempt to
escape, but was shot through the heart by a renegade
Indian of his own nation.

Such is the scanty story of the brave, but unfortunate
King Philip ; persecuted while living, slandered and dis-

Philip of Pokanoket. 301

honored when dead. If, however, we consider even the
prejudiced anecdotes furnished us hy his enemies, we may
perceive in them traces of amiahle and lofty character suf-
ficient to awaken sympathy for his fate, and respect for his
memory. We find that, amidst all the harassing cares and
ferocious passions of constant warfare, he was alive to the
softer feelings of connuhial love and paternal tenderness,
and to the generous sentiment of friendship. The captivity
of his "beloved wife and only son '' are mentioned with ex-
ultation as causing him poignant misery : the death of any
near friend is triumphantly recorded as a new blow on his
sensibilities ; but the treachery and desertion of many of
t his followers, in whose affections he had confided, is said to
' have desolated his heart, and to have bereaved him of all
further comfort. He was a patriot attached to his native
soil — a prince true to his subjects, and indignant of their
wrongs — a soldier, daring in battle, firm in adversity,
patient of fatigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily
suffering, and ready to perish in the cause he had espoused.
Proud of heart, and with an untamable love of natural
liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among the beasts of the
forests or in the dismal and famished recesses of swamps
and morasses, rather than bow his haughty spirit to sub-
mission, and live dependent and despised in the ease and
luxury of the settlements. With heroic qualities and bold
achievements that would have graced a civilized warrior,
and have rendered him the theme of the poet and the his-
torian ; he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native
land, and went down, like a lonely bark foundering amid
darkness and tempest — without a pitying eye to weep his
fall, or a friendly hand to record his struggle.

JOHN BULL.

An old song, made by an aged old pate,
Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate.
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rato,
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate.
With an old study iiird full of learned old books,
With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by bis lookB,
With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks,
And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks.

Like an old courtier, etc.

Old Soiro.

There is no species of humor in which the English more
excel, than that which consists in caricaturing and giving
ludicrous appellations, or nicknames. In this way they
have whimsically designated, not merely individuals, but
nations ; and, in their fondness for pushing a joke, they
have not spared even themselves. One would think that,
in personifying itself, a nation would be apt to picture
something grand, heroic, and imposing; but it is character-
istic of the peculiar humor of the English, and of their
love for what is blunt, comic, and familiar, that they have
embodied their national oddities in the figure of a sturdy,
corpulent old fellow, with a three-cornered hat, red waist-
coat, leather breeches, and stout oaken cudgel. Thus they
have taken a singular delight in exhibiting their most pri-
vate foibles in a laughable point of view ; and have been
so successful in their delineations, that there is scarcely a
being in actual existence more absolutely present to the
public mind than that eccentric personage, John Bull.

Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character
thus drawn of them has contributed to fix it upon the
nation ; and thus to give reality to what at first may have
been painted in a great measure from the imagination.
Men are apt to acquire peculiarities that are continually
ascribed to them. The common orders of English seem

302

John JBtdl. 803

wonderfully captivated with the beau ideal which they have
formed of John Bull, and endeavor to act up to the broad
caricature that is perpetually before their eyes. Unluckily,
they sometimes make their boasted Bull-ism an apology for
their prejudice and grossness ; and this I have especially no-
ticed among those truly homebred and genuine sons of the
soil who have never migrated beyond the sound of Bow-
bells. If one of these should be a little uncouth in speech,
and apt to utter impertinent truths, he confesses that he is
a real John Bull, and always speaks his mind. If he now
and then flies into an unreasonable burst of passion about
>/trifles, he observes, that John Bull is a choleric old blade,
but then his passion is over in a moment, and he bears no
malice. If he betrays a coarseness of taste, and an insen-
sibility to foreign refinements, he thanks heaven for his
ignorance — he is a plain John Bull, and has no relish for
frippery and nicknacks. His very proneness to be gulled
by strangers, and to pay extravagantly for absurdities, is
excused under the plea of munificence — for John is always
more generous than wise.

Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive to
argue every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict him-
self of being the honestest fellow in existence.

However little, therefore, the character may have suited
in the first instance, it has gradually adapted itself to the
nation, or rather they have adapted themselves to each
other ; and a stranger who wishes to study English pecu-
liarities, may gather much valuable information from the
innumerable portraits of John Bull, as exhibited in the
windows of the caricature-shops. Still, however, he is one
of those fertile humorists, that are continually throwing
out new portraits, and presenting different aspects from
different points of view; and, often as he has been de-
scribed, I cannot resist the temptation to give a slight
sketch of him, such as he has met my eye.

John Bull, to all appearances, is a plain downright matter-
of-fact fellow, with much less of poetry about him than rich
prose. There is little of romance in his nature, but a vast
deal of strong natural feeling. He excels in humor more

304 TIhe SketchrBook.

than in wit ; is jolly rather than gay : melancholy rather
than morose ; can easily be moved to a sudden tear, or sur-
prised into a broad laugh ; but he loathes sentiment, and
has no turn for light pleasantry. He is a boon companion,
if you allow him to have his humor, and to talk about him-
self; and he will stand by a friend in a quarrel, with life
and purse, however soundly he may be cudgelled.

In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propensity
to be somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded personage,
who thinks not merely for himself and family, but for all the
country round, and is most generously disposed to be every-
body's champion. He is continually volunteering his ser-
vices to settle his neighbors' affairs, and takes it in great
dudgeon if they engage in any matter of consequence with-
out asking his advice ; though he seldom engages in any
friendly office of the kind without finishing by getting into
a squabble with all parties, and then railing bitterly at their
ingratitude. He unluckily took lessons in his youth in the
noble science of defence, and having accomplished himself
in the use of his limbs and his weapons, and become a per-
fect master at boxing and cudgel-play, he has had a trouble-
some life of it ever since. He cannot hear of a quarrel
between the most distant of his neighbors, but he begins
incontinently to fumble with the head of bis cudgel, and
consider whether his interest or honor does not require that
he should meddle in the broil. Indeed he has extended his
relations of pride and policy so completely over the whole
country, that no event can take place, without infringing
some of his finely-spun rights and dignities. Couched in
his little domain, with these filaments stretching forth in
every direction, he is like some choleric, bottle-bellied old
spider, who has woven his web over a whole chamber, so
that a fly cannot buzz, nor a breeze blow, without startling
his repose, and causing him to sally forth wrathfully from
his den.

Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fellow
at bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the midst
of contention. It is one of his peculiarities, however, that
he only relishes the beginning of an affray ; he always goes

John BuU. 306

into a fight with alacrity, but comes out of it grambling
even when victorious ; and though no one iights with more
obstinacy to carry a contested point, yet when the battle
is over, and he comes to the reconciliation, he is so much
taken up with the mere shaking of hands, that he is apt to
let his antagonist pocket all that they have been quarrel-
ling about. It is not, therefore, fighting that he ought so
much to be on his guard against, as making friends. It is
difficult to cudgel him out of a farthing ; but put him in a
good humor, and you may bargain him out of all the money
in his pocket. He is like a stout ship, which will weather
the roughest storm uninjured, but roll its masts overboard
in the succeeding calm.

He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad ; of
pulling out a long purse ; flinging his money bravely about
at boxing matches, horse races, cock fights, and carrying a
high head among ''gentlemen of the fancy:" but immedi-
ately after one of these fits of extravagance, he will be
taken with violent qualms of economy ; stop short at the
most trivial expenditure ; talk desperately of being ruined
and brought upon the parish ; and, in such moods, will not
pay the smallest tradesman's bill, without violent alterca-
tion. He is in fact the most punctual and discontented
paymaster in the world ; drawing his coin out of his
breeches pocket with infinite reluctance; paying to the
uttermost farthing, but accompanying every guinea with
a growl.

With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful
provider, and a hospitable housekeeper. His economy is
of a whimsical kind, its chief object being to devise how he
may afford to be extravagant ; for he will begrudge himself
a beefsteak and pint of port one day, that he may roast
an ox whole, broach a hogshead of ale, and treat all his
neighbors on the next.

His domestic establishment is enormously expensive : not
so much from any great outward parade, as from the great
consumption of solid beef and pudding ; the vast number
of followers he feeds and clothes ; and his singular dispo-
sition to pay hugely for small services. He is a most kind

306 Tlie Sketch-Book.

and indulgent master, and, provided his servants humor his
peculiarities, flatter his vanity a little now and then, and
do not peculate grossly on him before hb face, they may
manage him to perfection. Everything that lives on him
seems to thrive and grow fat. His house-servants are well
paid, and pampered, and have little to do. His horses are
sleek and lazy, and prance slowly before his state carriage;
and his house-dogs sleep quietly about the door, and will
hardly bark at a house-breaker.

His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house, gray
with age, and of a most venerable, though weather-beaten
appearance. It has been built upon no regular plan, but is
a vast accumulation of parts, erected in various tastes and
ages. The centre bears evident traces of Saxon architec-
ture, and is as solid as ponderous stone and old English oak
can make it. Like all the relics of that style, it is full
of obscure passages, intricate mazes, and dusky chambers;
and though these have been partially lighted up in modem
days, yet there are many places where you must still grope
in the dark. Additions have been made to the original
edifice from time to time, and great alterations have taken
place ; towers and battlements have been erected during
wars and tumults : wings built in time of peace ; and out-
houses, lodges, and offices, run up according to the whim or
convenience of different generations, until it has become
one of the most spacious, rambling tenements imaginable.
An entire wing is taken up with the family chapel, a rever-
end pile, that must have been exceedingly sumptuous, and,
indeed, in spite of having been altered and simplified at
various periods, has still a look of solemn religious pomp.
Its walls within are storied with the monuments of John's
ancestors ; and it is snugly fitted up with soft cushions and
well-lined chairs, where such of his familv as are inclined
to church services, may doze comfortably in the discharge of
their duties.

To keep up this chapel has cost John much money ; but
he is staunch in his religion, and piqued in his zejJ, from
the circumstance that many dissenting chapels have been
erected in his vicinity, and several of his neighbors, with
whom he has had quarrels, are strong papists.

John BuU. 307

To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, at a large
expense, a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a most
learned and decorous personage, and a truly well-bred
Christian, who always backs the old gentleman in his opin-
ions, winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, rebukes the
children when refractory, and is of great use in exhorting
the tenants to read their Bibles, say their prayers, and,
above all, to pay their rents punctually, and without
grumbling.

The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste,
somewhat heavy, and often inconvenient, but full of the
solemn magnificence of former times; fitted up with rich,
though faded tapestry, unwieldy furniture, and loads of
massy gorgeous old plate. The vast fireplaces, ample
kitchens, extensive cellars, and sumptuous banqueting
halls, all speak of the roaring hospitality of days of yore,
of which the modern festivity at the manor-house is but
a shadow. There are, however, complete suites of rooms
apparently deserted and time-worn ; and towers and tur-
rets that are tottering to decay ; so that in high winds there
is danger of their tumbling about the ears of the house-
hold.

John has frequently been advised to have the old edifice
thoroughly overhauled ; and to have some of the useless
parts pulled down, and the others strengthened with their
materials ; but the old gentleman always grows testy on
this subject. lie swears the house is an excellent house —
that it is tight and weather proof, and not to be shaken ^y
tempests — that it has stood for several hundred years, and,
therefore, is not likely to tumble down now — that as to its
being inconvenient, his family is accustomed to the incon-
veniences, and would not be comfortable without them —
that as to its unwieldy size and irregular construction, these
result from its being the growth of centuries, and being
improved by the wisdom of every generation — that an old
fandily, like his, requires a large house to dwell in ; new,
upstart families may live in modern cottages and snug
boxes; but an old English family should inhabit an old
English manor-house. If you point out any part of the

308 Tlie Sketch-Book.

building as superfluous, he insists that it is material to the
strength or decoration of the rest, and the harmony of the
whole ; and swears that the parts are so built into each
other, that if you pull down one, you run the risk of having
the whole about your ears.

The secret of the matter is, that John has a great dispo-
sition to protect and patronize. He thinks it indispensable
to the dignity of an ancient and honorable family, to be
bounteous in its appointments, and to be eaten up by
dependents ; and so, partly from pride, and partly from
kindheartedness, he makes it a rule always to give shelter
and maintenance to his superannuated servants.

The consequence is, that, like many other venerable
family establishments, his manor is encumbered by old
retainers whom he cannot turn off, and an old style which
he cannot lay down. Ilis mansion is like a great hospital of
invalids, and, with all its magnitude, is not a whit too large
for its inhabitants. Not a nook or corner but is of use in
housing some useless personage. Groups of veteran beef-
eaters, gouty pensioners, and retired heroes of the buttery
and the larder, arc seen lolling about its walls, crawling over
its lawns, dozing under its trees, or sunning themselves upon
the benches at its doors. Every office and out-house is
garrisoned by these 8ui>ernumeraries and their families ; for
they are amazingly prolific, and when they die off, are sure
to leave John a legacy of hungry mouths to be provided for.
A mattock cannot be struck against the most mouldering
tumble-down tower, but out pops, from some cranny or loop-
hole, the gray pate of some superannuated hanger-on, who
has lived at John's expense all his life, and makes the most
grievous outcry at their pulling down the. roof from over
the head of a worn-out servant of the family. This is an
apj)eal that John's honest heart never can withstand ; so
that a man, who has faithfully eaten his beef and pudding
all his life, is sure to be rewarded with a pipe and tankard
in his old days.

A great part of his park, also, is turned into paddocks,
where his broken-down chargers are turned loose to graze
undisturbed for the remainder of their existence — a worthy

John BuU. 309

example of grateful recollection, which if some of his neigh-
bors were to imitate, would not be to their discredit. In-
deed, it is one of his great pleasures to point out these old
steeds to his visitors, to dwell on their good qualities, extol
their past services, and boast, with some little vainglory, of
the perilous adventures and hardy exploits through which
they have carried him.

He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for family
usages, and family incumbrances, to a whimsical extent.
His manor is infested by gangs of gypsies ; yet he will not
suffer them to be driven off, because they have infested the ^
place time out of mind, and been regular poachers upon
every generation of the family. He will scarcely permit a
dry branch to be lopped from the great trees that surround
the house, lest it should molest the rooks, that have bred
there for centuries. Owls have taken possession of the
dovecote ; but they are hereditary owls, and must not be
disturbed. Swallows have nearly choked up every chimney
with their nests ; martins build in every frieze and cornice ;
crows flutter about the towers, and perch on every weather-
cock; and old gray-headed rats may be seen in every
quarter of the house, running in and out of their holes un-
dauntedly in broad daylight. In short, John has such a
reverence for everything that has been long in the family,
that he will not hear even of abuses being reformed,
because they are good old family abuses.

All these whims and habits have concurred woefully to
drain the old gentleman's purse ; and as he prides himself
on punctuality in money matters, and wishes to maintain
his credit in the neighborhood, they have caused him great
perplexity in meeting his engagements. This, too, has been
increased by the altercations and heart-burnings which are
continually taking place in his family. His children have
been brought up to different callings, and are of different
ways of thinking ; and as they have always been allowed
to speak their minds freely, they do not fail to exercise the
privilege most clamorously in the present posture of his
affairs. Some stand up for the honor of the race, and are
clear that the old establishment should be kept up in all its

310 The Sketch^Book.

state, whatever maybe the cost; others, who are more pru-
dent and considerate, entreat the old gentleman to retrench
his expenses, and to put his whole system of housekeeping
on a more moderate footing. He has, indeed, at times,
seemed inclined to listen to their opinions, but their whole-
some advice has been completely defeated by the obstreper-
ous conduct of one of his sons. This is a noisy, rattle-pated
fellow, of rather low habits, who neglects his business to
frequent ale-houses — is the orator of village clubs, and a
complete oracle among the poorest of his father's tenants.
No sooner does he hear any of his brothers mention reform
or retrenchment, than up he jumps, takes the words out of
their mouths, and roars out for an overturn. When his
tongue is once going nothing can stop it. He rants about
the room ; hectors the old man about his spendthrift prac-
tices; ridicules his tastes and pursuits; insists that he shall
turn tlie old servants out of doors ; give the broken-down
horses to the hounds ; sei>d the fat chaplain packing, and
take a field preacher in his place — nay, that the whole
family mansion shall be levelled with the ground, and a
plain one of brick and mortar built in its place. He raik
at every social entertainment and family festivity, and skulks
away growling to the ale-house whenever an equipage drives
up to the door. Though constantly complaining of the
emptiness of his purse, yet he scruples not to spend all his
pocket-money in these tavern convocations, and even runs
up scores for the liquor over which he preaches about his
father's extravagance.

It may readily be imagined how little such thwartmg
agrees with the old cavalier's fiery temperament- He has
become so irritable, from repeated crossings, that the mere
mention of retrenchment or reform is a signal for a brawl
between him and the tavern oracle. As the latter is too
sturdy and refractory for paternal discipline, having grown
out of all fear of the cudgel, they have frequent scenes of
wordy warfare, which at times run so high, that John u
fain to call in the aid of his son Tom, an officer who has
served abroad, but is at present living at home on half-pay.
This last is sure to stand by the old gentleman, right or

JohnBvR. 311

wrong; likes nothing so much as a racketing, roystering
life ; and is ready at a wink or nod, to out sabre, and flour-
ish it over the orator's head, if he dares to array himself
against paternal authority.

These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad, and
are rare food for scandal in John's neighborhood. People
begin to look wise, and shake their heads, whenever his
affairs are mentioned. They all " hope that matters are not
80 bad with him as represented; but when a man's own
children begin to rail at his extravagance, things must be
badly managed. They understand he is mortgaged over
head and ears, and is continually dabbling with money
lenders. He is certainly an open-handed old gentleman,
but they fear he has lived too fast ; indeed, they never
knew any good come of this fondness for hunting, racing,
revelling, and prize-fighting. In short, Mr. Bull's estate is
a very line one, and has been in the family a long time ;
but, for all that, they have known many finer estates come
to the hammer."

What is worst of all, is the effect which these pecuniary
embarrassments and domestic feuds have had on the poor
man himself. Instead of that jolly round corporation, and
smug rosy face, which he used to present, he has of late
become as shrivelled and shrunk as a frost-bitten apple.
His scarlet gold-laced waistcoat, which bellied out so
bravely in those prosperous days when he sailed before the
wind, now hangs loosely about him like a mainsail in a
calm. His leather breeches are all in folds and wrinkles,
and apparently have much ado to hold up the boots that
yawn on both sides of his once sturdy legs.

Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his three-
cornered hat on one side ; flourishing his cudgel, and bring-
ing it down every moment with a hearty thump upon the
ground ; looking every one sturdily in the face, and trolling
out a stave of a catch or a drinking song ; he now goes
about whistling thoughtfully to himself, with his head
drooping down, his ctidgel tucked under his arm, and his
hands thrust to the bottom of his breeches poekets, which
are evidently empty.

312 , Tlve Sketch-Book.

Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present ; yet
for all this the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant as
ever. If you drop the least expression of sympathy or con-
cern, he takes fire in an instant ; swears that he is the rich-
est and stoutest fellow in the country ; talks of laying out
large sums to adorn his house or buy another estate ; and
with a valiant swagger and grasping of his cudgel, longs
exceedingly to have another bout at quarter-staff.

Though there may be something rather whimsical in all
this, yet I confess I cannot look upon John's situation with-
out strong feelings of interest. With all his odd humors
and obstinate prejudices, he is a sterling-hearted old blade,
lie may not be so wonderfully fine a fellow as he thinks
himself, but he is at least twice as good as his neighbors
represent him. His virtues are all his own ; all plain,
homebred, and unaffected. His verv faults smack of the
raciness of his good qualities. Ilis extravagance savors of
his generosity; his quarrelsomeness of his courage; his
credulity of his open faith; his vanity of his pride; and his
bluntness of his sincerity. They are all the redundancies
of a rich and liberal character. lie is like his own oak,
rough without, but sound and solid within ; whose bark
abounds with excrescences in proportion to the growth and
grandeur of the timber ; and whose branches make a fear-
ful groaning and murmuring in the least storm, from their
very magnitude and luxuriance. There is something, too,
in the appearance of his old family mansion that is ex-
tremely poetical and picturesque ; and, as long as it can be
rendered comfortably habitable, I should almost tremble to
see it meddled with, during the present conflict of tastes
and opinions. Some of his advisers are no doubt good
architects, that might be of service ; but many, I fear, are
mere levellers, who, when they had once got to work with
their mattocks on this venerable edifice, would never stop
until they had brought it to the ground, and perhaps buried
themselves among the ruins. All that I wish is, that John's
present troubles may teach him more prudence in future;
that he may cease to distress his mind about other people's
affairs ; that ho may give up the fruitless attempt to pro-

John BvXl.

818

mote the good of his neighbors, and the peace and happiness
of the world, by dint of the oudgel ; that he may remain
quietly at home ; gradually get his house into repair ; cul-
tivate his rich estate according to his fancy ; husband his
income — if he thinks proper ; bring his unruly children
into order — if he can ; renew the jovial scenes of ancient
prosperity ; and long enjoy, on his paternal lands, a green,
an honorable, and a merry old age.

THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE.

May no wolfe howle; or screech-owle stir

A wing about thy sepulcherl

No boysterouso winds or stormes come hither.

To starve or wither
Thy soft swceteiirthl but, like a spring,
Love keep it ever flourishing.

Hebbick.

In the course of an excursion through one of the remote
counties of England, I had struck into one of those cross-
roads that lead through the more secluded parts of the
country, and stopped one afternoon at a village, the situa-
tion of which was beautifully rural and retired. 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 determined to pass the night there, and having taken bd
early dinner, strolled out to enjoy the neighboring scenery. .

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 Jin object of some curiosity, its
old tower being completely overrun with ivy, so that only
here and there a jutting buttress, an angle of gray wall, or
a fantastically carved ornament, peered through the ver-
dant covering. It was a lovely evening. The early part of
the day had been dark and showery, but in the afternoon it
had cleared up ; find though sullen clouds still hung over-
head, 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 with 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 decline, an assurance that he will rise again
io glory.

Th^ Pride of the Villaye. 815

I had seated myself on a half-sunken tombstone, and was
musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted hour, on
past scenes and early friends — on those who were 'distant
and those who were dead — and indulging in that kind of
melancholy fancying, which has in it something sweeter
even than pleasure. Every now and then, the stroke of a
bell from the neighboring tower fell on my ear ; its tones
were in unison with the scene, 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 new
tenant of the tomb.

Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village
green ; it wound slowly along a lane ; was lost, and reap-
peared 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
flowers ; a token that the deceased was a young and un-
married female. The corpse was followed by the parents.
They were a venerable couple of the better order of peas-
antry. The father seemed to repress his feelings ; but his
fixed eye, contracted brow, and deeply furrowed face, showed
the struggle that was passing within. His wife hung on
his arm, and wept aloud with the convulsive bursts of a
mother's sorrow.

I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was
placed in the centre aisle, and the chaplet of white flowers,
with a pair of white gloves, were 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 never to have followed
some one he has loved to the tomb ? but when performed
over the remains of innocence and beauty, thus laid low in
the bloom of existence — what can be more affecting ? At
that simple, but most solemn consignment of the body to
the grave — " Earth to earth — ashes to ashes — dust to
dust I" — the tears of the youthful companions of the
deceased flowed unrestrained. The father still seemed to
struggle with his feelings, and to comfort himself with the

316 The SkeichrBookr-^

assurance, that the dead are blessed which die in the Lord ;
but the mother only thought of her child as a flower of the
field cut down and withered in the midst of its sweetness;
she was like Rachel, "mourning over Ber children, and
would not be comforted."

On returning to the inn, I learned the whole story of the
deceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often been
told. IShe had been tlie beauty and pride of the village.
Iler father had once been an opulent farmer, but was
reduced in circumstances. This was an only child, and
brought uj) entirely at home, in the simplicity of rursd life.
She had been the pupil of the village pastor, the favorite
lamb of his little flock. 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 ornament to her station in life, not to raise
her above it. The tenderness and indulgence of her par-
ents, and the exemption from all ordinary occupations, had
fostered a natural grace and delicacy of character, that
accorded with the fragile loveliness of her form. She
appeared like some tender plant of the garden, blooming
accidentally amid the hardier natives of the fields.

The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged
by her conipanionSi, but without envy; for it was surpassed
by the unassuming gentleness and winning kindness of her
manners. It might be truly said of her:

'* This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever
Kan on the green-sward; nothing she does or seems.
But smacks of something greater than herself;
Too noble for this phice.''

The village was one of those sequestered spots, which still
retain some vcsti<:jes of old English customs. It had its
rural festivals and holiday pastimes, and still kept up some
faint observance of the once popular rites of May. These,
indi'cd, had been promoted by its present pastor, who was
a lover of old customs, and one of those simple Christians
that think their mission ful tilled by promoting joy on earth
and good-will among mankind, lender his auspices the
May-pole stood from year to year in the centre of the vil-

The PHde of the Village. 317

lage green; on May-day it was decorated with garlands
and streamers; and a queen or lady of the May was
appointed, as in former times, to preside at the sports, and
distribute the prizes and rewards. The picturesque situa-
tion of the village, and the fancifulness of its rustic fetes,
would oftep attract the notice of casual visitors. Among
these, on one May-day, was a young officer, whose regiment
had been recently quartered in the neighborhood. He was
charmed with the native taste that pervaded this village
pageant; but, above all, with the dawning loveliness of tlie
queen of May. It was the village favorite, who was
crowned with flowers, and blushing and smiling in all the
beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence and 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 officers are too apt to trifle with rustic simplicity.

There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm.
He never even talked of love : but there are modes of mak-
ing it more eloquent than language, and which convey it
Bubtilely and irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the
eye, the tone of the voice, the thousand tendernesses which
emanate from every word, and look, and action — these
form the true eloquence of love, and can always be felt
and understood, but never described. Can we wonder that
they should readily win a heart, young, guileless, and sus-
ceptible? As to her, she loved almost unconsciously ; she
scarcely inquired what was the growing passion that was
absorbing every thought and feeling, or what were to be
its consequences. She, indeed, looked not to the future.
When present, bis looks and words occupied her whole
attention; when absent, she thought but of what had
passed at their recent interview. She would wander with
him through the green lanes and rural scenes of the vicinity.
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 romance and poetry.

Perhaps there could not have been a passion, between
the sexes, more pure than this innocent gii'Fs. The gallant

.r-y^

318 T/ie Skttch'Book.

figure of her youthful admirer, and the splendor of his mil-
it^iry attire, miglit iirst have charmed her eye; but it was
not these tliat had oa])tivated her heart. Her attachment
had soinetliing in it of idolatry. She looked up to him as
to a being of a superior order. She felt in his society the I
entliusiasm (»f a mind naturally delicate and poetical, and \
now Iirst awakened to a keen perception of the beautiful J
and grand. Of the sordid distinctions of rank and fortune
she thought nothing ; it was the difTereuce of intellect, of
demeanor, of manners, from those of the rustic society to
which she liad been accustome<l, that elevated him in her
opinion. She would listen to him with charmed car and
downcast look of mute delight, and her cheek would mantle
with 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 comparative
un worthiness.

Jler lover was equally impassioned ; but his passion was
minglcMl with feelings of a coarser nature. lie liad begun
thectumection in levity; for he had often heard his brother
ollicers boast of their village conquests, and thought some
trium})h of the kind necessary to his reputation as a man of
spirit. l>ut he was too full of youthful fervor. His heart
had not yet been rendered suHiciently cold and selfish by a
wandering and a dissijKited life: it caught lire fr<»m the
verv llanic it soujxht to kindle; and before he was aware of
the nature of his situation, he became really m love.

What was he to doV There were the old ol>stacle<
which so incessantly occur in these heedless attachments.
His rank in life — the prejudices of titled connections — I
his dependence <m a j>roud and unyielding father — all for- '
bade him to think of matrimony: — but when be looked
<lown upon this innocent being, so tender and confiding,
there was a purity in her manners, a blamelessncss in her
life, and a beseeching modesty in her looks that awed dovn
every licentious feeling. 1 n vain did he try to fortify himself
by a thousand heartless examples of men of fashion ; and to
chill the glow of generous sentiment with that cohl derisive
levity with which be \\avV \yvj;v\mV \X\«m\^\k q1 li&uvale virtae:

The Pride of the Village. 319

he came into her presence, she was still sur-
)y that mysterious but impassive charm of virgin
whose hallowed sphere no guilty thought can live.
iden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair
itinent completed the confusion of his mind. He
for a short time in a state of the most painful
)n ; he hesitated to communicate the tidings, until
)r marching was at hand; when he gave her the
ce in the course of an evening ramble.
;a of parting had never before occurred to her.
n at once upon her dream of felicity ; she looked
J a sudden and insurmountable evil, and wept with
less simplicity of a child. lie drew her to his
id kissed the tears from her soft cheek ; nor did
nth a repulse, for there are moments of mingled
d tenderness, which hallow the caresses of afiec-
was naturally impetuous ; and the sight of beauty,
y yielding in his arms, the confidence of his power
and the dread of losing her forever, all conspired
lelm his better feelings — he ventured to propose
hould leave her home, and be the companion of
es.

3 quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and
t his own baseness ; but so innocent of mind was
led victim, that she was at first at a loss to com-
lis meaning ; and why she should leave her native
id the humble roof of her parents. When at last
5 of his proposal flashed upon her pure mind, the
s withering. She did not weep — she did not
h into reproach — she said not a word — but she
ick aghast as from a viper ; gave him a look of
liat pierced to his very soul; and, clasping her
igony, fled, as if for refuge, to her father's cottage,
icer retired, confounded, humiliated, and repent-
8 uncertain what might have been the result of
3t of his feelings, had not his thoughts been
by the bustle of departure. New scenes, new
and new companions, soon dissipated his self-re-
id stifled his tenderness ; yet, amidst the stir of

l\'20 The fSketch-JBook,

camps, the revelries of gurrisonfl, the array of armies, and
even the din of battles, his thoughts would sometimes steal '
baek to the scenes of rural quiet and village simplicity —
the white cottage — the footpath along the silver brook and
up the hawthorn liedge, and the little village maid loiter- ,
ing aloni; it, leaning on his arm, and listening to him with
eyes beaming with unconscious affection. j

The shock which the poor girl had receiveil, in the
destruction of all her ideal world, had indeed been cruel.
Fain tings and hvsterics had at first shaken hor tender
frame, and were succeeded by a settled and pining melan-
chnlv. She had beheld from her window the march of the
departing troo])s. She had seen her faithless lover borne
otY, as if in triumph, amidst the sound of drum and trum-
]>et, aixl the pomp (»f arms. She strained a last aching gaze
after him, as the morning sun glittered about his ^ure,
and his plume wave<l in the breeze; he passed away like a
bright vision from her sight, and left 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
av«)ided societv, and wandered out alone in the walks she
ha<l most fre<|uented with her lover. She sought, like the
stricken deer, to weep in silence and loneliness, and brood j
over the barbe<l sorrow that rankled in her soul. Some-
times she would be seen late of an evening sitting in the
porch of the village church ; an<l the milkm;uds, returning
from the iields, wouhl now and then overhear her singing
some jilaintive ditty 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 hectic bloom, i
and that hallowed air which melancholy diffuses around the '
form, they wouM make way for her, as for something spirit-
ual, ami, looking after her, would shake their hea^ls in
glo(miy foreboding.

She felt a conviction that she was hastening to thetomK f

but looked forward to it asa]>lace of rest. The silver cord I

that liad bound her to existence was loosed, and there

seemed to be no more pleasui'c under the sun. If ever her

gentle bosom had ei\tAiT\a\\\^v\ ves^utment against her lover

TAc Pride of the Village. 321

it waa extingaisbed. She was incapable of angry passions ;
and in a moment of saddened tenderness, she penned him a
farewell letter. It was coucbed in the simplest language,
but touching from its very simplicity. She told him that
she was dying, and did not conceal from him that his con-
duct was the cause. She even depicted the sufferings which
she had experienced ; hut concluded with saying, that she
could not die in peace, until she had sent bim her forgive-
ness and her blessing.

By degreesher strength declined, 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 complaint, nor imparted to any one the malady that was
preying on her heart. She never even mentioned her lover's
name; hut would lay her head on her mother's bosom and
weep in silence. Her poor parents hung, in mute anxiety,
over this fading blossom of their hopes, still flattering them-
selves that it might again revive to freshness, and that the
bright unearthly bloom which sometimes flushed her cheek
might be the promise of returning health.

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 frf^ance of the clustering honeysuckle which her own
hands had trained around 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 comfort and serenity
through her bosom. Her eye was fixed on the distant vil-
lage church; the bell had tolled tor the evening service;
the last villager was lagging into the porch; and every-
thing had sunk into that hallowed stillness peculiar to the
day of rest. Her parents were gazing on her with yearning
hearts. Sickness and sorrow, which pass so roughly over
some faces, had given to hers the expression of a seraph's.
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
soon be gathered?

82-2 The Sketch-Book.

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard — a horseman gal-
lopu<l to the cottage — he dismounted before the window —
the poor ^\f\ gave a faint exclamation, and sunk back in
her i-hair : it was her repentant lover ! He rushed into the
liouse, and Hew to clasp her to his bosom; but her wasted 1
form -lier deathlike countenance — so wan, yet so lovely ■
in its desolation, — smote him to the soul, and he threw i
himself in agony at her feet. She was too faint to rise —
she attempted to extend her trembling hand — her hps
moved as if she spoke, but no word was articulated — she
looked down upon him with a smile of unutterable tender-
ness, — and closed her eyes forever ! |

Such are the particulars which I gathered of this village I
«tory. They are but scanty, and I am conscious have little ]
novelty to recommend them. In the present rage also for
strange incident and high-seasoned narrative, they may
aj)pear trite and insignificant, but they interested me
strongly at the time ; and, taken in connection with the
alTecting ceremony wliich 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 [
strij)pecl 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 keej) the turf uninjured.

The church door was oj)en, and I stepped in. There hung
the chaj»let of tlowers and the gloves, as on the day of the I
funeral : the (lowers were withered, it is true, but care
seemed to have been taken that no dust should soil their
whiteness. I have seen many monuments, where art has
exhausted its powers to awaken the sympathy of the spec-
tator, but I have met with none that spoke more touch ingly I
to my heart, than this simple but delicate memento of \
departed innocence.

THE ANGLER.

This day dame Nature seem'd in love,

The lusty sap began to move,

Fresh juice did stir th* embracing vines

And birds had drawn their valentines.

The jealous trout that low did lie,

Rose at a well-dissembled ilie.

There stood my friend, with patient skill,

Attending of his trembling quill.

Sir H. Wotton.

It is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run
away from his family, and betake himself to a seafaring
life, from reading the history of Robinson Crusoe ; and I sus-
pect that, in like manner, many of those worthy gentlemen
who are given to haunt the sides of pastoral streams with
angle rods in hand, may trace the origin of their passion to
the seductive pages of honest Izaak Walton. I recollect
studying his Complete Angler several years since, in com-
pany with a knot of friends in America, and moreover
that we were all completely bitten with the angling mania.
It was early in the year ; but as soon as the weather was
auspicious, and the spring began to melt into the verge
of summer, we took rod in hand and sallied into the coun-
try, as stark mad as was ever Don Quixote from reading
books of chivalry.

One of our party had equalled the Don in the fulness of
his equipments : being attired cap-£l-pie for the enterprise.
He wore a broad-skirted fustian coat, pjSVplexed with half a
hundred pockets ; a pair of stout shoes, and leathern gaiters;
a basket slung on one side for fish ; a patent rod, a landing
net, and a score of other inconveniences, only to be found
in the true angler's armory. Thus harnessed for-.the field,
he was as great a matter of stare and wonderment among

323

:i24 The Sketch'Book. i

the oountry folk, who had never seen a regular angler, v^
was tlie sttH'l-cljul hero of La Mancha among the goatherds
of till' Sierra Morona. i

Our lirsl essay was along a mountain brook, among the
highlands of the Hudson ; a most unfortunate place for the
execution of those piscatory tactics which had been invented
along the velvet margins of quiet English rivulets. It was j
one of those wild streams that lavish, among our romantic
solitudes, unheeded beauties, enough to fill the sketch-book
of a hunter of the picturesque. Sometimes it would leap
d<»wn rocky shelves, making small cascades, over which the
trees threw their broad balancing sprays, and long nameless j
weeds hung in fringes from the impending bank^, dripping \
with diamond drops. Sometimes it would brawl and fret ]
along a ravine in the matted shade of a forest, filling it with
nmrniiirs ; and, after this termagant career, would steal forth
into open day with the most placid demure face imaginable;
as I have seen s«)nie pestilent shrew of a housewife, aiFter fill-
ing her home with uproar and ill-humor, come dimpling out
of doors, swimming and courtesying, and smiling upon all
the world.

li«>w smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at such
times, through some bosom of green meadow-land amons:
the mountains : where the (piiet was only interrupted bv the
occasional tinkling of a bell from the lazy cattle amonsr
tin? clover, or the sound of a woodcutter's axe from the
neiirhboring forest.

Kor my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport I
that re<piire either ])atience or adroitness, and had not '
angled above half an hour before I had completely " satisfied |
the sentiment," and convinced myself of the truth of Izaak
Walton's oj)iiiion, that angling is something like poetrv —
a man must be born to it. I hooked myself instead of* the
fish ; tangle<l my line in every tree ; lost my bait ; broke mv
rod; until I gave u}> the attempt in despair, and passed the
day umler the trees, reading old Izaak ; satisfied that it was
his fascinating vein of honest sim])li('ity and rural feeling
that had bewitched me, and not the passion for angling.
Mj companions, bo>voveY, n^tcyq more versevering in their

The Angler. 325

delusion. I have them at this moment before my eyes,
stealing along the border of the brook, where it lay open to
the day, or was merely fringed by shrubs and bushes. I
see the bittern rising with hollow scream as they break
in upon his rarely invaded haunt ; the kingGsher watch-
ing them suspiciously from his dry tree that overhangs
the deep black mill-pond, in the gorge of the hills ; the
tortoise letting himself slip sideways from off the stone or
log on which he is sunning himself ; and the panic-struck
frog plumping in headlong as they approach, and spreading
an alarm throughout the watery world around.

I recollect also, that, after toiling and watching and
creeping about for the greater part of a day, with scarcely
any success, in spite of all our admirable apparatus, a lub-
berly country urchin came down from the hills with a rod
made from a branch of a tree, a few yards of twine, and, as
Heaven shall help me I I believe a crooked pin for a hook,
baited with a vile earthworm — and in half an hour caugh);
more fish than we had nibbles throughout the day I ^-^"^

But, above all, I recollect, the " good, honest, wholesome,
hungry " repast, which we made under a beech- tree, just
by a spring of pure sweet water that stole out of the side of
a hill ; and how, when it was over, one of the party read
old Izaak Walton's scene with the milkmaid, while I lay on
the grass and built castles in a bright pile of clouds, until I
fell asleep. All this may appear like mere egotism ; yet I
cannot refrain from uttering these recollections, which are
passing like a strain of music over my mind, and have been
called up by an agreeable scene which I witnessed not long
since.

In a morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a beau-
tiful little stream which flows down from th'e Welsh hills
and throws itself into the Dee, my attention was attracted
to a group seated on the margin. On approaching, I found
it to consist of a veteran angler and two rustic disciples.
The former was an old fellow with a wooden leg, with
clothes very much but very carefully patched, betokening
poverty, honestly come by, and decently maintained. His
face bore the marks of former storms, but present fair

I^JO

r/.r Sltfch-£0'k.

V. I .•»:":.»:?; ::> furrows hri-.i Iven worn into an habitaal smile;
': -^ :r r.jr;.Y I./k> l-ur.s: .Vi^-ut his ears, and he had aluv
j:-. : !.v r : ;.i i: - • :.::-.::v. -v i air r.f a o-Mistitiitional jihilosopher
who \\ ;*> ::>] M i : ^ :.ike "he world as it went. One of his
c::r.] .v. : '. > '^ .»> a r.iCilfd wiiihi. with the skulking look of
;»:. .*iTr;;: : : .». :.ir, :i:. i VA -ftarr;!!"!* oouiii lin-l his way to
.v V jT; :.:'i ".•;;'i:.'> r>:.-i- 'i^.i in ihe iu-ighlx»rh '>'>•! in the dark-
l^: T \;':.:. TV.t o:":tr was a lalL awkward, conntrv lad,
^::'. .» '. :• j> ^r j.»::. :r i riV'-.-arenilv somewhat of a rustic
T':.-. . : :• M. w.-*s l:;sv in examining; the maw of a

.'1 .1.;.

:: -.:: v, ";.; ";. :., ':...: ■■>: ki'/.ei. l» disvN»ver bv its content*
u'.-.: :•>«■.:> -, i-., >►.»> v.-.Vlt- for bait: and wa< lecturing
. :. :': c s:' ;:.: : * is ».v nv. .»- i-.-rs, wh--* aj'peared to listen
"«'.:'. :: *--. ::•. : :.: .: .^. I li.ive a kind fetlinir towards all
•• ' * : : rs : : ■ i a: ^.i." t-\tr sir.oe I read Izaak Walt«"»n.
1': ; . .\ ; V .' : •. ..T^rv/.^ : ;i "ir.ili. sweei. and peaceable
";. .- .: *■ : ./ ; ^r.y « *: . i ::: : r :h- t't; ::a< l^on increased since I
v.l: v.;:' ..v. . '. i r - » -' -**'. .' . •'-•':'. tl- .-!'«•//•. in which
.•*"v >.: : r:*. :v. .: v f ::>: :::.»\:::-.s .: iVieir inoffensiA-e frn-
:.r-..:\. "'r.ikv ^.■. : r.i >.." s.iwth this honest liitV
::.:\-.. "':..\: :: c -I-j: '.'■ ■.: y.-.-.r -lisj-ortes ye oj»en ii<"^

-..■.:.'> J-..:-, >'-.:: ::..■.: v^ ^V.-. : :::;:n .'.irrln. Also ve shall n"t

^ • - •

'.>: :' > : rs;\ : .r.;':: ::>: -: : r r. • covetoasness to the
•.:.:. .>.-:: .v. ; -: ..ri: r .: v -.-.t :v.r/.rv •■r.lv. but principailv

: ; c .■.:>.: '':.<• i.e'.th of vour bodv and

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The Angler, 327

any particular place ; sometimes skimming it lightly along
a little rapid ; sometimes casting it into one of those dark
holes made by a twisted root or overhanging bank in which
the large trout are apt to lurk. In the meanwhile he was
giving instructions to his two disciples ; showing them the
manner in which they should handle their rods, fix their
flies, and play them along the surface of the stream. The
scene brought to my mind the instructions of the sage
Piscator to his scholar. The country around was of that
pastoral kind which Walton is fond of describing. It was
a part of the great plain of Cheshire, close by the beautiful
vale of Gessford, and just where the interior Welsh hills
begin to swell up from among fresh-smelling meadows.
The day, too, like that recorded in his work, was mild and
sunshiny, with now and then a soft-dropping shower, that
sowed the whole earth with diamonds.

I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and
was so much entertained that, under pretext of receiving
instructions in his art, I kept company with him almost the
whole day ; wandering along the banks of the stream, and
listening to his talk. He was very communicative, having
all the easy garrulity of cheerful old age ; and I fancy was
a little flattered by having an opportunity of displaying his
piscatory lore ; for who does not like now and then to play
the sage ?

He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had
passed some years of his youth in Amefica, particularly in
Savannah, where he had entered into trade, and had been
ruined by the indiscretion of a partner. He had afterwards
experienced many ups and downs, in life, until he got into
the navy, where his leg was carried away by a cannon ball,
at the battle of Camperdown. This was the only stroke of
real good fortune he had ever experienced, for it got him a
pension, which, together with some small paternal property,
brought him in a revenue of nearly forty pounds. On this
he retired to bis native village, where he lived quietly and
independently ; and devoted the remainder of his life to
the "noble art of angling."

I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and

82^ The SketcK-Boot. . .

I
be Miemed u> hsLve imUbed all his simple frankiieM snd

pre va]<;rjt gocKl-humor. Though he had been 8(»elT buffeted
aU^ut the world, he was s»atL$tied that the world, in itself,
waM jiO'A and Wautiful. Though he had been as roughly
UM.'d in difTercrnt countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced by |
itvcry hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of every nation with )
ciiwlor and kindness, appearing to look only on the good J
side of things : and, above all, he was almost the only man
I had ev(;r met with who had been an unfortunate adveD-
tiirer in America, and had honesty and magnanimity enoa^
to take the fault Uj his own door, and not to curse the
crHintry. I'he lad that was receiving his instructions,! j
learnt, was the son and heir apparent of a fat old widow '
who kept the village inn, and of course a youth of some |
expectation, and n;uch courted by the idle gentlemanlike
jiersona^cH of the place. In taking him under his care,
tluirefore, the old man had probably an eye to a privileged
corner in the t'lp-room, and an occasional cup of cheerful
ale free of expense.

Theni is certainly something in angling — if we could for-
get, which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures
inllicted on worms and insects — that tends to produce a
gcMitleness of spirit, and a pure serenity of mind. As the
Knglish are methodical even in their recreations, and are
tlie most sciontifio of sportsmen, it has been reduced among
them to perfect rule and system. Indeed it is an amuse-
ment peculiarly adapted to the mild and highly-cultivated
scenery of England, where every roughness has been soft-
eniMl away from the landscape. It is delightful to haunter
alo!»g those limpid streams which wander, like veins of
silver, through the bosom of this beautiful country ; leading
one through a <liversity of small home scenery ; sometimes
winding through ornamented grounds; sometimes brimming
along through rich pasturage, where the fresh green is
jingled with sweet-smelling flowers ; sometimes venturing
■I sight of villages and hamlets, and then running capri-
jbiously away into shadv retirements. The sweetness and
■erenity of nature, and the quiet watchfulness of the sport,
gradually bring on pleasant lits of musing ; which are now

The Angler. 829

and then agreeably interrupted by the song of a bird, the
distant whistle of the peasant, or perhaps the vagary of
some iish, leaping out of the still water, and skimming
transiently about its glassy surface. *' When I would beget
content," says Izaak Walton, "and increase confidence in
the power and wisdom and providence of Almighty God, I
will walk the meadows by some gliding stream, and there
contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very
many other little living creatures that are not only created,
but fed (man knows not how) by the goodness of the God
of nature, and therefore trust in him."

I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of
those ancient champions of angling, which breathes the
same innocent and happy spirit :

Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink

Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place,
Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink,

With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace;
And on the world and my Creator think:

Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t* embrace;
And others spend their time in base excess

Of wine, or worse, in war, or wantonness.

Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue,
And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill;

So I the fields and meadows green may view,
And daily by tresh rivers walk at will,

Among the daisies and the violets blue.
Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil. ^

On parting with the old angler I inquired after his place
of abode, and happening to be in the neighborhood of the
village a few evenings afterwards, I had the curiosity to
seek him out. I found him living in a small cottage, con-
taining only one room, but a perfect curiosity in its method
and arrangement. It was on the skirts of the village, on a
green bank, a little back from the road, with a small garden
in front, stocked with kitchen herbs, and adorned with a
few flowers. The whole front of the cottage was overrun

» J. Davors.

380 The Sketch-^ook.

with a honeysuckle. On the top was a ship for a weather-
cock. The interior was fitted up in a truly nautical style,
his ideas of comfort and convenience having been acquired
on the berth-deck of a man-of-war. A hammock was slung
from the ceiling, which, in the daytime, was lashed up so
as to take but little room. From the centre of the chamber
hung a model of a ship, of his own workmanship. Two or
three chairs, a table, and a large sea-chest, formed the
principal movables. About the wall were stuck up naval
ballads, such as Admiral Jfosier's Ohost^ AH in the Datcfis,
and Tom Boidijiey intermingled with pictures of sea-fights,
among which the battle of Camperdown held a distinguished
place. The mantel -piece was decorated with sea-shells;
over which hung a quadrant, flanked by two wood-cuts of
most bitter- looking naval commanders. His implements
for angling were carefully disposed on nails and hooks
about the room. On a shelf was arranged his library, con-
taining a work on angling, much worn, a Bible covered
with canvas, an odd volume or two of voyages, a nautical
almanac, and a book of songs.

His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye,
and a parrot which he had caught and tamed, and educated
himself, in the course of one of his voyages ; and which
uttered a variety of sea phrases with the hoarse brattling
tone of a veteran boatswain. The establishment reminded
me of that of the renowned Robinson Crusoe; it was kept
in neat order, everything being "stowed away" with the
regularity of a ship of war; and he informed me that he
" scoured the deck every morning, and swept it between
meals."

I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking
his ])ipe in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purring
soberly on the threshold, and his parrot describing some
strange evolutions in an iron ring that swung in the centre
of his cage. He had been angling all day, and gave me a
history of his sport with as much minuteness as a general
would talk over a campaign ; being particularly animated
in relating the manner in which he had taken a large trout,
which had completely tai^keOL «\\\\v^ ^Vl\W i\wd wariness, and
viijoh he had sent aa a troigiVv^ Xo mvA^ V^^v^i's.'^ ^\ n^\^\wo..

The Angler, 331

How comforting it is to sec a clieerfnl and contented old
ige ; and to behold a poor fellow, like this, after being tem-
pest-tost through life, safely moored in a snug and quiet
larbor in the evening of his days I His happiness, how-
ever, sprung from within himself, and was independent of
external circumstances; for he had that inexhaustible good-
lature, which is the most precious gift of Heaven ; spread-
ng itself like oil over the troubled sea of thought, and keep-
ng the mind smooth and equable in the roughest weather.

On inquiring further about him, I learned that he was a
miversal favorite in the village, and the oracle of the tap-
room ; where he delighted the rustics with his songs, and,
ike Sin bad, astonished them with his stories of strange
ands, and shipwrecks, and sea-fights. He was much no-
iced too by gentlemen sportsmen of the neighborhood ; had
iauglit several of them the art of angling ; and was a priv-
leged visitor to their kitchens. The whole tenor of his life
was quiet and inoffensive, being principally passed about
the neighboring streams, when the weather and Reason were
favorable ; and at other times he employed himself at home,
preparing his fishing tackle for the next campaign, or man-
ufacturing rods, nets, and flies, for his patrons and pupils
among the gentry.

He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though
he generally fell asleep during the sermon. He had made
it his particular request that when he died he should be
buried in a green spot, which he could see from his seat in
church, and which he had marked out ever since he was a
boy, and had thought of when far from home on the raging
sea, in danger of being food for the fishes — it was the spot
where his father and mother had been buried.

I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary ;
but I could not refrain from drawing the picture of this
worthy " brother of the angle " ; who has made me more than
ever in love with the theory, though I fear I shall never be
adroit in the practice of his art : and I will conclude this
rambling sketch in the words of honest Izaak Walton, by
craving the blessing of St. Peter's master upon my reader.
" and upon all that are true lovers of virtue ; and dare
trust in his Providence ; and be quiet ; and go a " angling."

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW.

FOUND AMOXG TUE PAPERS OF THE LATE DrBDBICH

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.

Castls of Indoi^snce.

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 rtiral port, which
by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally
and properly known by the name of Tarrytbwn. 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 Ibiger about the village
tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not voudi
for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of CeTtl^
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 occa-
sional whistle of a quail, or tapping 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 squir-
rel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades

332

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 383

one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon-time,
when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the
roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness
around, andvas prolonged and reverberated by the angry
echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat, whither I
might ateal from the world and its dlstrnctions, and dream
quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none
,' moy promising than this little valley.
"■ From the listloas repose of the place, and the peculiar

' character of its inhabitants, who are descendantd from the
original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been
known by the name of Sleei'y Hollow, and its rustic lads
are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neigh-
boring country, A drowsy, dreamy influcnrc seems to hang
over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some j
say that the place waa bewitched by a high German doctor, I
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 discotered by Mas-
ter Hendrick Hudson. Certain it 18, the placestill continues
under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell
over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in .
s continual reverie. They are given tr> all kinds of marvel- \
Ions beliefs; are subject to trances and visions; and fre- \
quently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in
tfie 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

ftjld, seems to make it the fiiVoiite scene of her gambols. •

The dominant spirit, bowevef; 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 J

', without a hc.id. 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 revolution-
ary 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 val-

334 The SketchrBook.

Icy, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and espec-
ially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. In-
deed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts,
who have been careful in collecting and collating the float-
ing 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 church-
yard 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 everyone who re-
sides there for a time. However wide awake they may
have been l)efore they entered that sleepy region, they are
sure, in a little time, to inlfale 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 I)utch valleys, found here and
there embosomed in the great State of New York, that
population, manners, and customs, remain flxed ; while the
great toiTcnt of migration and improvement, which is
making such incessant changes in other parts of this rest-
less 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, undis-
turbed 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 ve getatin g in its gbf^l-
tered bosom.

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow . 336

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 so-
journed, 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 woods-
men and country schoolmasters. The cognomen of Crane
was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but ex-
ceedingly 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 schoolhouse was a low building of one large room,
rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and
partly patched with leaves of old copy-books. 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 '|QOst probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van
Houten, from the mystery of an eel-pot. The schoolhouse
Btood 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

336 The Sketch-Booh.

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." — lohabod Crane's scholars cer-
tainly 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 chas-
tisement without following it by the assurance, so consola-
tory 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 compan-
ion and playmate of the larger boys; and on holiday after-
noons 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 funiish 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 main-
tenance, 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 suc-
cessively a week at a time ; thus going the rounds of the
neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied np in a
cotton handkerchief.

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of
*" patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of
••; '\ grievous burden, and schoolmasters as v.
i . had various ways of rendering himself both : -

, The Legend of Sle^t/ Bollaw. 337

ful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally in
tlie lighter labors of their farniH; 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, to", 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 yonngest; and like the lion bold, which
whilom BO 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 bis 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
choMen singers ; where, in his own mind, he completely car-
ried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his
voice resounded f.ir 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- f *
shifts in that ingenious way which is commonly denom-
inated "by hook and by crook," the worthy pedagc^e got I
on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all who under-t
Htood nothing of the labor of head work, to have a wonder-l
fnlly easy life of it.

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance
in the female circle of a rural neighborhoad ; being consid-
ered a kind of idle gentlemanlike personage, of vastly su-
perior taste and accomplishments to the rough country
6waina, 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 farmhouNe, and the addition of a su-
pernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure,
tho parade of a silver tea-pot. Our man of lettfit%..AJ(v*OT«i-

888 Tlie SketchrBook.

fore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country
damsels. How he would figure among them in the church-
yard, between services on Sundays I Gathering grapes for
them from the wild vines that overrun 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.

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travel-
ling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from
house to house ; so that his appearance was always greeted
with satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed by the
women as a man of great erudition, for he had read several
books quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton
Mather's History of New England Witchcraft^ in which,
by the way, he most firmly and potently believed.

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and
simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, and his
powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and
both had been increased by his residence in this spellbound
region. 'No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capa-
cious swallow. It was often his delight, after his school
was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the
rich bed of clover, bordering the little brook that j^himpered
by his schoolhouse, and there cori oyer old Mather' s direjfol
tales, until the gathering dusk of the evening made the
printed page "a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he
wended his way, by swamp and stream and awful wood-
land, to the farmhouse where he happened to bq quartered,
every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his
excited imagination ; the moan of the whip-poor-will ^ from
the hillside; the boding cry of the tree- toad^ that harV^| [ng'f»r
of storm ; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl, or the
sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from
their roost. The fix§-flj^S) too, which sparkled most vividly
in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of

^ Tlie whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It receives its
ime from its note, which is thought to resemble those words.

The legend of Sleepy HoUow,

889

uncommon brightness would stream across his path ; and if,
by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his
blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to
give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a
witch's token. His only resource on such occasions, cither
to drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing
psalm tunes ; — and the goo^ people of Sleepy Hollow, as
they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled
with awe at hearing his nasal melody, " in linked sweet-
ness long drawn out," floating from the distant hill, or
along the dusky road.

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass
long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat
spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and
spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their marvellous
tales of ghosts and goblins, and h^""tfxd fields, and haunted
brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and par-
ticularly of the headless horseman, or galloping Hessian of
the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He would de-
light them equally by his anecdot es of witchcraft, and of
the direful omens and portentous sights an3~ sounds in the
air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut;
and would frighten them wofully with s|]igCTygtiQU3 upon
comets and shooting stars ; and with the alarming fact that
the world did absolutely turn round, and that they were
half the time topsy-turvy f

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cud-
dling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of
a cud4y glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of
course, no spectre dared to show his face, jfc was dearb
jQurfihaf ^ed by t.lift fj^rrnrfl of his subsequent~waIk^ ome-
wards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset hiT path
amiTlst the dim and ghafitly. glare of a snowy night ! — With
what wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of light
streaming across the waste fields from some distant win-
dow I — How often was he appalled by some shrub, covered
with snow, which, like a sheeted spfir.tre, beset his very
path ! — How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the
sound of his own steps on the frosty craat V^Jaj^aJCv^ \ssa»

340 The Skttch-Book.

feet ; and dread to look over his sboolder, lest he should
behold some uneoath 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 l^ess^ on one of his nightly
scourings !

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phan-
toms 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 peram-
bulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils ; and
he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in spite of the
I 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 w^ole 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 Taasel^ the daughter and only child of a sub-

Uantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh

eighteen ; plump as a partridge ; ripe and melting and

rosy cheeked as one of her f athcr^s peaches, and universally

famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations.

1 She was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived

I 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 ; fnSTwlthal a'*

provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and

ankle in the country round^

Ichabod Crane had' aiofl 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. Old Baltus
Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented,
liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either
his eyes or his tlioughts beyond the boundaries of his own
farm ; but within those everything was snug, happy, and

The Legend of Sleepy HoUow, 841

well -conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but
not proud of it ; and piqued himself upon the hearty abun-
dance, rather than the style in which he lived. His strong-
hold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one^f
those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in which the Dutch
farmers are so fond of nestling. ^A great elm-tree spread
its broad branches over it ; at the foot of which bubbled up
a spjing^of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well,
formed of a barrel ; and then stole sparkling away through
the grass, to a neighboring brook, that babbled along
among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse
was a vast barn that might have served for a church;
every window and crevice of which seemed l^ursting forth
with the treasures of the farm ; the flail was busily resound-
ing within it from morning tonight; swallows and martins
skimmed twittering about the eaves ; and rows of pigeons,
some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather,
some with their heads under their wings, or buried in their
bosoms, and others swelling and cooing, and bowing about
their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof.
Sleek, un wield y porkers were grunting in the repose
and abundance of their pens ; whence sallied forth, now
and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuiT the air. A
stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoin-
ing pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks ; regiments of
turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, and guinea
fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered housewives, with
their peevish discontented cry. Before the barn door
strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a war-
rior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings,
and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart— some-
times tearing up the earth with his feet, and then gener-
ously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and children
to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered.

The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon this
sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his de-
vouring mind's eye, he pictured to tiimself every roasting-
pig running about withu^ padding in his belly and 'an apple
in his mouth ; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in. a ^wotcl-

842 Th^ Sketch-Book.

f ortable pie, and tucked in with a coTerlet of crust ; the
geese were Bwimming in their own gravy ; and the ducks
pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a
decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw
carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relish-
ing ham ; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up,
with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a neck-
lace of savory sausages ; and even bright chanticleer him-
self lay sprawling on his back, in a side-dish, with uplifted
claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit
disdained to ask while living.

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he
rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow-lands, the
rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian com,
and the orchards burthened with ruddy fruit, which sur-
rounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned
after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, and his
imagination expanded with the idea, how they might be
readily turned into cash, and the money invested in immense
tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilderness.
Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and pre-
sented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family
of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with
household trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling be-
neath ; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare,
with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Ten-
nessee, or the Lord knows where.

When he entered the house the conquest of his heart was
complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with
high-ridged, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style
handed down from the first Dutch settlers ; the low pro-
jecting eaves forming a piazza along the front, capable of
being closed up in bad weather. Under this were hung
flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets for
fishing in the neighboring river. \ Benches were built along
the sides for summer use ; and a great spinning-wheel at
one end, and a churn at the other, showed the various uses
to whi(^h this important porch might be devoted. From
this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which

Th6 Zegeiid of Sleepy TTunotc. S48

formed the centre of the manBion and the place of nsiial
residence. Here, rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a
long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge
bag of wool ready to be spun ; in another a quantity of
linsey-woolsey juat from the loom ; ears of Indian com, and
strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons
along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers ;
and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor,
where the claw-footed chaira and dark mahc^acy tables,
Hhone like mirrors; and irons, with their accompanying
shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus
tops ; mock-oranges and conch-shells decorated the mantel-
piece ; strings of various colored birds' eggs were sus-
pended above it ; a great ostrich egg was hung from the
centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left
open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and well-
mended china.

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these
regions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end,
and his only study was how to gain the affections of the
peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, how-
ever, he had more re:ii difficulties than generally fell to the
lot of a knight-errant of yore, who seldom had anything but
giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like easily con-
quered adversaries, to contend with ; and had to make his
way merely through gates of iron and brass, and walls of
adamant, to the castle keep, where the lady of his heart
was confined ; all which he achieved as easily as a man
would carve his way to the centre of a Christmas pie ; and
then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course.
Ichabod, on the contraiy, had to win his way to the heart
of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and
caprices, which were forever presenting now difficulties and
impediments ; and he had to encounter a host of fearful
adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic ad-
mirers, who beset every portal to her heart ; keeping a
watchful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly
out in the common cause against any new competitor.

Among these, the most formidable one was a burly, roar-

844 The -SketchrBook.

ing, roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, accord-
ing to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero
of the country round, which rang with his feats of strength
and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double-
jointed, with short curly black hair, and a bluff, but not
unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and
arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great powers
of limb, he had received the nickname of Brom Bones, by
which he was universally known. He was famed for great
knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on
horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at all races and
cock-fights ; and, with the ascendency which bodily strength
acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, petting
his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an air ai/d
tone admitting of no gainsay or appeal. He was always
ready for either a fight or a frolic ; but had more mischief
than ill-will in his composition ; and, with all his overl>ear-
ing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish good-
humor at the bottom. He had three or four boon
companions, who regarded him as their model, and at the
head of whom he scoured the country, attending every
scene of feud or merriment for miles round. In cold
weather he was distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted
with a flaunting fox's tail ; and when the folks at a country
gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance,
whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always
stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard
dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop
and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks ; and the old
damos, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment
till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim,
" Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang ! " The neigh-
bors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration,
and good-Avill ; and when any madcap prank, or rustic
brawl, occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads,
and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it.

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the
blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries,
and though his amorous toyings were something like the

The Legend of Sleepy HoUow. 345

gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was
whispered that she did not altogether discourage his hopes.
Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates
to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his
amours; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to
Van Tassel's paling on a Sunday night, a sure sign that his
master was courting, or, as it is termed, "ajjujyjjg," within,
all other suitors passed by in despair ana carried the war
into other quarters.

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
tough ; 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 a 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. Undercover of his character
of singing-master, he made frequent vbits 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. Bait 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 dnme bustled about the house, or plied her
spinning- wheol at one end of the piazza, honest Bait would
sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the
achievements of a little wooden warrior who, armed with a

346 The SketchrBook.

sword in each, hand, waa moat Taliantly fighting the wind
on the pinnacle of the bam. In the mean time, Ichabod
would cany 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 others 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 a 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 there-
fore entitled to some renown ; but he who keeps undisputed
sway over the heart of a coquette, is indeed a hero. Cer-
tain 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 rapidly 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 schoolhouse " ; and he was too wary
to give him an opportunity. There was something ex-
tremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system ; it left
Brora no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic
waggery in his disposition, and to play off boorish practical
jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object of whim-
sical persecution to Bones and his gang of rough riders.
They harried his hitherto peaceful domains; smoked out
his singing school, by stopping up the chimney ; broke into

The Legend of Sleepy HoUow. 847

the schoolhouse at night, in spite of its formidable fasten-
ings of withe and window stakes, and turned everything
topsy-turvy : so that the poor schoolmaster began to think*
all the witches in the country held their meetings there.
But what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportu-
nities of turning him into ridicule in the presence of his
mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine
in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of
Ichabod's to instruct her in psalmody.

In tills way matters went on for some time, without pro-
ducing any material effect on the relative situation of the
contending powers. On a iine autumnal afternoon, loha-
bod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool
whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little lit-
erary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre
of despotic power ; the birch of justice reposed on three
nails behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers ;
while on the desk before him might be seen stindry con-
traband articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon the
persons of idle urchins ; such as half-munched apples, pop-
guns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant
little paper game-cocks. Apparently there had been some
appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for his scholars
were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering
behind them with one eye kept upon the master ; and a
kind of buzzing stillness reigned about the schoolroom. It
was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro, in
tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, a round-crowned fragment
of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back
of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with
a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up to the
school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry-
making or "quilting frolic," to be held that evening at
Mynheer Van Tassel's ; and having delivered his message
with that air of importance, and effort at fine language,
which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the
kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering
away, up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of
his mission.

348 T%e SketchrBook.

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school- a
room. The Bcliolars were hugied through their lessons, I
without stopping at trifles ; RGose who were nimble skipped
over half with impunity, ana those who were tardy, had a
smart application now and then in the rear, to quicken
their speed, or help them over a tall wordA Books were
flung aside without being put away on tbe shelves, ink-
stands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the ■
whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual (
time, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping
and racketing about the green, in joy at their early
emancipation.

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half
hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and |
indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his looks by '
a bit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in the school-
housc. That he might make his appearance before bis mis-
tress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse
from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric
old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus
gallantly mounted, issued forth, like a knight-errant in
quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in the true
si)irit of romantic story, give some account of the looks
and equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he
bestrode was a broken-down plougH-horse, that had out-
lived almost everything but his viciousness. He was gaunt
and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hancuner;
his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with
burrs ; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and
s[)ectral ; but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in
it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we
may ju^lge from thie name he bore of Gunpowder. He had,
in fact, been a favorite steed of his master's, the choleric
Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very
probably, some of his own spirit into the animal ; for, old
and broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurk-
ing devil in him than in any young filly in the country.

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode
with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to

The Legend of iSleepy Hollow, 349

the pommel of the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like ^^
grasshoppers' ; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his
hand, like a sceptre, and, as his horse jogged on, the motion
of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings.
A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his
scanty strip of forehead might be called ; and the skirts of
his black coat fluttered out almost to the horse's tail. Such
was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed, as they
shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was
altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with
in broad daylight.

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was \^
clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden
livery which we always associate with the idea of abun-
dance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yel-
low, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped
by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and
scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their
appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might
be heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and
the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the
neighboring stubble-field.

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets.
In the fulness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and
frolicking, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious
from the very profusion and variety around them. There
was the honest cock-robin, the favorite game of stripling
sportsmen, with its loud querulous note ; and the twitter-
ing blackbirds flying in sable clouds ; and the golden-
winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black
gorget, and splendid plumage ; and the cedar bird, with its
red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail, and its little monteiro
cap of feathers ; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in
his gay light-blue coat and white under-clothcs ; screaming
and chattering; nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pre-
tending to be on good terms with every songster of the
grove.

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open
to every symptom of culinary abundance, rr.nged with de-

350 The SketchrBook.

light over the treasures of jolly autamn. On all sides he
beheld vast store of apples ; some hanging in oppressive
opulence on tlie trees ; some gathered into baskets and bar-
rels for the market : others heaped up in rich piles for the
cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian
corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts,
and liolding out the promise of cakes and hasty pudding;
and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up I
their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample pros- \
pects of the most luxurious of pies ; and anon he passed
the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odor of the
bee-hive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole
over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and gar-
nished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled
hand of Katrina Van Tassel. i

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and (
" sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a
range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest
scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled
his broad disk down into the west. The wide bosom of the
Ta])i)an Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here
and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the
blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds
floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move them.
The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually
into a pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue
of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody
crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of the
river, giving greater depth to the dark-gray and purple of
their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance,
dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging use-
lessly a<rainst the mast ; and as the reflection of the sky
gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was
suspended in the air.

It was toward evening thfit Ichabod arrived at the castle
of the! leer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the
pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a
spare leathern-faoed race, in homespun coats and breeches,
blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. I

The Legend of Sleepy HoUow. 351

Their brisk withered little dames, in close crimped caps,
long-waisted shortgowns, homespun petticoats, with scis-
sors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on
the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their
mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or per-
haps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovation.
The sons, in short square-skirted coats with rows of stupen-
dous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the
fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an
eel-skin for the purpose, it being esteemed throughout the
country, as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the
hair.

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having
come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a
creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and
which no one but himself could manage. He was, in fact,
noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of
tricks, which kept the nder in constant risk of his neck,
for he held a tractable well-broken horse as im worthy of a
lad of spirit.

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms
that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he
entered the state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion. Not
those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious dis-
play of red and white ; but the ample charms of a genuine
Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of autumn.
Such heaped-up platters of cakes of various and almost
indescribable kinds, known only to the experienced Dutch
housewives I There was the doughty doughnut, the ten-
derer oly koek, and the crisp crumbling cruller; sweet cakes
and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the
whole family of cakes. And then there were apple-pies
and peach-pies and pumpkin-pies ; besides slices of ham
and smoked beef ; and moreover delectable dishes of pre-
served plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces ; not to
mention broiled shad and roasted chickens; together with
bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy,
pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly
tea-pot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst —

352 The Sketch-Book.

Heaven bless the mark! I want breadth and time to dis-
cuss tliis banqiK't as it deserves, and am too eager to get on
with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so
great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to
every dainty.

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated
in pr<>])ortion as his skin was filled with good cheer; and
wliose spirits rose with eating as some men^s do with drink.
Ho couM not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as
he ate, and chuckling with the possibility that he might one
day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury
and splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn his
back upon the old schoolhouse ; snap his finger in the face
of Hans Van Uipper, and every other niggardly patron,
and kick any itinerant j^dfigogue out of doors that should
dare to call him comrade I

OM l>:iltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests
witli a face dilated with content and good-humor, round
and jolly p.s the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions
W(T(3 brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake of the
hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing
invitation to "fall to, and help themselves."

And now the sound of the music from the common room,
or hall, summoned to the dance. The musicijin was an old
gray-lieatled nci^ro, who had been the itinerant orchestra
of the neighborhood for more than half a century. His
instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater
part of the time he scraped on tw-o or three strings, accom-
])anying every movement of the bow with a motion of the
hea<l ; bowiiiLC almost to the gi-ound, and stamping with
liis foot whenever a fresh couple were to start.

Tchabod ]nided himself upon his dancing as much as
uj)on Ins vocal j)owers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him
was idle; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full
motion, and clatterinor about the room, you would have
tiiouLcht Saint Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the
dance, was ti«rurinLj before you in person. He was the ad-
miration of all the negroes; who, having gathered, of all
ages and si/es, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood

7%€ Legend of Sleepy HoUov?, 363

forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and
window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their
white eye-balls, and showing grinning rows of ivory from
ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise *
than animated and joyous ? the lady of his heart was his
partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in reply to all
his amorous oglings ; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten
with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one
corner.

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted
to a knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat
smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former
times, and drawing out long stories about the war.

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking,
was one of those highly-favored places which abound with
chronicle and great men. The British and American line
had run near it during the war ; it had, therefore, been the
scene of marauding, and infested with refugees, cow-boys,
and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had
elapsed to enable each story-teller to dress up his tale with
a little becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his
recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit.

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-
bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate
with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only
that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was
an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich a
mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of
Whiteplains, being an excellent master of defence, parried
a musket ball with a small sword, insomuch that he abso-
lutely felt it whiz roimd the blade, and glance off at the
hilt : in proof of which he was ready at any time to show
the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several
more that had been equally great in the field, not one of
whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand
in bringing the war to a happy termination.

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and
apparitions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in
legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and supersti-

354 Th^ SketchrBook.

tioDs thrive best in these sheltered long-settled retreats;
but are trampled ander foot by the shifting throng that
forms the population of most of our country places. Be-
sides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our
villages, for tbe^ have scarcely had time to finish their
first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before their
surviving friends have travelled away from the neighbor-
hood ; so that when they turn out at night to walk their
rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This
is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts
excopt in our long-established Dutch communities.

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of su-
pernatural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to
the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in
the very air tliat blew from that haunted region ; it
breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infect-
ing? all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people
were present at Van Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling
out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales
wore told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and
wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the
unfortunate Major Andr6 was taken, and which stood in
the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the
woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven
IWk, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights be-
fore a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chirf
part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite speo-
tre of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had
boon several times of late, patrolling the country ; and who,
it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves is
the ohun^hyani.

The sequestered situation of this church seems always
to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It
Btands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms,
from among which its decent whitewashed walls shim
modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming through the
shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to
• silver shetn of water, bonlered by high trees, between
which pet^ps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hud-

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 356

son. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sun-
beams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there
at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the
church extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a
large brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees.
Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from the
church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge ; the road
that led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by
overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the
daytime; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. This
was one of the favorite haunts of the headless horseman ;
and the place where he was most frequently encountered.
The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbe-
liever in ghosts, how he met the horseman returning from
his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up
behind him ; how they galloped over bush and brake, over
hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge; when the
horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old
Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops
with a clap of thunder.

This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvel-
lous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the gal-
loping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that, on
returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing
Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper ; that
he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and
should have won it too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse
all hollow, but, just as they came to the church-bridge, the
Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash of fire.

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which
men talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only
now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a
pipe, sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them
in kind with large extracts from his invaluable author,
Cotton Mather, and added many marvellous events that
had taken place in his native State of Connecticut, and
fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about
Sleepy Hollow.

The revel now gradually broke up. The old tansoAx^

356 The Sketch-Book.

gathered together their families in their wagons, and wen
heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over
the distiint hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions i
bi^hind their favorite swains, and their light-hearted laughter
mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent
woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter until they gradually
died away — and tiie late scene of noise and frolic was all
silent ana deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, accord-
ing to the custom of country lovers, to have a t^te-^-tcte with
the heiress, fully convinced that he was now on the high
r()a<l to success. What passed at this interview I will not
pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, how-
ever, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly
sallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite
desolate and chop-fallen. — Oh these women ! these women!
C-ouM that girl have been playing off any of her coquettish
tricks ? — Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue
all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival? —
Heaven only knows, not I ! Let it suffice to say, Ichabod
stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a hen-
roost, ratlier than a fair lady's heart. Without looking to
the right or left to notice tlie scene of rural wealth, on which
he had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and
witli several hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed most
uneourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he
was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and
oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover.

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabo«l,
heavy-hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travel home-
wards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above
Tarrytown, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the
afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far below
him, the Tap]ian Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste
of waters, witli here and there the tall mast of a sloop,
riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush
of midniirlit, he could even hear the barking of the watch-
dog from the oj)posite shore of the Hudson ; but it was so
vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from
this faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the

7%€ Legend of Sleepy Holloio. 367

l ong-draw n crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened,
wouia goand far, far off, from some farmhouse away
among the hills — but it was like a dreaming sound in his
ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally
the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural
twang of a bull-frog, from a neighboring marsh, as if sleep-
ing uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his bed.

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard
in the afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection.
The night grew darker and darker ; the stars seemed to
sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid
them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and
dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place
where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been
laid. In the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip-
tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of
the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its
limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form
trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the
earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected with
the tragical story of the unfortunate Andr6, who had been
taken prisoner hard by ; and was universally known by the
name of Major Andre's tree. The common people regarded
it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of
sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly
from the tales of strange sights and doleful lamentations
told concerning it.

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, hie began to
whistle : he thought his whistle was answered — it was but
a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he
approached a little nearer, he thought he saw something
white hanging in the midst of the tree — he paused and
ceased whistling ; but on looking more narrowly, perceived
that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by
lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he
heard a groan — his teeth chattered and liis knees smote
against the saddle : it was but the rubbing of one huge
bough upon another, as they were swayed about by tlie
breeze. He passed the tree in safety^ \i\\\i w^^ ^^t^^X^
before bim.

858 The Sketch-Book.

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook
crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly- wooded
glen, known by the name of Wiley's swamp. A few rough
logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream.
On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood,
a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild
grajK'vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this
bridge was the severesTlnal. It was at this identical spot
that the unfortunate AndrS was captured, and under the
covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen
con coaled who surprised him. This has ever since been
considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings
of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.

As he approached the stream his heart began to thump;
he summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his
horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to
dash briskly across the bridge ; but instead of starting for-
ward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement,
and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears
increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the other side,
and kicked lustily with his contrary foot : it was all in
vain ; his steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge
to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles
and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both
whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder,
who dashed forward, snuffing and snorting, but came to a
stand just by the bridge, with a suddenness that had nearly
sent liis rider sprawling over his head. Just at this mo-
ment a plasliy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the
sensitive oar of Ichabod, In the dark shadow of the grove,
on the margin of the brook, he beheld something liuge,
misshapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but seemed
gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready
to spring upon the traveller.

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head
with terror. What was to be done ? To turn and fly was
now too late; and besides, what chance was there of escap-
ing ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon
the wings of the wind ? Summoning up, therefore, a show

7%« Legend of Sleepy HoUow. 369

of courage, he demanded in stammering accents — " Who
are you " ? He received no reply. He repeated his de-
mand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no
answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible
Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with invol-
untary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy
object of alarm put itself in motion, and, with a scramble
and a bound, stood at once in the middle of the road.
Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the
unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He
appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and
mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made
no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on
one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old
Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and way-
wardness.

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight
companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of
Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened
his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger,
however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod
pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind —
the other did the same. His heart began to sink within
him ; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his
parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he
could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody
and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion, that was
mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted
for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the
figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against the sky, gi-
gantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-
struck, on perceiving that he was headless ! — but his
horror was still more increased, on observing that the head,
which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried
before him on the pommel of the saddle : his terror rose to
desperation ; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon
Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his
companion the slip — but the spectre started full jump with
him. Away then they dashed, througji IVvviJr. ^\A. >^kssv\

360 The Sketch-Book.

8tones flying, and spsrks flashing at every bound. Ichabod's
flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long
lank body away over his horse's head, in the eagerness of

bin flight.

Tbcy bad now reached the road which tarns off to Sleepy
Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a
demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn,
and plunged headlong down hill to the left. This road
leads tbrougb a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a
quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in
goblin story, and just beyond swells the gpreen knoll on
wbieh stands the whitewashed church.

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful
rider an apparent advantage in the chase ; but just as he
bad got half way through the hollow, the girths of the sad-
dle gave way, and be felt it slipping from under him. He
seized it by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm,
but in vain ; and be bad just time to save himself by clasping
old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the
earth, and he beard it trampled under foot by his pursuer.
For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper's wrath
passed across bis mind — for it was his Sunday saddle ;
but this was no time for petty fears ; the goblin was hard
on bis haunches ; and (unskilful rider that he was !) he had
much ado to maintain his seat ; sometimes slipping on one
si<le, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the
biji:li ridge of bis horse's back-bone, with a violence that he
verily feared would cleave him asunder.

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes
that tbe cburcb bridge was at hand. The wavering reflec-
tion of a silver star in tbe bosom of the brook told bim
that lie was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church
dimly glaring under tbe trees beyond. He recollected the
place wbere Hrom Bones' ghostly competitor had disap-
peared. "If I can but reach that bridge," thought Icha-
bod, " I am safe." Just then he heard the black steed
panting and blowing close behind bim ; he even fancied
that bo felt bis bot breath. Another convulsive kick in the
ribs, and old Gun[»owder sprang upon the bridge ; he thuu-

TTie Legend of Sleejyy irollotc. 361

dered over the resounding planks ; he irained the opposite
side ; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his
pursuer should vanish according to rule, in a Hash of fire
and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblni rising in his
stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him.
Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too
late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash
— ho was tumbled headlong into the dust, and (Gunpow-
der, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passe<l by like a
whirlwind.

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. Icliabod did not make his
appearance at breakfast — dinner-hour came, but no Icha-
bod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled
idly about the banks of the brook ; but no schoolmaster.
Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about
the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was
set on foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon
his traces. In one part of the road leading to 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 wliich, on
the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran
deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Icha-
bod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin.

The brook was seJirched but the body of the school-
master was not to be discovered. Hans Van liipper, as
executor of his estate, examined the bundle which contained
all his worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a
half; two stocks for the neck; a pair or two of worsted
stockings; an old pair of corduroy small-clothes; a rusty
razor; a book of psalm tunes, full of doir's ears; and a
broken pitch pipe. As to the books and furniture of the
schoolhouse, they belonged to the community, excepting
Cotton Mather's Ifistonj of Witchcraft^ a New England
Almanac, and a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in
which last was a sheet of foolsca]) much scribbled and
blotted in several fruitless attempts to make ^ e^>^'^ ^1

362 The Sketch-Book.

verses in honor of the heiress of Vsn Tassel. These magic
books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to
the flames by Ilans Van Ripper ; who from that time for-
ward determined to send his children no more to school ;
observing, that he never knew any good come of this same
reading and writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster
possessed, and ho had received his quarter's pay bat a day
or two before, he mast have had aboat his person at the
time of his disappearance.

The mysterioas event caused much speculation at the
church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and
gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge,
and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found.
The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of
others, were called to mind ; and when they had diligently
considered them all, and compared them with the symptoms
of the present case, they shook their heads, and came to
the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by the
galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody's
debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him. The
school was removed to a different quarter of the hollow,
and another pedagogue reigned in his stead.

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New
York on a visit several vears after, and from whom this
account of ghostly adventure was received, broughtnome
the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he
had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of the goblin
and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at hav-
ing been suddenly dismissed by the heiress; that he had
changed his quarters to a distant part of the country ; had
kept school and studied law at the same time, had been ad-
mitted to the bar, turned politician, electioneered, written
for the newspapers, and finally had been made a justice of
the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, who shortly after
his rival's disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina
in triumph to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly
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 suspect that he knew more
about the matter tlvau Yi© e\io^^ \.o \fc>^..

Postscript. 363

The old country wives, however, who are the best judges
of these matters, maiutain to this day that Ichabod was
spirited away by supernatural means ; and it is a favorite
story often told about the neighborhood round the winter
evening fire. The bridge became more than ever an object
of superstitious awe, and that may be the reason why the
road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the
church by the border of the mill-pond. The schoolhouse
being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported to be
haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue ; and
the ploughboy, loitering homeward. of a still summer even-
ing, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a
melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of
Sleepy Hollow.

POSTSCRIPT,

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MB. KNICKERBOCKER.

The preceding Tale is given, almost in tbe precise words in
which I heard it related at a Corporation meeting of the ancient
city of Manhattoes, at which were present many of its sagest and
most illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby,
gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly
humorous face; and one whom I strongly suspected of being poor,
— he made such efforts to be entertaining. ^ When his story was
concluded, there was much laughter and approbation, particularly
from two or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep the
greater part of the time. There was, however, one tall, dry-
looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a
grave and rather severe face throughout: now and then folding
his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, as
if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary
men, who never laugh but upon good grounds — when they have
reason and the law on their side. When the mirth of the rest of
the company had subsided, and silence was restored, he leaned
one arm on the elbow of his chair, and, sticking the other akimbo,
demanded, with a slight but exceedingly sage motion of the head,
and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of the story,
and what it went to prove ?

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his
lips, as a refreshment after his toils, pa\x^edlQx?b\SLW£^«^^»'^R>'^*»^

364

The Sketch-Book.

at his inquirer with an air of i]ifinite.defereiice, and, lowering the
glass slowly to the table, observed, that the story was intended
most logically to prove: —

*' That tliere is no situation in life but has its advantages and
pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as we find it:

** That tliercfore, ho that runs races with goblin troopers is
likely to have rough riding of it.

** Krgo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a
Dutt^h hcircHR, is a certain step to high preferment in the state/*

Tiie cautious old gentleman knit his orows tenfold closer after
tiiiH explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the
syllogism; while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him
with something of a triumphant leer. At length he observed,
that all this was very well, but still he thought tlie story a little
on the extravagant — there were one or two points on which he
hud his doubts.

''Faith, sir,** replied the story-teller, '*as to that matter, I
don't believe one-half of it myself.**

D. K.

he old countrr wivM. >
these matters, nul::.u..~.

ited away W iapirr. i'
■y often toM aboic -.Lr
iiiDg fire. The r,ri!j=
lUuentittoQii aT». i.-.-: ■
il has been alt«r«<l ' .

366 The Sketch-Book.

ladicroas ; another to shun the pathetic ; a third assured
him that he was tolerahle at description, hut cautioned him
to leave narrative alone ; while a fourth declared that he
had a very pretty knack of turning a story, and was reallv
entertaining when in a pensive mood, hut was grievooslT
mistaken if he imagined himself to possess a spirit of
humor.

Thus perplexed hy the advice of his friends, who each in
turn closed some particular path, hut left him all the world
heside to range in, he found that to follow all their counsels
would, in fact, be to stand still. He remained for a time
sadly embarrassed ; when, all at once, the thought struck
him to ramble on as he had begun ; that his work being
miscellaneous, and written for different humors, it could not
be expected that any one would be pleased with the whole ;
but that if it should contain something to suit each reader,
his end would be completely answered. Few guests sit
down to a varied table with an equal appetite for every
dish. One has an elegant horror of a roasted pig; another
holds a curry or a devil in utter abomination ; a third can-
not tolerate the ancient flavor of venison and wild fowl;
and a fourth, of truly masculine stomach, looks with sove-
reign contempt on those knick-knacks, here and there dished
up for the ladies. Thus each article is condemned in its
turn ; and yet, amidst this variety of appetites, seldom does
a dish go away from the table without being tasted aud
relished by some one or other of the guests.

With these considerations he ventures to serve up this
second volume in the same heterogeneous way with his
first; simply requesting the reader, if he should find here
and there something to please him, to rest assured that it
was written expressly for intelligent readers like himself ;
it entreating him, should he find anything to dislike, to
>rate it, as one of those articles which the author has

obliged to write for readers of a less refined taste,
'o bo serious. — The author is conscious of the numerous
mlts and imperfections of his work ; and well aware how
Ittle he is disciplined and accomplished in the arts of
Inthorship. His deficiencies are also increased by a diffi-

L*Envoy.

867

denoe arising from his peculiar situation. He finds him-
self writing in a strange land, and appearing before a public
which he has been accustomed, from childhood, to regard
with the highest feelings of awe and reverence. He is full
of solicitude to deserve their approbation, yet finds that very
solicitude continually embarrassing his powers, and de-
priving him of that ease and confidence which are neces-
sary to successful exertion. Still the kindness with which
he is treated encourages him to go on, hoping that in time
he may acquire a steadier footing ; and thus he proceeds,
half venturing, half shrinking, surprised at his own good
fortune, and wondering at his own temerity.

APPENDIX.

NOTES CONCERNING WESTMINSTER ABBBT.

Toward tho end of the sixth century, when Britain, under the
dominion of tlie Saxons, was in a state of barbarism and idolatry,
Poi)e Gregory the Great, struck with the beauty of some Anglo-
Saxon youths exposed for sale in the market-place at Rome, con-
ceived a fancy for the race, and 'determined to send missionaries
to preacli the gospel among these comely but benighted islanders.
Ho was encouraged to this by learning that Ethelbert, king of
Kent, and the most potent of the Anglo-Saxon princes, had mar-
ried licrtlia, a Christian princess, only daughter of the king of
Paris, and that she was allowed by stipulation the full exercise of
her religion.

The shrewd pontiff knew the influence of the sex in matters of
religious faith. He forthwith despatched Augustine, a Roman
monk, with fi>rty associates, to the court of Ethelbert at Canter-
bury, to effect the conversion of the king and to obtain through
him a foothold in the island.

Ethelbei-t received them warily, and held a conference in the
open air; being distrustful of foreign priestcraft, and fearful of
spells and magic. They ultimately succeeded in making him as
good a Christian as his wife; tho conversion of the king of course
produced the conversion of his loyal subjects. The zeal and suc-
cess of Augustine were rewarded by his being made archbishop
of Canterbury, and being endowed with authority over all the
British churches.

One of the most prominent converts was Segebert or Sebert,
king of the East Saxons, a nephew of Etlielbert. He reigned at
London, of wiiicli Mellitus, one of the Roman monks who had
come over with Augustine, was made bishop.

Sebert, in 005, in his religious zeal, founded a monastery by the
river side to tho west of the city, on the ruins of a temple of
Apollo, being, in fact, the origin of the present pile of West-
minster Abbey. Great preparations were made for the consecra-
tion of the cliuroh, which was to be dedicated to St. Peter. On
tho nn>rning of the appointed day, Mellitus, the bishop, proceeded
with great pomp and solemnity to perform tlie ceremony. On
approaching the editice he w.as met by a fisherman, who informed
him that it was ueedless to proceed, as the ceremony was over.

Appendix. 369

The bishop stared with surprise, when the fisherman went on to
relate, that the nieht before, as he was in his boat on the Thames,
8t. Peter appeared to him, and told him that he intended to con-
secrate the church himself, that very night. The apostle accord-
ingly went into the church, which suddenly became illuminated.
The ceremony was performed in sumptuous style, accompanied
by strains of heavenly music and clouds of fragrant incense.
After this, the apostle came into the boat and ordered the fisher-
man to cast his net. He did so, and had a miraculous draught of
fishes; one of which he was commanded to present to the bishop,
and to signify to him that the apostle had relieved him from the
necessity of consecrating the church.

Mellitus was a wary man, slow of belief, and required confirma-
tion of the fisherman's tale. He opened the church doors, and
beheld wax candles, crosses, holy water; oil sprinkled in various
places, and various other traces of a grand ceremonial. If he had
still any traces of lingering doubts, they were completely re-
moved on the fisherman's producing the identical fish which he
had been ordered by the apostle to present to him. To resist this
would have been to resist ocular demonstration. The good bishop
accordingly was convinced that the church had actually been con-
secrated by St. Peter in person; so he reverently abstained from
proceeding further in the business.

The foregoing tradition is said to be the reason why King
Edward the Confessor chose this place as the site of a religious
house which he meant to endow. He pulled down the old church
and built another in its place in 1045. In this his remains were
deposited in a magnificent shrine.

The sacred edifice again underwent modifications, if not a re-
construction, by Henry III., in 1220, and began to assume its
present appearance.

Under Henry V III. it lost its conventual character, that monarch
turning the monks away, and seizing upon the revenues.

RELICS or EDWARD THE CONFESSOR.

A carious narrative was printed in 1688, by one of the choristers
of the cathedral, who appears to have been the Paul Pry of the
sacred edifice, giving an account of his rummaging among the
bones of Edward the Confessor after they had quietly reposed in
their sepulchre upwards of six hundred years, and of his drawing
forth the crucifix and golden chain of the deceased monarch.
During eighteen years that he had ofiiciatcd in the choir, it had
been a common tradition, he says, among his brother choristers,
and the gray-headed servants of the abbey, that the body of Kin^
Edward was desposited in a kind of cheat ot ^q®ltl^^\\rN^^'»»

370 The Sketch-Book.

indistinctly seen in the upper part of the shrine erected to his
memory. None of the abbey ffossips, however, had ventured
upon a nearer inspection, until the worthy narrator, to gratify his
curiosity, mounted to the coffin by the aid of a ladder and found
it to be made of wood, apparently very strong and firm, beii^
secured by bands of iron.

Subsequently, in 1085, on taking down the scaffolding used in
the coronation of James II., the coffin was found to be broken, a
hole appearing in the lid, probably made, through accident, by the
workmen. No one ventured, however, to meddle with the sacred
depository of royal dust, until, several weeks afterwards, the cii^
cumstances came to the knowledge of the aforesaid chorister.
He forthwith repaired to the abbey in company with two f liends,
of congenial tastes, who were desirous of inspecting the tombs.
Procuring a ladder, he affain mounted to the coffin, and found, u
had been represented, a nole in the lid about six inches long and
four inches broad, just in front of the left breast. Thrusting in
his hand, and groping among the bones, he drew from underneath
the shoulder a cruciflz, richly adorned and enamelled, affixed tea
gold chain twenty-four inches long. These he showed to his in-
quisitive friends, who were equally surprised with himself.

** At the time,** says he, ** when I took the cross and chain out
of the coffin, I drew the head to the hole and tnewed it, being very
sound and firm, with the upper and nether jaws whole and full
of teeth, and a list of gold above an inch broad, in the nature of a
coronet, surrounding the temples. There was also in the coffin,
white linen and gold-colored flowered silk, that looked indifferent
fresh; but the least stress put thereto showed it was well-nigfa
perished. There were all his bones, and much dust likewise,
which I left as I found."

It is diflirult to conceive a more grotesque lesson to human
pride tlian the skull of Edward tlie Confessor thus irreverently
pulled about in its coffin by a prying chorister, and brought to
grin face to face with him tlirough a hole in tlie lid!

Having satisfied his curiosity, the chorister put the crucifix and
chain back again into the coffin, and sought the dean, to apprise
liim of his discovery. The dean not being accessible at the time,
and fearing that tlie ** holy treasure" might be taken away by
other liands, ho got a brother chorister to accompany him to the
shrine about two or tliree hours afterwards, and in his presence
again drew forth the relics. These he aftei'wards delivered on his
knees to King James. The king subsequently had the old coffin
inclosed in a new one of great strength: **each plank being two
inches thick and cramped together with large iron wedges, where
it now remains (1088) as a testimony of his pious care, that no
abuse might be offered to the sacred ashes therein deposited.'*

As the liistory of this shrine is full of moral, I subjoin a descrip-
tion of it in modern times. ** The solitary and forlorn shrine,"
says a British writer, ^^now stands a mere skeleton of what it was.

Appendix, 371

A few faint traces of its sparkling decorations inlaid on solid
mortar catches the rays of the sun, forever set on its splendor. . .
Only two of the spiral pillars remain. The wooden Ionic top is
much broken, and covered with dust. The mosaic is picked away
in every. part within reach; only the lozenges of about a foot
square and five circular pieces of the rich marble remain. " — Mal-
colm^ Lond, rediv.

INSCRIPTION ON A MONUMENT ALLUDED TO IN THE SKETCH.

Here lyes the Loyal Duke of Newcastle, and his Duchess his
second wife, by whom lie had no issue. Her name was Margaret
Lucas, youngest sister to the Lord Lucas of Colchester, a noble
family; for all the brothers were valiant, and all the sisters vir-
tuous. This Duchess was a wise, witty, and learned lady, which
her many Bookes do well testify: she was a most virtuous, and
loving and careful wife, and was with her lord all the time of his
banishment and miseries, and when he came home, never parted
from him in his solitary retirements.

In the winter-time, when the days are short, the service in the
afternoon is performed by the light of tapers. The effect is fine
of the choir partially lighted up, while the main body of the
cathedral and the transept* are in profound and cavernous dark-
ness. The white dresses ef the choristers gleam amidst the deep
brown of the open slats and canopies; the partial illumination
makes enormous shadows from columns and screens, and darting
into the surrounding gloom, catches here and there upon a sep-
ulchral decoration, or monumental effigy. The swelling notes of
the organ accord well with the scene.

When the service is over, the dean is lighted to his dwelling, in
the old conventual part of the pile, by the boys of the choir, in
their white dresses, bearing tapers, and the procession passes
through the abbey and along the shadowy cloisters, lighting up
angles and arches and grim sepulchral monuments, and leaving
all behind in darkness.

On entering the cloisters at night from what is called the Dean's
Tard, the eye ranging through a dark vaulted passage catches a
distant view of a white marble figure reclining on a tomb, on which
a strong glare thrown by a gas light has quite a spectral effect.
It is a mural monument of one of the Pultneys.

NOTES.

Some English classics require close annotation and crit-
ical verbal, analytical, and textual study, in order that they
may be fully understood and appreciated. The Sketch-
Book is not of this class. It needs but light annotation —
oftentimes a mere reference, question, or suggestion — since ^
it contains few obscurities or subtleties requiring expo-
sition.

The following notes are not intended to supply the
student with information which he can readily procure for
himself, nor to deprive him of the wholesome benefits and
scholarly habits which are to be acquired through system-
atic use of the ordinary books of reference. The ambitions
student will often prefer to master his difficulties in his
own way, and such self-dependence is an earnest of the
future scholar.

Many of these notes have not hitherto appeared in any
edition of the Sketch-Book^ so far as the editor is aware;
otliers have been used in numerofts editions until they have
become common property. The editor has availed himself
freely of all material within his reach. To have searched
for the original commentators in order to give credit in
each ease, would have been an affectation of erudition and
scholarship quite outside the purposes of this unpretentious
volume.

Page 0. eftsoons. — Quickly; speedily.

0. Lyiy 's Euphues. — John Lyly (1553-1609) was a celebrated
writer of tlie Elizabethan period. He won fame by his novel
*' Enphnes " in 1579 and afterwards became a dramatist. The
distinji^uislung marks of liis writings are extravagant language,
studied mannerisms, abundant antitheses, fanciful conceits, super-
ficial allegory, and repartee. The word "euphuism," which has
heen applied to this style of writing, is taken from the name of
Lyly's novel *' Euphues," in which he first popularized and prop-
agated this kind ol pxoseU^^^TVjAAXT^i.

Notes. 373

9. In the early authonzed editionB of the Sketch-Book the fol-
lowing quotation from' Burton's Anatomy c^ Melancholy was
printed on the title-page: ** I have no wife nor children, good or
bad, to provide for. A mere spectator of other men^s fortunes
and adventures, and how they play €heir parts; which, methinks,
are diversely presented unto me, as from a common theatre or
scene/'

0. my iiativecity. — Read chap. XXII. of Todd's The Story
cf the City of New York, published by Putnams. Read pp. 23-25
of Warner's Washington Irving in American Men of Letters Series.

9. town-crier. — Consult the Century Dictionary and the
Standard Dictionary* Read Holmes's The Last Leaf,

11. for I had read in the works of various philosophers.

Read Irving's English Writers on America, p. 53 of this book; also
Lowell's paper On a Certain Condescension in Foreigners,

11. 5t Peter's, or the Coliseum, etc. —Consult Hawthorne's
The Marble Faun, chapters 17, 38, 39; Byron's Childe Harold, canto
ly. ; also T. B. Read's poem. Drifting,

The Church of St. Peter in Rome is built upon the site of the
religious edifice erected in the time of Constantino. It is the
most famous church building in the world. Consult the encyclo-
piedias.

The Coliseum was a vast amphitheatre in Rome, built about
the beginning of the Christian era. It was used for public pur-
poses about five hundred years, and was the greatest popular
resort that Rome ever had. It was partly destroyed by the over-
flowing of the Tiber in the year 555. Consult the encyclopfedias.

TerS is a town of Italy in the province of Perugia, noted for
the Falls of Velino — a cascade of remarkable volume and beauty.

** No other place in the world combines within the same com-
pass so much natural beauty with so many objects of interest to
the antiquary, the historian, and the geologist, as the Bay of
Naples."

12. a lengthening chain. —See Goldsmith's The Traveller,
line 10; also the first paragraph of his third letter in Citizen of
the World: **The farther I travel I feel the pain of separation
with stronger force: those ties that bind me to my native country
and you, are still unbroken. By every move I only drag a greater
length of chain."

13. I said that at sea. — Commentators have pointed out the
melody and rhythm of this paragraph and the two or three
succeeding ones, and have compared them with the soimds of
the paragraph beginning *^I confess,^^ on p. 16.

15. across the banlcs of Newfoundland. — One of the

greatest and most celebrated fisheries in the world.

874 The Sketch-Book.

17. As we sailed up the Mers^.— A river in the oonnty of
Lancaster, England, which opens into a fine estuary before reach-
ing the sea at LiverpooL

10. Ro5Coe. — See Allibohe^s Dictionary qf Authors and the

encyclopsBdias.

20. the Medici. — Consult the encyclopedias on this title.
The volume by Roscoe, alluded to by Inring, is one of the books
of the Bohn Library, Macmillan A Co., agents for America.

25. Pompey'8 column.— Consult Chambers's Encyclopedia,
under ** Pompey's Pillar.**

34. Diedrich Kniclcerboclcer.— See Irvhig's Knickerbocker's
History qf New York from the Beginning qf the World to the End
qfthe Dutch Dynasty,

.84. By Woden, Qod of Saxons ...

Truth is a thin^: tluit ever I will keep . . .

Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy. — This whole
introduction to Rip Van Winkle is in as fine a vein of rich, quaint
humor as is to be found in American literature.

35. a Queen Anne's farthing.— One of the rarest of English
coins; hence, eagerly sought for by coin collectors, who preserved
them with great care.

35. Kaatskill. — Catskill, a range of mountains in Eastern New

York.

35. Appalachian family. — Referring to the range of moun-
tains extending from the Gulf of St. Lawrence to Alabama, and
incliidiug the Vvhite, Green, Adirondack, Catskill, and Alleghany
mountains.

35. Peter Stuyvesant.— The last of the Dutch governors of
the colony of New Netherlands, now New York. Consult the
Cf/dopedia qf American Biography; also Knickerbocker'' s History
of New York,

36. province of Qreat Britain. —The English under the Duke
of York took control of New Netherlands, and changed its name
to New York.

3r». Fort Christina. — A Swedish fort, situated five miles
north of what is now Newcastle, Delaware. It was besieged and
captured by the Dutch of New Netherlands, under command of
Governor Stuyvesant, in 1055.

30. henpecked husband. — Note the derivation and etymol-
ogy. In what consists the appropriateness of the composition of
the word " henpecked '* ?

Notes. 875

86. curtain lecture. —What is the meaning? Why called a
curtain lecture ?

87. galligaakiiis. — A kind of leggings or wide breeches,
supposed to take their name from the Latin words caligm Va9-
conum, meaning hose worn by the people of Gascony.

88. terrors of a woman's tongue. — See Shakespeare^s
Taming qf the Shrew, Act I, Scene 2:

'* Have I not in a pitched battle heard
Loud Uarums, neighing steeds, and trumpets^ clang?
And do you tell me of a woman^s tongue,
That ffives not half so great a blow to th* ear
As will a chestnut in a farmer's fire ? ''

88. gallows air. — With the appearance of one about to be
hanged; a ** hang-dog '^ look.

89. George the Third. — Ascended the English throne in 1760,
and reigned sixty years.

39. dapper.— Neat, trim, tidy.

89. Junto. — A select, deliberative assembly.

89. virago. — A turbulent woman, a scold, a vixen.

40. wallet. — A kind of knapsack or bag, suspended by a strap
thrown over the shoulder.

41. Jerkin. — A jacket, short coat, or upper doublet, much
worn in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.

41. amphitheatre. — Literally, a place for looking about.

42. , doublets. — A close-fitting garment, covering the body
from the neck to below the waist.

42. hanger. — **A short broadsword worn from the girdle,
and slightly curved at the point/'

48. Hollands. — Holland gin.

43. flagon. — A vessel for holding liquids. The term is usually
applied to a vessel for liquors.

43. roysters. — Blustering, uproarious, turbulent fellows.

45. red night-cap. — " During the French Revolution the red
cap was regarded as the symbol of liberty. Irving represents the
villagers as having erected a liberty-pole with a red cap on its top,
and Hung the American flag to the breezes, thereby celebrating the
recently-acquired independence of the country."

46. phlegm. — Dulness, sluggishness, stupidity.

46. Babylonish jargon. — Babylon is supposed to have stood
on the spot where the Tower of Babel was built; unintelligible
talk, gabble.

876 27ie SketchrBook.

46. Federal or Democrat* — The names of the two political
parties of that day. At the time of the formation and adoption
of the Federal Constitution, the party favoring it was callea the
Federal party and the party opposing it was called the Democratic
party. These parties also held opposite views on the general
questions of foreign and domestic policy of the nation.

47. Tory. — The conservative or royalist party of England.
During the Revolution, one who favored Great Britain was called
a tory.

47. Stony Point. — A promontory on the Hudson River, forty-
two miles north of New York. A fort on this promontory was
captured from the British in 1779 by general Anthony Wayne,
l>etter known as *•*• Mad Anthony.^'

47. Anthony's Nose. — The name of another rocky headland
on the Hudson, fifty-seven miles from New York. For an inter-
esting account see Irving's Knickerbocker'' 8 History qf New York,

40. Hendrick Hudson. — '* A distinguished English navigator,
who made four voyages, attempting to find a shorter passage to
China than by the way of the Cape of Good Hope. On the third
of these voyages he entered the bay now called New York Bay,
and (Sept. 11, 1(W9) sailed up what is now the Hudson River.
During his fourth voyage, two years later, he penetrated tlie
straits and discovered the great bay of Canada which now bears
his name. Here his mutinous sailors cast him adrift in a small
boat, and left him to die.**

51. narrated with his usual fidelity .— The ''Note'* and
Postscript are in the same vein of quaint humor as the intro-
duction to Rip Van Winkle,

5:]. English Writers on America. — In this connection read
Lowell's essay On a Certain Condescenmon in Foreigners,

53. riethlnks 1 see. — This well-known quotation is from
Milton's Areopagitica, an essay on the freedom of the press, rec-
ognized as one of the great masterpieces of English prose.

67. The Flower and the Leaf. — This is a rather pretty poem
in Kcven-line stanzas. The language is that of the fifteenth cen-
tury. It professes to be written by a gentlewoman, but most
critics assign the authorship to Chaucer, as does Irving. It is an
allegory written to celebrate the marriage of Phillipa, John of
G aunt's daughter, with John, King of Portugal. The poem con-
tains many beautiful passages.

72. Young E . — Robert Emmet. Consult the encyclope-
dias; also Pierre Irving's Biography qf Irting ^ vol. I. p. 420.

78. a late celebrated Irish Barrister, — John Philpot Curran.

Notes. 877

80. The Paradise of Dalntie Devices. — For an interesting
account of this curious work, see Hazlitt's Bibliography qf Old
English Literature.

82. this learned Theban. — Consult the works of reference,
especially the Century Dictionary,

85. — Have you not seen the nightingale. — The poem from
which tliis selection is taken may be found in Percy^s Reliques
((f Ancient English Poetry, vol. II. Book the Third, p. 326. It is
an excellent old song, and was preserved in David Lloyd* s Mem-
oriea qf those that si^ered in the cause qf Charles L

88. his perpetual blindness. — Read Milton's sonnet On His
Blindness, and Wordsworth's sonnet on Milton.

80. Now was there nuide, fast by the tower's wall. — For
this poem see Chambers^s Cyclopedia of English Literature, vol I.
p. 39.

93. has made it a universal study. — The reference is to
Scott's novels.

96. Vaucluse. — Consult the Enclyclopedia Britannica.

97. Beggar's Bush. — For an interesting account of this curi-
ous old song, see Hazlitt's Bibliography of Old English Literature.

100. it was one long Lord ilayor's day. — '' The day for the
inauguration of the Lord Mayor elect of the city of London, was
formerly marked by much festivity and display, the latter of a
tawdry sort. Always a popular holiday, it has brought down
from remote centuries a characteristic * procession' of which
mention is made in a later ^ sketch.' The student is advised to
secure a copy of the Illustrated London News, Nov. 11 and 18,
1893, or to send to S. Marks and Sons, 72 Houndsditch, Bishops-
gate Street, London, for their Panorama of the Lord Mayor'' s
Show, price about sixpence. See the New York Evening Post
of Nov. 9, 1893."

103. The Widow and Her Son. — Irving wrote the introduc-
tory part for the first edition of this ** sketch " as follows. Com-
pare tliis with the form in the text*. ** During my residence in
the country, I used frequently to attend at the old village church.
Its shadowy aisles, its mouldering monuments, its dark oaken
panelling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed
to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in
the country, is so holy in its repose, such a pensive quiet reigns
over the face of Nature, that every restless passion is charmed
down, and we feel all the natural religion of the soul gently
springing up within us.

** ' Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright,
The biidal of the earth and sky I"

378 The Skttch'Book.

*' I cannot lay claim to the merit of being a devout nun; but f
there are feelings that visit me in a country church, amid thebe^^
tiful serenity of Nature, which I experience nowhere else^jA^
not a more religious. I think I am a better man on Sundl^lhaa
on any other day of the seven. ^\^

*' But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back apon
the world by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms S|p|and
me/'

107. press-guig. — Read Thomas Hood's poem, Faithlen SaJUti
firvirn. noting especially the second stanza.

113. Mother Bombic— For an account of this curious and
inter^stini; old piece, written by John Lyly, consult Hazllti^s
Bi^li'j*jry\phy t/ Old English Literature.

12o. Doomsday Book. — The student should consult the
books of reference, especially Brewer's Dictionary qf Phrase and

12S. Robert Qroteste. — Consult Morley's Emglish Writers for
an account of this author and the other obscure and forgotten
writers mentioned in this connection.

l:n. Sir Philip Skloey. —This charming but much neglected
author and ttie other authors here mentioned are treated in
Saintsbury's IJi^att^ry of EUzabtthan Literature.

13o. knew little of Latin and nothing of Qreek. — Un-

doubtoiily based on Ben Jonson's well-known remark of Shakes-
peare's knowing *Mittle Latin and less Greek.** But the truth
seems to be tliat Shakespeare was a well-educated man.

l:>o. as in the case of Chaucer. — Chaucer is best read in the
original form. Any ** resetting " or modernizing of his writings
rol^ them of their oeauty and takes away their charm. This is
equally true of most of the other early writers.

152. all the chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. — Con-
sult the Encycioptdin Britannica, vol. x., p. 525.

155. with 5aus und Braus. — With roar and tumult.

Id7. Westminster Abbey. —One of the world's most famous
and most ancient cathedrals, extremely rich in historic associa-
tions. It is in the form of a Latin cross, 511 feet long and 203
feet wide. It was the first cruciform church in England. All
the English sovereigns from Edward the Confessor to Queen Vic-
toria, have been crowned in this cathedral. It contains the tombs
and monuments of many of the sovereigns of Great Britain, and
the memorials of England's greatest men in all the walks of life.

167. Westminster School. — One of the tliree most celebrated
tXngliah schools. It was chartered by Henry VIII. in 1540.

Notes. 379

107. the cloisters. — The cloisters were begun by Edward the
Confessor and finished shortly after the Conquest. They are the
arched passages running about the interior court.

167. verger. — The official who takes care of the church
building.

168. The gray walls. — ** There is one religious structure in
the kingdom that stands in its original finishing, exhibiting all
those modest hues that the native appearance of the stone so
pleasingly bestows. This structure is the Abbey Church of West-
minster. . . . There I find my happiness the most complete.
This church has not been whitewashed,'^ — John Carter.

168. mural itionuitients. — The memorials of the dead to be
found about the walls and nearly everywhere about the interior
of the Abbey.

168. death^s heads. — Naked human skulls personifying death.

168. keystones. — The topmost stones of the arches.

168. effigies. — "It was once a feature of the great funerals
to have a waxen effigy of the deceased person on a platform
highly decorated with black hangings. It remained for a month
in the abbey, near the grave: but in the case of sovereigns a much
longer time. The effigies nere referred to are, of course, of
stone."

168. Vitalls . . . Crispinus . . . Laurentlus.

" Vitalis was a Norman. He was an abbot at Bemay in Normandy,
and was expressly sent for by the King (William the Conqueror)
to govern at Westminster. He had the character of a wise and
prudent man. He died June 19, 1082, and was interred in the
south cloister."

" Gislebertus Crispinus (Gilbert Crispin) was a Norman of noble
rank. He was particularly famous as a sound theologist and a
ready disputant. After a long life of piety and good deeds, he
died Dec. 6, 1114, and was buried at the feet of Yitalis, his prede-
cessor."

" Laurentius (or Lawrence) was educated, and resided for many
years, at St. Albans. He was chosen for Westminster Abbey
arbout the year 1159, through the influence of Henry II., who
thought highly of him. He was a man of talents. He was ap-
pointed by the King, the Pope, and tlie Archbishop of Canter-
bury, to decide several disputed causes. He was buried in the
south walk of the cloister."

169. Poet's Comer. — To the student of literature the most
suggestive and interesting 'portion of the Abbey. Read Victor
Hugo^s William Shakefqyeare, Part Third, Book I., chap. 2.
Chaucer was the first to bo buried in Poet's Comer, through the
royal favor of Henry IV.

380 The Sketch-Book.

170. that febled city. — The reference is to one of the stories
of the AraJbian Nights' Entertainments.

171. all the brothers were brave, and all the sisters vir-
tuous. — This is a portion of the inscription on the tomb of the
Duke and Duchess of Newcastle.

172. ilrs. Nightingale, by Roublllac. —

** In memory of Joseph Gascoigne Nightingale, Esq., of Mine-
head, Devonshire, who died in 1752; ana the Lady Elizabeth, his
wife, who died soon after marriage. A tradition of the Abbey
records that a robber, coming into the Abbey by moonlight, was
so startled by the figure as to have fled in dismay, and left his
crowbar on the pavement.'*

" Roublllac (1695-1762) was an able French sculptor, bom at
Lyons. He settled in London in 1720, and soon became the most
popular sculptor of the time in England. His chief works in the
Abbey are the monuments of Handel, Admiral Warren, Marshal
Wade, Mrs. Nightingale, and the Duke of Argyll."

172. Henry the Seventh's chapel. — Henry VIL determined
to found at Westminster a chapel more magnificent than that he
had designed at Windsor, a greater than £e Confessor's shrine,
** in order," accoi*ding to his will, ** right shortly to translate into
the same the body and reliques of his uncle of blissful memory,
King Henry VI.," but the chapel became the chapel not of Henry
VI. but of Henry VII. It is the most signal contrast between
his closeness in life and ** his magnificence in the structures he
hath left to posterity." His pride in its grandeur was commem-
orated by the ship, vast for those times, which he built, ** of
equal cost with his chapel, which afterwards, in the reign of
Mary, sank in the sea and vanished in a moment."

173. Knights of the Bath. —In the reign of George I. a per-
manent change was effected in one of the accompaniments of the
coronation, — namely, the Knights of the Bath. In the earlier
coronations it had been the practice of the sovereigns to create a
number of knights before they started on their procession from
the tower. These knights, being made in time of peace, were not
enrolled in any existing order, and for a long time had no special
designation; but, inasmuch as one of the foremost, striking and
characteristic parts of their admission was the complete attention
of their persons on tlie vigil of their knighthood, as an emblem of
the cleanliness and purity of their future profession, they were
ciilled Knights of the Bath. Tlie king himself bathed with them.
They were completely undressed, placed in large baths and then
wrapped in soft blankets. The distinctive name first appears in
the time of Henry V.

N^otes, 381

173. the sepulchre of its founder. — Edward the Confessor
(1004-106C). He acceded to the throne in 1042. He rebuilt the
ancient Abbey of Westminster.

174. the haughty Elizabeth . . . and unfortunate flary. —

Elizabeth (born in 15:33) reigned as Queen of England from 1558
to 1603, when she died. She was the last of the Tudors, and was
called '*the lionhearted Elizabeth.^^ James I. had the body of
Queen Elizabeth taken from the Cathedral Church of Peterbor-
ough, and a monument erected over her in Westminster Abbey.

Mary Queen of Scots, daughter of James V. of Scotland, was
born in 1642. She was charged by Queen Elizabeth with having
entered into a conspiracy against the life of the latter, and ordered
to be executed. Queen Elizabeth signed the death warrant on the
1st of February, 1587; and on the morning of the 8th of February,
Hary Queen of Scots, protesting her innocence, was beheaded.

174. her national emblem the thistle. — The Thistle of Scot-
land. The conquering Danes thought it cowardly to attack an en-
emy by night, but on one occasion deviated from their rule. On
they crept, barefooted, noiselessly, and unobserved, when one of
the men set his foot on a thistle, which made him cry out. The
alarm was given, the Scotch fell upon the invaders, defeated them
with terrible slaughter, and drove them from Scotland. Ever
since the thistle has been adopted as the insignia of Scotland, with
the motto. Nemo me impune lacessit '* No one tramples upon me
with impunity.'*

175. The great chair of coronation. — The celebrated Stone
of Scone. Edward I. removed to London, and placed in West-
minster Abbey, the great stone upon which the kings of Scotland
had been crowned. It is said to have been brought to Scotland
from Ireland by Fergus, son of Eric, who led the Dalriads to the
shores of Argyllshire. It was brought from Scotland to West-
minster Abbey in 1296, and the English coronation chair was es-
pecially constructed for its reception. It has been constantly used
at coronations ever since. The coronation takes place while the
sovereign is seated in this chair. The last time it was brought
out from the chapel where it stands was at the Jubilee Thanks-
giving service (June 21, 1887), when the Queen sat in it during the
ceremonial. The stone of Scone has been called Jacob's Pillow
from tlie legend that it was the pillow upon which the patriarch
slept when he beheld the vision of the ladder reaching to heaven.

177. Pharaoh is sold for balsams. — Formerly mummies
were highly valued for their supposed medicinal properties.
They were ground into powder and formed one of the ordinary
drugs found in the apothecary shops. It was commonly pre-
scribed by physicians.

(Jkmiflt>-Smxam Mium, a
i«\* V iae* . ziMt ^^'xTj^rjaa, i^murti. of the XstiTiCT*. The fotifal
;r-.7«»r,7 V-rian -.a -ll^ <r>«x:a^ />f Deecaiber ^^ and lasU notil

Hae aai Cfy jrfUr Cfcrirt— i,— Written by Ben Jouon.
— Yrrim GTuld Hall GiaBta, hj Thomas Hood.

of AJreat. — The leaion of moral and relig-

>••-.* jc*7«*rk.*: -A. 'i^ft^tt:^ St. Andrew's Day (XoTember 80) and
f 'iri»^:xaA. Ai ontr time it vas obeerred as strictly as Lent

: ^j. Good "wM to Mea. — Xo var was declared and no capital
]>iir:*x<xbezit irflkted during tLis wt^^fm of good-wilL

>.,. tlw jorad of tte Watts. — Originally a kind of night-
w;i*Ai.2nka «hf» sr^nnded the hours and guarded the streets;
likt/tj. a mosician who ftang out of doors at Christmas time, going
froro Lo;iAe V^ Louse.

1 S>. Omoe beae. — A free translation :

'* There** a time for hard playing,
IVith nothing to fear.
Drop boTilcs without delaying —
The hour is here.*'

186. BucephalfU. —The horse of Alexander the Oreat.

188. Cyclops. — The cyclops, according to Greek mytliology
anfl story, were a race of stalwart giants with one eye in their
forehea^lH : hence their name (Greek kuklopcn^ kuklos^ ** a circle,"
anri opM, ** eye *'), the round-eyecl. They forged the thunderbolts
of ZcMiH, the trident of Poseidon, and the Helmet of IMuto. The
allusion is to their size and strength as gigantic blacksmiths.

102. Chesterfield. — An English statesman and author, re-
nowned as a model of politeness. lie is best known by his Let-
ti'i'H to his Son, written for the imi)rovement of his manners.
Tlioso letters hi'vvobeen often republished, and they afford a good
idea of the mental and moral calibre of the author.

103. stomacher.— An article of dress, usually rich in material
and ornament, for the breast and stomach, haTing the gown or
doublet laced over it ; worn in the Ufteenth and seventeenth
eeuturios.

105. Charles the Second's time. — Charles II. (bom 1«30)

was proclalmod king by the Scottish Parliament in 1640. He

uided in Scotland in 1<V50, and was crowned the following year.

to man>hcd Into Kngland against Cromwell, but was defeated at

rorcesior In 1651.

Notes, 388

196. the twelve days of Christmas. —The period between
December 24 and January 6.

107. Christmas candles. — ** Christmas was called the * Feast
of Lights ' in the Western or Latin Church, because they used
many lights or candles at the feast ; or, rather, because Christ,
the Light of all lights, that true Light, came into the wo Id :
hence the Christmas candle.^'

202. a lofty tester. — The canopy over an old-fashioned bed.

205. grandee. — A Spanish nobleman.

206. That soiles my land. — Giyes my land a soil; i. e., en-
riches the soil, thus insuring a plentiful harvest.

207. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert. —The author of The Book of
Husbandry — the first published work on agriculture in the Eng-
lish language.

211. like old Cremona fiddles.— Cremona is a city in Lom-
bardy, once celebrated for its fine violins. Great prices were
paid for them.

214. Squire Ketch. — Jack Ketch, the hangman, who executed
Lord Russell, the Duke of Monmouth, and many others.

220. Caput apri defero.

Reddens laudes Domino.— -

** I bring the boards head.
Returning praises to the Lord.*'

Qui estis in convivio.—

** As many as are at the banquet.**

230. pirouettes and rigadoons. —Peculiar, whirling dances,
gay and brisk in character.

242. flother Shipton by heart. — Mother Shipton lived in the
reign of Henry VIII., and was famous for lier prophecies in
which she foretold the death of Wolsey, Lord Percy, etc., and
many wonderful events of the future times. All her " prophe-
cies '* are still extant

243. wonderful events had already occurred. — Consult
Knight*s Popular History of England^ Vol. VIII.

255. Shakespeare's mulberry-tree.— Consult the Encyclope-
dia Britannica^ under ** Stratford."

256. Santa Casa. — The phrase is from the JtnUan and means
" the holy house.'* The reputed house in which the Virgin Mary
lived at Nazareth, miraculously translated to Fiume, in Dalmatia,
in 1291, and thence to Recanati in 1294, and finally to Macerata,
in Italy, to a piece of land belonging to the lady Loretto. Hence
the name, ** The Santa Casa of Loretto."

384 The SketchrBook.

273. Losan. — The name has come to he applied to the Ameri-
can Indian, as "John Bull" designates the Englishman, and
** Brother .Jonathan " the American. Consult the Cyclopedia of
American Biography under ** John Logan."

803. beyond the sound of Bow-bells. — Bow Church, or the
church of St Mary-le-Bow, Is nearly the centre of the city of
London. Hence to be born within sound qf Bow-bells is to be a
true cockney. Bow Church has long had one of the most celebra-
ted bell-peals in Ix)ndon. John Dun, mercer, gave in 1472 two
tenements to maintain the ringing of Bow-bell every night at nine
o'clock, to direct travellers on the road to town; and in 1520 Wil-
liam Co))Land gave a bigger bell for the purpose of " sounding a
retreat from work."

310. the once popular rites of flay.— Read Tennyson's The

May Queen,

323. Complete Angler. — A most charming book and a master-
piece of English literature, written by Izaak Walton. The book
reveals so much of the author and his quaint, genial, sportsman-
-like spirit, that it becomes of biographical interest

330. quadrant. — An instrument for taking the altitudes and
distances of the heavenly bodies.

332. Castle of Indolence. — James Thomson, author of the
poem, was the son of a Scotch minister. Thomson, in his day,
was one of the most widely popular poets in our language, and lie
is still much read. His best and most popular work is The Sta-
sous^ a work which gave him a great reputation.

332. Tappan Zee. — Irving called this the *' Mediterranean " of
the river. It is the first and largest expansion of the Hudson.
This "sea" and its surroundings are rich in romantic and historic
associations and legendary lore.

332. St. Nicholas. — The mariner's saint, and patron of those
who lead a seafaring life. He is also regarded as the especial
patron of the young, and particularly of scholars.

332. Tarry town. — A Dutch village of considerable antiquity,
among the hills on the Hudson, twenty-seven miles from New
York. It is famous both historically and from its connection
with Washington Irving, whose celebrated cottage, "Sunnyside."
is in the vicinity. These lines appeared in the New York Evening
Post of Decomhcr 1, 1850, with the following editorial intro-
duction : *' The beauty of the day on which Mr. Irving's funeral
took place, and the charming aspect of the surrounding country,
in the glorious sunshine which then closed our long Indian Sum-
mer, have prompted the ensuing lines, which we have from the
pen of a friend of the departed author, himself eminent in the
world of letters /' —

Notes. 385

SUNNYSIDE.

BY HBNBY THEODORE TUCKERMAN.

The dear, quaint cottage, as we pass,
No clambering rose nor locusts hide ;

And dead leaves fleck the matted grass,
And shadow rests on Sunnyside :

Not by the flying cloud-rack cast,
Nor by the summer foliage bred,

The life-long shadow which the Past
Lets fall where cherishM joys have fled.

For he whose fancy wove a spell
As lasting as the scene is fair.

And made the mountain, stream, and dell
His own dream-life forever share ;

He who with England's household grace,
And with the brave romance of Spain,

Tradition's lore and Nature's face,
Imbued his visionary brain ;

Mused in Granada's old arcade
As gush'd the Moorish fount at noon.

With the last minstrel thoughtful stray'd
To ruin'd shrines beneath the moon ;

And breathed the tenderness and wit
Thus garner'd, in expression pure,

As now his thoughts with humor flit,
And now to pathos wisely lure ;

Who traced with sympathetic hand,

Our peerless chieftain's high career;
His life, that gladden'd all the land.
And blest a home — is ended here.

What pensive charms of nature brood
O'er the familiar scene to-day.

As if, with smile and tear she wooed
Our hearts a mutual rite to pay!

The river that he loved so well,
Like a full heart, is awed to calm;

The winter air that wafts his knell
Is fragrant with autumnal balm.

886

The Sketch' Book.

A veil of mist hangs soft and low
Above the Cat^kiirs wooded range.

While sunbeams on the slope below
Their shroud to robes of glory change.

How to the mourner* s patient sight
Glide the tall sails along the shore

Like a procession clad in white
Down a vast templets crystal floor.

So light the haze, its floating shades.
Like tears through which we dimly see.

With incense crown the Palisades,
With purple wreathe the Tappan Zee.

And ne^er did more serene repose
Of cloud and sunshine, brook and brae

Round Sleepy Hollow fondly close,
Than on its lover's burial day.

The Exd

! 's

J. .
iti!

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Full text of "Washington Irving's The legend of Sleepy Hollow and other stories (The sketch-book of Geoffrey Crayon, gent.)"

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